Home Fires

by Barbara Delinsky

  “It’s all right, Irma. Mr. Birmingham is welcome.” Irma relaxed visibly, smiled more shyly and left. Mark, on the other hand, grew more tense. He didn’t move from the door, simply stared at her.

  “Have a seat, Mark.” She gestured, the near-perfect hostess. She would have stood had it not been for the familiar weakness in her knees. It wasn’t fair that she could be so affected by any man.

  “Deanna?”

  She averted her eyes in sheer defense. “Please sit. Have you eaten?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  Looking out toward the kitchen, she raised her voice. “Irma?” A soft rustle of skirts brought the woman back. “If you could set another place, Mr. Birmingham will join me for dinner.”

  She heard Mark add a gentle “If it’s no trouble,” heard the smile in his words and finally looked up to see the broad grin with which he had melted Irma’s hesitancy in an instant.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Mr. Birmingham. I won’t be but a minute.” She whisked away again, leaving them momentarily alone.

  Deanna’s eyes dropped to her lap, where her napkin was bunched in her fist. She was marginally aware that Mark had settled into a chair opposite her.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he stated calmly, his tension in check.

  She met his gaze with a shot of petulance. “I could say the same about you.” The best defense was a good offense, so they said. But this had come too easily. Shocked, she realized that one part of her had been hurt when he hadn’t appeared at the office.

  “I called here several times this morning. You weren’t in. Then, when I returned to your office late this afternoon, you’d already left.”

  “You did stop at the office?” she asked more contritely.

  “Of course! I was out at the site. Didn’t Warner tell you that?”

  “Not.”

  “And you didn’t ask.” It was a statement. He understood her too well.

  “No”

  “I see,” he murmured, propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, interlacing his fingers, then resting them against the firm line of his mouth. He seemed to deliberate as he sat staring at her and only blinked away his concentration when Irma returned bearing a tray and his meal.

  Deanna had waited until he had food before him to pick up her fork once more. Now, as she stared down at the boeuf bourguignone, she felt no appetite whatsoever. Her stomach had begun to churn, a victim of the whirling emotions that made clear thought an effort. Mark, on the contrary, seemed to have suddenly revived.

  “This is delicious. Does she cook like this all the time?”

  Deanna’s head shot up. “Irma? Yes, she’s a jewel.” When Mark continued to eat, Deanna could only settle back in her chair and watch him in amazement. What had become of his anger or tension or whatever it was that had possessed him when he’d arrived? He ate slowly, thoughtfully. Perhaps he too was working it all out in his mind. Perhaps he’d have better success than she was having.

  As the minutes passed, Deanna found herself growing amused. The man had really been hungry. Her smile came easily when she finally broke the silence. “Are you always a grump on an empty stomach?”

  Satisfied with something, at least, he sat back in a lazy pose. “For the answer to that, Deanna, you’ll just have to stick around. I wasn’t thrilled to wake up to a cold bed this morning.”

  “You were dead to the world! I told you I was leaving.”

  “That didn’t make the fact any easier to take.” He had grown more serious, his eyes as intense as they had ever been. “Why did you leave? You could have spent the night.”

  “I couldn’t have—”

  “You could have … if you’d wanted to. Irma would have kept your secret if you’d called to tell her you’d be back in the morning. She doesn’t look like such an ogre. And she would have been flattered by your trust.”

  Deanna frowned, reflecting on his smooth and ready answers. One part of her ached to blurt out her deepest thoughts, those dreadful fears. Might he have solutions for those? But the more immediate worry was Mark’s strange look as he stared at her.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked more timidly than she would have liked.

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing. What’s wrong, Deanna? What’s going on in that mind of yours that you can be so wary of me after last night?”

  “Last night …” She breathed the words as though they were part dream, part nightmare.

  But Mark pounced on her words, leaning suddenly forward. “Last night you loved me, Deanna. You can deny it as much as you want, but a woman doesn’t respond to a man that way unless she feels it here.” He thumped his chest She couldn’t deny the truth of that, but it didn’t change the facts.

  “It was one night, Mark—”

  “It was two nights … two nights in bed, plus all those others just thinking about each other. We have something good. Why can’t you face that?”

  Closing her eyes for a moment of respite, she shook her head. “We’ve been through all this,” she whispered. When she looked up again her eyes held a sober poignancy. “I’m not good for you, Mark. Last night … today … there’s your proof. I have other obligations. I’m not free.”

  The abruptness with which he shot from his seat to lean on the table startled her. “That’s a lot of garbage!”

  But he’d stirred her own anger and she lashed back at being pushed so hard. “I take back what I said about your being a grump on an empty stomach. You just must have gotten up on the wrong side of bed!”

  “Damn right I did!” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing darkly. “I crawled all over your side looking for you before I fell on the floor!”

  Unable to resist the image, Deanna brust into a smug laugh. “Serves you right for falling asleep on me like that!”

  In a split-second turnabout, Mark grew sheepish. His chin fell to his chest and he scratched the back of his head. “Boy, was I exhausted. Must have been all those restless nights in between.” When he shook his head again, Deanna felt her anger begin to dissolve, only to have it rise again moments later under his renewed assault. “So we’re back on the ground floor, hmmm?” There was no humor in his straight gaze. “Back to the yes-no’s, you can-I can‘t’s, you could-I couldn’t’s.”

  What could she say to that? He’d been right about one thing, she mused. She had loved him the night before—mind, body and soul. As for the rest, it couldn’t work. His fantasy was misdirected. He wanted a woman, an active, capable woman. And he wanted children. She’d only frustrate him on both counts.

  “You know, Deanna,” he began, moving around the table until he towered over her. “I know that something frightens you, but I can’t figure out exactly what it is. We work on the same wavelength on almost everything else. On this, though, you’re shutting me out. It’s like there’s a block and I can’t seem to break through.” As he paused the muscle at his jaw flexed, a product of his taut-held control, a control that seemed ready to snap.

  “What is it with you?” he spat out vehemently. “Have you got something against happiness? Some kind of martyr complex?” Even the chill in his voice didn’t prepare her for his follow-up. “Your brother dies, therefore you become the model daughter. Your husband dies, so you’ve become the model widow. Damn it—wake up! Life doesn’t work that way. No one’s asking you to pay for their deaths!”

  For an instant Deanna sat stunned. “You’re wrong, Mark,” she whispered, needing desperately to deny his charge. “That’s not it at all.” But she was frightened, unable to go on. And Mark knew that.

  Again he lowered his head, this time rubbing the back of his neck in the process. “Well, Deanna, I can’t pull it out of you, whatever it is. Maybe you do need time … .”

  Turning on his heel, he left her alone. She heard his voice in the hall, saying something to Irma; then the front door shut with definite finality. She’d never felt so alone in her life.

  7

  He had said that she
needed time and that was precisely what he gave her. Though he sat across the dining room from her the next morning, he was a virtual stranger. If he had accused her of placing a block between them, things were now reversed. He looked at her; she looked at him. Whether he read the message of sadness she sent, she would never know, because his eyes were an impenetrable mahogany shade on his soul and she was totally shut out.

  That was the last she saw of him for over a week. When she went to breakfast Thursday he wasn’t there. Nor was he at the Hunt offices that afternoon. This time, though, she did mention him to Bob.

  “I love the preliminary plans for the hospital.” She put on her finest smile. “Mark’s done a great job.”

  “He’s a talented man.” An understatement, she reflected ruefully.

  “Uh-huh.” She paused, feigning sudden puzzlement. “I haven’t seen him around. Is he all done here for a while?”

  Bob sensed nothing amiss. “No, no. He’ll be back. There was some sort of emergency that took him back to Savannah yesterday. He’ll be in touch.”

  Deanna wondered. The weekend was a particularly quiet one for her and she spent hour upon hour wondering. The first of the week came and went; still she wondered. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed with no sign of him at either the hotel or the office. The subtle inquiries she made gleaned nothing. By Friday she was tired of wondering.

  Time. An entire week. What insights had she gained? She’d begun to analyze the true nature of her fear and now saw that it extended far beyond the cooking of a single meal, even beyond her inability to conceive a child. Her fear was of the new and the different, both of which Mark Birmingham represented. In the brief times they’d spent together he’d demanded and drawn more from her than any other person had ever done. And she knew he would continue to do so if she agreed to pursue the relationship. In her near-thirty years she’d always known what to expect from life and those around her. Mark was from a different world, one that was strange to her. He was an unknown in so many regards. That frightened her.

  The days of soul-searching had also drawn her thoughts to the fantasy, that original fantasy that had fused her to Mark in the first place. She recalled the fleeting fears she’d had at the time that the real man might not meet her overblown expectations. Now she understood that fear was a double-edged sword and she was convinced that she was the one who wouldn’t measure up. Mark was bound to be disappointed as time went on.

  She was neither an intellectual nor an aggressor and she’d never functioned independently in her life. What could she offer Mark beyond poise and social standing? Despite all the money she had, she felt helpless. It was much as it had been for those ecstatic nights in his arms. Naked, she could only offer him her love.

  Her love. That was the crux, the only thing of which she was increasingly sure as the days melded one into the next She had only to think of him and her heart ached with a need beyond the physical, though, heaven help her, that was there too in the emptiness she felt. It was worst at night—the physical torment. Recollections of the feel of his skin, the soft-textured hair on his arms and legs ruffling beneath her fingertips, the contrasting butter-smoothness of his hips gliding under her palms. Images of his strength encircling her, enhancing her. Memories of his passion, wild and demanding, offering her a unique brand of fulfillment at the cost of her love.

  Her love. Wanting to be with him … yet afraid. Needing to give to him … yet afraid. Craving a tomorrow beside him … yet afraid. In the end it all boiled down to one question: did she love him enough to fight that fear?

  Friday morning broke with a heavy mist, a dull, dark day to match her mood. Galvanized solely by habit she breakfasted in the dining room, then returned to the suite. She was driven to the club, played tennis, then returned home. She even had Henry drop her at her favorite boutique in search of a new fall dress that might brighten up her spirits, but she returned to the hotel as empty-handed as she was empty-hearted.

  Unable to face her own lonely company for another minute, she changed into jeans and a lightweight sweater, threw on one of her older trench coats, grabbed an umbrella and set out on foot, destination unknown. She’d brusquely told Irma she was taking a walk, which was precisely what she did, until even that tired her and she sank down on a park bench to watch the late afternoon pedestrians scurry between the raindrops.

  She was bored. After all this time as Deanna Cauley Hunt, she was truly bored! For years she’d done the same things day in and day out, followed the same schedule week after week, month after month. Now, suddenly, she was bored.

  Bored. Lonely. Frustrated. Restless. Was one any different from the next? Had this all been Mark’s doing … or had eventual ennui been inevitable?

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there with her umbrella shielding her from the world. Peering from beneath its scalloped edge, she studied the people passing and wondered what interesting lives they might lead. It was pure self-pity in which she indulged and she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. Sitting there half drenched in deck shoes, jeans and raincoat, she felt as if she’d attained a momentary measure of anonymity. It was delightful! In a burst of defiance she reached up, tore out the tortoiseshell clip that had held her hair, shook her head until the thick strands slithered freely down, then took a deep, satisfied breath. In a very strange way she’d never been so comfortable. And if her appearance shocked any of the hotel staff, who were so used to seeing her prim and proper … tough!

  With a mutinous tilt to her chin she rose from the bench and made her way back to the Hunt International, more relaxed now and enjoying her willfulness. She even stopped to buy a chewy taffy bar, then proceeded to eat it—as no fine lady would—while she walked on through the rain, into the hotel lobby past doormen and bellboys and clerks to the elevator. It was a petty sort of rebellion, she smiled to herself as she licked the last of the chocolate from her well-manicured forefinger, but it did feel good! The smile was still on her face when she let herself into the suite, but it faded the instant she turned from the door. Mark!

  “Where the devil have you been?” he yelled, striding from the living room at an angry pace. “I’ve been waiting for hours!”

  Deanna caught sight of Irma in the background, but her main focus was Mark. “You haven’t been waiting here for hours,” she contradicted calmly. “I haven’t been gone for hours.”

  “Where were you?” he repeated gratingly. “I’ve been worried sick!”

  “You shouldn’t have been. I was just taking a walk. Irma knew that.”

  “Taking a walk—all this time? And here I had the impression you spent Friday afternoons sitting at home. Do you have any idea how dangerous this city is, Deanna?”

  His persistent anger surprised her. “It’s broad daylight. There are people all over the place. I wasn’t in any danger.” Then she scowled, in part annoyed that her temporary good spirits had been dampened. “And why should you worry, anyway? It’s been days since I’ve seen or heard from you. You sound as though we had a date arranged and I’d kept you waiting. Why are you here?” She paused to skim his lean frame. “And why are you dressed like that?” He wore well-worn jeans and a sweater of his own, topped by the denim jacket into which he now thrust his arms.

  The hardness of his eyes didn’t melt at all when he stepped forward, curved his fingers around her upper arm and turned her back toward the door. “I’m here to take you out. Let’s go.”

  “Now wait a minute …” Deanna tried to free her arm but his grip only tightened. “What are you doing?”

  He had the door open and paused only long enough to call back over his shoulder, “Mrs. Hunt may not be in until late, Irma. Don’t wait up for her. She’ll be with me.”

  “Mark … !” Deanna lowered her voice out of habit when the door slammed shut and he led her down the corridor toward the elevator.

  He too spoke in a more controlled voice now, deeper, somehow more dangerous, perversely exciting. “We’re going out.” He jabbed impatiently
at the call button, but still didn’t release her arm. “You’re the one who’s not a big talker, so I’ll happily accommodate you for the time being. Besides, we wouldn’t want to cause a ruckus. Wouldn’t be very good for the image.”

  She heard his ridicule, felt its sting. But just when she would have lashed out in self-defense the elevator arrived. By the time it reached the lobby Mark’s hold on her arm had slackened. Even in the muted silence of the populated elevator, he’d read her submission. For, despite her anger, her puzzlement, her hurt, she selfishly wanted to be with him. That was the bottom line. She’d never before been whisked away like this, almost by force, but not quite. It was another sort of fantasy, but one in which she knew her abductor, trusted him implicitly, was madly in love with him before the fact

  She reflected on this when she found herself seated several moments later in his deep blue Mercedes, waiting, watching as he slid behind the wheel, started the engine and took off without another glance her way. She felt as though she were headed for adventure and given her erstwhile boredom she couldn’t deny the sense of exhilaration that slowly stole through her.

  Or was it Mark? It always came down to that. Was Mark the be-all and end-all, the root of her ebullience? She cast him a surreptitious glance, then caught herself and boldly turned her head to stare at him. He was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe those devilishly dark good looks, dewy now from the moisture in the air and almost comically stern.

  “What are you looking at?” he snapped, sparing a quick dark glance for her before returning his gaze to the road.

  “You,” she replied, feeling more gutsy, more brazen than she’d ever felt in her life. If this was an abduction she had every right to be indignant, even if its edge was a bit too soft for credibility. And since she’d already decided that she couldn’t measure up to Mark’s ideal, she had nothing to lose by being as outrageous as she wished. “Where are we going?” she demanded.