April of Enchantment (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (19 page)

From there, they managed somehow to switch to the subject of their childhoods and food preferences, ranging onward to world and national politics, the state of the economy, and also the economy of the state, stemming from policies of the government at the capital in Baton Rouge. They found themselves in agreement on most things, and at least interested enough in each other’s opinions to listen to the arguments pro and con.

They ordered dessert, fresh-fruit pie made from the strawberries in season, grown in the Florida parishes of Louisiana, no great distance away. They lingered over the strong black coffee that went with it. It was only as Laura drained her cup that she glanced at her wrist-watch. She exclaimed at the time, unable to believe they had taken so long over eating. It had not been early when they had stopped. If they started for home that minute, it would still be after dark before they reached it.

Justin’s car floated over the miles. They seemed to have run out of things to talk about at last, for silence traveled with them. The sun went down, its slanting rays striking straight into their eyes before it sank behind the trees. Finally, they were able to remove their sunglasses. Dusk gave way to darkness, and Justin reached to turn on the headlights.

Laura shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. Justin glanced at her. “Tired?” he asked,

“A little.” As if to prove her point, she was caught suddenly by a yawn. With a rueful smile, she smothered it.

“Lean back and rest, if you like.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“If you can’t get comfortable any other way, I have a shoulder you can lean on.”

It was a tempting prospect, but with determination, she resisted it. There was no point in aggravating a situation that was fast becoming intolerable. She flicked a swift look at the man beside her. His strong features and the cleft in his chin was highlighted by the glow of light from the instrument panel. He turned his head to catch her glance. The headlights of a passing car reflected in his eyes, giving his expression a misleading look of care and concern. With tightness in her throat, Laura looked away, watching the white line unwinding alongside the road.

Lights shone from the Nichols mansion as they drew up before it. Justin switched off the engine of the car. He made no move to get out, but swung to face her, placing one arm along the top of the seat.

“I’ve enjoyed today,” he said, his voice low.

“So have I.” She might as well be honest about it.

He picked up a long strand of her hair that had drifted over her shoulder. “You fascinate me. I could spend hours, a lifetime, looking at you, listening —”

“Justin, please,” she said, a tiny break in her voice. “There’s no point in this. You are engaged to Myra.”

“And you have Russ, or he has you.”

To deny it might be to remove one of the barriers she needed to protect herself; she let it stand. Putting her hand on the door handle, she said, “I had better go in.”

“No,” he said, the word a rustle of sound. “Not yet.”

The next moment, she was in his arms, held achingly close. His mouth came down on hers, burning in its urgency, sapping her will to resist. His hands smoothed over her back, drawing her closer, molding her to the hardness of his chest. There was an ache in Laura’s throat, and she tasted the salt of unshed tears. In despair, she clung to him, fighting the sweet rise of longing until suddenly she could do so no longer. Her lips parted under his, while through her veins there ran a fierce gladness, a surging exultation that threatened to merge with the desire of the man who held her, bursting all restraints.

He seared a trail of kisses across her cheek to the delicate turn of her jaw and along the curve of her neck to the tender hollow of her throat. His hand cupped her shoulder, his thumb brushing across the blue-veined fragility of her collarbone as he eased aside the V neck of her blouse, gently slipping the buttons from their holes. The warmth of his mouth followed, an exquisite sensation as the curves of her breasts and the shadowed hollow between them were bared.

“I want you, lovely Laura,” he said softly, his breath sighing against her skin.

“Justin, no,” she whispered, a strained sound, though whether it held the timbre of a protest or entreaty she could not have said.

He went still. The muscles of his arms grew rigid with the effort of his self-control. He drew back, raising his head, his face like a bronze mask etched with the pain of denial. The look in his eyes was suspended; he scarcely seemed to breathe.

Abruptly she pushed away from him, reaching for the door handle, sliding from the car. She whispered good night, a strangled sound, then she whirled and ran for the house, away from Justin, away from herself and the weakness that urged her to stay, away from the knowledge that she was fleeing from the man with whom in a misguided, unknowing moment, she had fallen in love.

Nine

If she had thought about it, Laura would have known the day she had spent with Justin would not go unnoticed. She did not think about it. There were far too many things to occupy her wayward imagination, too many hopes, fears, and suppositions pushed below the level of her daily problems. It came as a surprise then when Myra came charging down upon Crapemyrtle two days later while she was overseeing the refinishing of the yellow heart-pine floors. She demanded, in a voice that carried even above the noise of a sander, to see the old bed.

Laura offered to take her upstairs to where the armoire and the bed, not yet put together, had been placed in the master bedroom. The woman hardly waited until she was out of earshot of the workmen before she began.

“I couldn’t believe my ears when Justin’s mother told me you and he had gone together to choose the bed we would sleep in as husband and wife. It beats anything I have ever heard for brass!”

“You don’t understand. The Mallard pieces were rare and expensive. I didn’t like to make such a decision on my own,” Laura tried to explain.

“Who do you think you’re kidding?” Myra sneered. “You wanted Justin to yourself.”

“You’re wrong.”

“If that wasn’t it, why didn’t you call me to see if I wanted to go along for the ride? Especially since you must have known the trip would take all day and half the night? Oh, yes, I know how long it took. I didn’t find out where he was until this morning, but I tried to reach him several times that day — yes, and that evening, too.”

“I honestly didn’t think you would be interested. You weren’t too impressed with the other antiques that were bought for the house.” Laura kept her voice even with an effort. One thing that enabled her to keep a tight rein on her temper was the knowledge that there might be a small grain of truth to the woman’s accusation.

“You don’t fool me,” Myra said as they moved along the upper hallway. “I’ve seen it from the beginning. You want Justin and this house. But I can promise you this much: you’ll never have them. No matter what happens, I’ll see to that.”

Color rose to Laura’s cheeks. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I don’t think so,” the other woman said with a shade of complacency. “Still, I would advise you to remember what I said. I don’t give up what’s mine easily.”

Though Myra stared straight ahead, not even trying to meet Laura’s gaze, there was a fanatical gleam in her vivid green eyes. Speaking as quietly as possible, Laura said, “There’s no need for threats.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Justin has had precious little to say for himself lately. He spends all his free time here, with you.”

“It’s the house, trying to get it finished and see to his business at the same time.” Laura deliberately made her voice low and soothing.

The other woman’s red lips twisted. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it. I think it’s time we announced our wedding date, and I can’t think of a better time than at the party I’m throwing when this house is done. The sooner you get through and get out, the better.”

“That suits me.” Laura opened the bedroom door and stood aside for Myra to enter.

“My God,” the dark-haired woman said, stopping in the middle of the floor. “That thing is what you “wasted a whole day buying?”

“It’s a Mallard, and extremely valuable —” Laura began.

“I don’t give a damn what it is! I’ve never seen anything so big and ugly.”

“It’s in good proportion to the room.”

“It’s just like that big mirror over there that I told you to throw out. I couldn’t stand to sleep in such a hideous thing. It would be like trying to rest with a weight hanging over you, ready to drop at any minute.”

“Wait until you see it put together,” Laura urged.

“I don’t need to see it put together. I hate it already. If I had to have something old, why couldn’t it have been in the French style?”

“This is French, Louisiana French-Creole, and especially appropriate for the house and the area.”

“No, I mean real French, Louis Quinze or Seize, or whatever. Something with curved legs and scrolls and gold leaf, something pretty and elegant.”

“It will look different when your emerald-satin hangings are in place,” Laura said.

“It won’t be the same. If that thing has got to stay, I don’t care what you do with it. But I’ll never sleep in it, I’ll tell you that much! I’ll pick out another room for myself. Let Justin have his monster bed and see how he likes sleeping in it by himself!”

The gladness that Laura felt rippling along her veins was a revelation that brought with it the memory of her own dread as she had pictured Myra lying beside Justin beneath that same tester. It was a touch of guilt that made her try to stem Myra’s tirade.

“There’s no need to get excited about it; I’m sure Justin will be reasonable if you talk to him and explain how much you dislike it.”

“Is that so? I don’t doubt he seems reasonable to you; so far he’s sided with you every time when it comes to a choice between what I want and what you think is best for his precious Crapemyrtle.”

“I can’t help that,” Laura told her. “I’m only trying to do my job to the best of my ability.”

Myra sent her a sly look. “I seem to have heard that before, but never mind. I’ll talk to Justin, and if he won’t listen, I guess I’ll just have to get used to this — this horror chamber.”

The woman’s easy flip-flop in attitude, from adamant refusal to resignation, threw Laura off balance. Despite the fact that she had seen it several times before, she could not get used to her changeable personality. It was with something like amazement that she watched the other woman give a small, petulant shrug and turn away, dismissing the entire incident.

Speaking over her shoulder, Myra said, “About the party, I’ve been thinking. It would be fabulous if it could be done like a ball, the way they used to do it in the old days. The women could wear hoop skirts, the men white ties and tails. We could have a band to play waltzes, hundreds of candles everywhere, and a fountain that pours champagne. That ought to please Justin, don’t you think?”

“You could have a few candles, but to use them everywhere would be too much of a fire hazard. Besides, the chandeliers are being wired for electricity. They will use the small candle bulbs that give the same effect and light level as real candles. As for the champagne, we could have that, but I think it would much more likely have been served in a punch, ladled from a silver bowl.”

“There, I knew I could count on you to know how things should be done.”

It was the first time Myra had ever shown any appreciation for her knowledge. Laura could not help but be skeptical, though she also could not suppress excitement at the thought of such a party. Slowly she said, “The invitations could be hand-delivered by a groom in livery and white gloves carrying a ribbon-decked basket.”

“I know just the man, my father’s chauffeur,” Myra exclaimed.

“The ladies could carry dance cards shaped like fans, with every dance numbered and a space beneath for the men to write their names.”

“And the ball gowns! Mine will be light-green taffeta trimmed with darker-green velvet, with an absolutely enormous skirt, yards and yards of material, held out by a hoop. I’ll wear one of those feather things in my hair.” Myra’s eyes sparkled with green lights.

Laura looked doubtful. “Hoop skirts weren’t the fashion until twenty years after the house was built. The style in 1840 was similar, but not so wide or ornate. The skirts were held out by petticoats stiffened with starch, or else reinforced by a horsehair crin, or band of stiffening.”