Call My Name (17 page)

“She must be very proud of what you are doing.” It was a simple statement that opened up another can of worms.

A pained expression flitted across her gentle features before she could contain it. “She doesn’t
know
half of it. We have our disagreements too. I only tell her as much as I think she can handle, or rather,” she confessed softly, “as much as
I
can handle, once she gets going.”

“Do you miss her?”

Her amber gaze covered the many miles between Simsbury and Cleveland before she spoke. “I think I miss the relationship we
don’t
have. It might have been nice to be close.”

Her words fell victim to another closeness, that of the chiseled features before her. Suddenly aware of the sinewed strength of his legs against her own and the wall of chest against hers, the force of her gaze came every bit to the present, as his had been all along. Without ceremony, he kissed her, pressing the strength of his lips against hers. It seemed a natural outgrowth of the emotional connection between the two. It seemed a natural outpouring of the respect each had slowly gained for the other. It was an inevitable meshing of bodies that had cried out, silently and with varying degrees of urgency, to each other throughout the week, when the watchful eye of the public had precluded this particular type of closeness.

The water swirled about their limbs as he deftly propelled them to a more shallow point. His lips clung to hers all the while as her arms clung to his neck and shoulders. It was only when the buoyancy of the water gave way to the abrupt return of gravity that Daran realized she was being carried, gently and easily, toward the padded chaise that stood in the shadows at the far end of the pool.

A faint gasp escaped her lips when he eased her down, then stretched his length beside her. Of the fleeting impressions that came and went were ones of warmth and companionship, care and protection. It was so easy to talk to him—so easy to forget that other, more public side, and to know only the private man within. At that instant she realized that her need was no longer purely physical. Much as she prized herself an independent woman, she did crave a partner to be with, to talk with, and, yes, to make love with. All her fears seemed to fade into oblivion when Drew was around. His presence drove out all hesitancy, all reluctance. When he was near, in a private situation such as this, she was the only one in his mind, of that she was sure. He was interested in her, in her mind, her history, her ideas, as well as that more obvious interest to which he catered now.

For long moments they kissed. Then, when the flame of desire had been well kindled, each body moved to caress the other. For Daran, the touch of his skin against hers was a heady friction, its resultant heat scorching her. His lips in masterful possession of her own, he pulled her over toward him, his hand releasing the tie of her bikini top without faltering. As the thin slice of jersey fell to the patio amid the spring shedding of the weeping willow overhead, she arched closer, thrilling at the feel of her breasts against the water-cooled surface, finely matted in gold, of his chest. When first his hands, then his lips plundered the ripeness of her creamy curves, she caught her breath. Drew spoke for them both.

“Have you any idea how much I want you?” The huskiness of his voice made its own statement, as tawny fingers found, then caressed with mindless devastation, the taut crest of her nipple. She could only writhe in futile attempt to eliminate all barriers between them. The firm muscles of his back flexed beneath her fingertips when he rolled over atop her. That his own arousal was as great as hers was no longer in doubt, that fact serving only to heighten her own pitch of desire. Then he paused, remembering all too clearly what Daran, in her wild state of ecstasy-driven oblivion, had pushed from his mind. The gray-eyed gaze that delved into her now asked the question. With her hands on his body, she answered. Groaning, he drew her close once more, but gently, as though she were something fragile. His breath stirred her dampened waves. “Tell me you want me to make love to you, Daran. I need to know that you
know
what you’re doing.”

But did she? It was clear that she wanted him, that some part of her needed him. But what about the long-range prospect? A virgin when Bill had so cruelly taken her on their wedding night, she had never been with another man. With Drew there was neither love nor marriage. If she surrendered to her own burgeoning desire, the basics of her value structure would be suddenly changed. Could she handle that?

“I only know what I’m doing at this very minute,” she whispered hoarsely. “Yes, I do want you to make love to me. But as for why and what next, I don’t know. You know what you do to me physically, Drew.” Her accusation, gently as it had been offered, was met by a deep moan. When he made to move away, her tapered fingers circled his wrists to keep him near.

“Daran,” he warned her from deep in his throat, “if I don’t stop now, it will be too late.” His gaze fell to caress the twin swells of her breasts, taking in the nudity which so tempted him. Then, sensing the urgency of his own plea, she let him go. Turning her back on both Drew and the pool, she listened for long moments as his rapid strokes slashed through the once-smooth surface. Her mind remained in the limbo into which it had fallen, to be raised up only when strong, wet arms took her shoulders and pulled her back against him again.

The sinewy forearms which crisscrossed her chest, covering breast and ribcage alike, held her closely, yet with none of the electricity that had been present before. “Listen, Daran,” Drew crooned, the water from his body dripping freely onto hers, “someday it will be right for us. I think we both know that. But until it is, I’d rather wait. You’ve had one bad experience. When
I
make love to you, I want you to enjoy it as much as I do. You are very special.” The last was a soft murmur against her hair, punctuated by a tender touch of his lips at her temple. It was small solace for the nagging ache in her loins, destined now to be unresolved. Yet, when he reached forward with one hand and retrieved the bikini top that had been discarded earlier, she made no move to restrain him. Once again he seemed to know better than she how to handle the situation.

It was only after she had put on her terry robe that he approached her once more. Placing an arm around her shoulder; he pulled her into step beside him, back toward the woods and her own house. “Please try to understand, Daran. There are so many things to be considered.” Choosing his words with great care, his voice serenaded her until he unwittingly hit a wrong note. “I want to be very careful with you.”

It was as though she had been slapped in the face. She was, after all, one of his aides. And it simply wouldn’t do to have a clandestine affair with her unless he knew that she was of the proper frame of mind not to make waves in the placid flow of his career. The pressure of teeth against her lip served to ward off the tears which had, so helplessly, sprung to her eyes. But why did it matter? What did it all mean anyway? Her relationship with Drew was marked for termination with the passage, hopefully, of his bill. His attentions toward her had all been directly or indirectly related to that relationship. In good faith she believed that his feelings for her were strong and good and honest. But his milieu could not be ignored, any more than could the fact that he had worked hard to get where he was and would do nothing to jeopardize that position.

“Pick you up in half an hour?” His soft words barely carried the weight to break into her thoughts. When her pale face turned dumbly up toward his, he repeated them, stroking her worry lines away with his finger. For a minute she thought he would question her on their cause. Thankfully he let it ride. A gentle kiss on her forehead sent her into her house to dress, while, lost in thought, he retraced his steps back through the woods. When the car rounded the drive thirty minutes later, she was ready.

It was as though, with the donning of more formal clothing, both relinquished the more carefree interaction of before. The evening, filled to the brim with activity as they passed from one event to the other, was to set a style which Daran would come to know well over the next weeks. In effect, she was Drew’s assistant-companion on these return trips to his home state. Together they traversed the countryside, attending fair after fair, craft show after craft show. Summer in Connecticut was rife with such outdoor entertainment. At each there was a group of constituents to be met. Indeed, the scheming of Dwight Dewhurst and Stanley Morrow conspired to fill the senator’s every minute, almost, with public appearances. If it wasn’t a brief address to the environmentalists at Falls Village or an informal discussion on oil-spill control with the mariners at Bridgeport, it was a picture-taking session with the leaders of the Rose Festival at Norwich, the Country Dancers in New Haven, or the antique buffs in Lebanon. Occasionally the appearances broached a more touchy theme, such as the forceful plea for federal funding of the arts from the painters in Essex.

Through it all Drew handled himself as the consummate politician—cordial, interested, open-minded. The heat never fazed him as he stood for long periods of time in the sun watching one thing or another. Acutely aware of what was expected of him as the United States senator from the state, his patience seemed endless. It was only in those more quiet moments, usually as they drove, or were driven, from one spot to another, that frustration nagged at him.

“The problem is that constituents nowadays are one-issued. They feel strongly on their own, personal stand to the exclusion of all others. Those same people who, not more than thirty minutes ago,” he explained as the air-conditioned interior of the car cushioned them from the line of tourist traffic in the center of Mystic, “begged for more money to restore this old ship or that, would be at my throat if I suggested that the government would have to tax them further to get that money. They want lower taxes with greater offer of services. It is an age-old dilemma—
I
don’t have a solution!” In a rare gesture of discouragement, he combed his tanned fingers through the shock of hair which had, in the summer’s heat, fallen over his brow. All Daran could do was to listen quietly, to act as a sounding board for his frustration. The solution to the dilemma was as evasive to her as to him.

It was to her surprise that she discovered her own enjoyment at accompanying him on these whirlwind tours of Connecticut. The heat
did
bother her, as did her feet, which were perpetually sore from standing for long periods of time, and her hair, which stubbornly escaped all attempted submission, to curl wildly about her head in wayward disarray. If she knew the appealing picture she made, standing with utter poise and innate beauty by the side of the tall and lean figure, she might have been shocked.

As it was, the pleasure was hard for her to pinpoint as she pondered it in those solitary times at her Simsbury home when Drew had returned to Washington. For starters, she enjoyed seeing the state from such an intimate viewpoint. The actual events they attended were only part of it; the other was the charm of the small New England towns through which they passed. About each, Drew had some gem of wisdom to offer. As they passed through the town of Plymouth, he pointed out Plymouth Hollow, where the earliest Seth Thomas clocks were made, one of which was the rosewood grandfather keeping guard in his own office. The picturesque town of Old Lyme sparked recollections of another Tea Party, one near-comparable to that more famous Boston Harbor event, but in Connecticut, when the local Sons of Liberty burned an entire shipment of tea which had been subject to unjust tax. Enfield was recognized as old Shaker territory, where, he informed her, the earliest marketing of garden seeds in small, handy envelopes took place.

They passed through Stafford Springs, whose sulphur-and-iron-enriched water had beckoned to many a president. The recreational lure of Norfolk tempted, with its lush greenery, its rambling bridle paths, its trout-filled streams—none of which the politician had the leisure time to explore in any more than the most superficial manner. And the history of Wethersfield shone forth as their car passed through, with Drew’s poignant depiction of the meeting held here between George Washington and the French, a meeting which set the foundation for the battle of Yorktown and the end of the Revolutionary War.

It was an education for Daran to travel with Drew and his party. But there was something more. There was—she struggled to identify it—a comfort at being near him. His attitude toward her was always warm and friendly, though far from the intimate and rarely straying from the brotherly. Yet he was
there
, and his very presence added some unknown element to her life.

Perhaps most indicative of her mood was its antithesis, the loneliness, the emptiness that set in late each Sunday evening of those weekends they spent together. Drew’s plane would be aloft, winging its way from Bradley to Dulles. Though Tuesday morning, a mere thirty-six hours later, would find her once more in his Washington office, she missed him.

Though the weekends were bombarded with business and though he never sought to make use of the midnight hour for a suggestive rendezvous, there always managed to be—or Drew always managed to make—some small wedge of time for them to do something more private, more frivolous, more carefree.

There was a bicycle ride through Elizabeth Park early one morning, before the throngs descended to admire the assortment of roses lining the paths and arbors and trellises alike. As usual he gave her little warning, showing up on her doorstep with two bikes strapped to the back of a friend’s sedan, giving her the minimum of time to dress and down a cup of coffee. But it was worth it. The air had been cool at that hour, the bugs still idle. Goldfish bobbed from the depths to the surface of the pond which, come winter, would be frozen over and skated on. As they pedaled, side by side, in quiet companionship, there was a peace about and within her that defied description.

Then, there was the sunset climb up Heublein Mountain, again when the worst of the crowds had begun to retrace their steps for the day. Together they surveyed the countryscapes of Avon and Simsbury, breathing in the panorama of the Farmington Valley region with smiles of appreciation. Again there was that peace, brief yet divine, and theirs to share. At times like these conversation was forgotten, as was, remarkably, all physicality. The natural romance of the setting went much deeper into Daran, holding her speechlessly entranced, until that familiar grasp of her shoulder turned her back toward home.