Hello, Darkness (26 page)

“I’m glad it worked out so well.”

“Yeah, me, too. Thanks, Paris.”

She inserted “To Make You Feel My Love” into the program log and answered another line. The caller requested that she send a happy birthday wish to Alma. “Ninety? My goodness! Does she have a favorite song?”

It was a Cole Porter tune, but within seconds Paris had located it in the computerized music library and programmed it to play behind the Brooks ballad.

After taking care of that business, she looked over at Stan. “Are you still here?”

“Yes, and my question stands. And don’t tell me you and Malloy are old friends from Houston.”

“That’s exactly what we are.”

“How’d you meet?”

“Through Jack. Their friendship outlasted college.”

“But it didn’t outlast you.” She whipped her head toward him. “Ah, just a wild guess, but a correct one, I see.”

“Get lost, Stan.”

“I take it that this is a sensitive subject.”

Exasperated, and knowing that he would bug her about this until she was forthcoming, she asked, “What do you want to know?”

“If Malloy was such a good friend of yours and Jack’s, I want to know why I never heard of him until last night.”

“We drifted apart when I moved Jack here.”

“Why did you move Jack here?”

“Because Meadowview was the best health care facility for his particular needs. Jack was unable to maintain a friendship. I was busy overseeing his care and establishing myself in this job. Dean had his own busy life in Houston, including a young son. It happens, Stan. Circumstances affect friendships. Haven’t you lost touch with some of your friends in Atlanta?”

Undeterred, he said, “Jack was the reason you gave up a career in TV news and came to work at this dump?”

“Around the time of his accident, I made a career change. Okay? Satisfied? Therein lies the whole story.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, his eyes narrowing on her. “It sounds logical, even plausible, but it’s too pat. I think you’re leaving out the shadings.”

“Shadings?”

“The nuances that make for a really good story.”

“I’m busy, Stan.”

“Besides, nothing you’ve told me explains the electricity that was arcing between you and Malloy last night. It nearly singed my eyebrows. Come on, Paris, give,” he wheedled. “I won’t be shocked. You’ve glimpsed the ugly underbelly of my family and nothing could be more scandalous. What happened with the three of you?”

“I’ve told you. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. If you want shadings, invent your own. I really don’t care as long as it keeps you occupied. In the meantime, can’t you find something productive to do?”

She returned her attention to the board, the phone lines, the log monitor, and the studio information monitor, where a new weather report had been submitted by a local meteorologist.

Stan sighed with resignation and moved toward the door once again. Speaking over her shoulder, Paris called to him, “Don’t touch anything breakable.”

But as soon as he walked out, her flippancy dissolved. She tossed her tea, which was now tepid and bitter, into the trash can. She wanted to choke Stan for resurrecting disturbing memories.

But she couldn’t dwell on them. She had her job to do. Engaging her mike, she said, “Once again, happy birthday to Alma. Her request took us back several generations, but every love song is a classic here on FM 101.3. This is Paris Gibson, your host until two o’clock tomorrow morning. I hope you’ll stay with me. I enjoy your company. I also enjoy playing your requested songs. Call me.”

She and Dean had agreed that she wouldn’t address any remarks to Valentino or mention Janey until he arrived. They’d left her house at the same time, but he was going to drive Gavin home before coming to the station.

Dinner had gone well. By tacit agreement, they didn’t talk about the case in which they had all become involved. Instead their conversation touched on movies, music, and sports. They laughed over shared memories.

As they were leaving, Gavin thanked her politely for the dinner. “Dad’s a lousy cook.”

“I’m no Emeril either.”

“You come closer than he does.”

She could tell that Dean was pleased by how well she and Gavin had gotten along and how relaxed their dinner together had been. She had felt very mellow herself, and she had drunk only a half glass of Chardonnay—her limit on a worknight. Her enjoyment was lessened only by knowing that she’d kept them away from Liz Douglas for the evening.

During the next series of commercials, she cleared the phone lines. Each time she depressed a blinking button, she did so with dread, which made her angry with Valentino. He had made her afraid to do the work that had been her salvation. This job had kept her grounded during the seven years she had overseen Jack’s health care. She’d been able to endure those interminable days spent at the hospital only by knowing that she could escape to the radio station that night.

She received a call from a young woman named Joan, whose personality was so bubbly Paris decided to put her on the air. “You say you’re a Seal fan.”

“I saw him once in a restaurant in L.A. He looked super cool. Could you play ‘Kiss From a Rose’?”

Moving by rote, she slipped the request behind three songs already on the log.

What was keeping Dean? she wondered. He was putting up a good front, but she could tell he was deeply worried about Gavin’s connection to Janey Kemp. Any parent who loved his child would be concerned, but Dean would blame himself for Gavin’s misconduct and look upon it as a failure on his part.

Just as he had assumed blame when Albert Dorrie’s standoff with Houston police resulted in tragedy.

There it was again. Another reminder. No matter how hard she tried to avoid it, her mind kept going back to that. To that night.

Dean showed up at her condo eighteen hours after Mr. Dorrie had made orphans of his three children by killing first his estranged wife and then himself.

He arrived unannounced and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Paris. I probably shouldn’t have come over without calling first,” he said as soon as she opened the door.

He looked as if he hadn’t even sat down during the last eighteen hours, much less slept. His eyes had sunk into the dark circles surrounding them. His chin was shadowed with stubble.

Paris had rested very little herself. Most of the day had been spent in the TV newsroom, where she had edited together an overall perspective of the incident for the evening newscasts.

Tragically the story wasn’t that unusual. Similar incidents happened routinely in other cities. It had even happened in Houston before. But it had never happened to
her.
She had never witnessed something like that up close and personal. Being on the scene and living through it was far different from reading about it in the newspaper or listening with half an ear to television news reports while preoccupied and doing something else.

Even her jaded cameraman had been affected. His ho-hum attitude was replaced by dejection when the news van followed the ambulance bearing the two bodies to the county morgue.

But no one who had experienced it took the calamity to heart the way Dean did. His despair was etched deeply into his face as Paris motioned him inside. “Can I get you something? A drink?”

“Thanks.” He sat down heavily on the edge of her sofa while she poured each of them a shot of bourbon. She handed him a highball glass and sat down beside him. “Am I keeping you from something?” he asked dully.

“No.” She motioned down at her white terry-cloth spa robe. Her face was scrubbed clean; she’d let her hair dry naturally after a long soak in the tub. He usually didn’t see her like this, but she wasn’t concerned about her appearance. Things that had seemed important twenty-four hours ago had paled into insignificance.

“I don’t know why I came,” he said. “I didn’t want to be out, with people. But I didn’t want to be alone either.”

“I feel the same.”

She had begged off spending the evening with Jack. He’d been desperate to cheer her up and help take her mind off what she’d been through. But she wasn’t yet ready to be cheered up. She wanted time to reflect. Furthermore, she was exhausted. Going to a movie or even to dinner seemed as remote as flying to the moon. Even making small talk with Jack would have required energy she didn’t have.

Talking didn’t seem to be the purpose of Dean’s visit. After those few opening statements, he sat staring into near space, taking periodic sips from his highball glass. He didn’t fill the silence with pointless conversation. Each knew how rotten the other felt about the way the standoff had ended. She guessed that, like her, he derived comfort just from being near someone who had shared the tragedy.

It took him half an hour to finish his whiskey. He set the empty glass on the coffee table, stared at it for several seconds, then said, “I should go.”

But she couldn’t let him leave without offering some consolation. “You did everything you could, Dean.”

“That’s what everybody tells me.”

“Because it’s true. You did your best.”

“It wasn’t good enough, though, was it? Two people died.”

“But three lived. If not for you, he probably would have killed the children, too.”

He nodded, but without conviction. She stood up when he did and followed him to the door, where he turned to face her. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re welcome.”

Several seconds ticked by before he said, “I caught your story on the six o’clock news.”

“You did?”

“It was good.”

“Trite.”

“No, really. It was good.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Holding her with a stare, his eyes seemed to implore her in a way that she knew her own must mirror. Emotions that she couldn’t deny, but had held in rigid check for months, erupted inside her. By the time Dean reached for her, she was already opening her lips to receive his kiss.

Later, when she relived it and was able to be brutally honest with herself, she realized that she had wanted him to kiss her, and that if he hadn’t initiated it, she would have.

She had to touch him or die. The need for him was that essential.

Dean must have felt the same. His mouth mated with hers possessively and hungrily. Pretense and politeness were shattered. The constraints of conscience snapped. Tension that had been building for months was given vent.

She threaded her fingers up through his hair. He unknotted the tie belt of her robe and when he slid his hands inside, she didn’t protest but rose up on tiptoes to bring their bodies flush against each other. They fit. And the perfection of it brought a temporary end to the kissing and they just held each other, tightly.

Paris’s mind spun with sensual overload. The cold metal of his belt buckle against her belly. The texture of his trousers against her bare thighs. The fine cotton of his shirt against her breasts. His body heat seeping into her skin.

Then his lips sought hers again. As they kissed, his hand moved to her breast. His thumb brushed her distended nipple, then he bent his head to take it into his mouth, sucking it with urgency. Gasping his name, she clutched his head against her.

As he lowered her to the floor, she undid the buttons on his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, but that’s as far as it got before he was kissing her again. Between her thighs she felt him grappling with his belt and zipper.

The tip of his penis nuzzled her pubic hair, probed, and then was inside her.

His fullness stretched and filled her. He settled his weight onto her and she absorbed it gladly, squeezing his hips between her thighs. The pressure was incredibly sweet. The sounds that rose up from her chest were a joyous mix of laughter and weeping.

He kissed away the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes, then clasped her head between his strong hands and laid his forehead against hers, rolling it gently back and forth as they exchanged the air they breathed and the ultimate intimacy.

“God help me, Paris,” he said raspily, “I just had to be inside you.”

She slid her hands beneath his clothing and pressed his buttocks with her palms, drawing him even deeper into her. He hissed a swift intake of air and began to move. With each smooth thrust, the intensity of the pleasure increased. And so did the meaningfulness. Cradling her chin in one hand, he tilted her face up for a kiss.

He was still kissing her when she came, so that her soft cries were released into his mouth. Within seconds he followed her. And still, they clung to each other.

Their separation was gradual and reluctant. As the physical ecstasy began to recede, the moral significance of what they had done encroached. She tried to stave it off. She wanted to rail at the unfairness of it. But it was inexorable.

“Oh, Lord,” she moaned, and, turning onto her side, faced away from him.

“I know.” He placed his arm across her waist and drew her back against his chest. He kissed her neck lightly and brushed strands of hair off her damp cheeks.

But his hand froze in the act when her telephone rang.

Earlier she had set her answering machine to pick up, so she could monitor calls. Now Jack’s voice blared from the speaker, making him a third presence in the room.

“Hi, babe. Just calling to check on you, see how you’re faring. If you’re asleep, never mind calling me back. But if you’re up and want to talk, you know I’m willing to listen. I’m worried about you. Dean, too. I’ve been calling him all evening, but he’s not answering any of his phones. You know how he is. He’ll be thinking it was his fault that the standoff turned out the way it did. I’m sure he could use a friend tonight, so I’ll keep trying to reach him. Anyway, love you. Rest well. ’Bye.”

For the longest time, neither of them moved. Then Paris disentangled herself from Dean and crawled as far as the coffee table, where she pressed her head against the wood, hard enough to hurt.

“Paris—”

“Just go, Dean.”

“I feel as badly as you do.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. It was bare; she had dragged her robe along behind her like a bridal train. Frantically she tugged up the sleeve to cover the exposed slope of her breast.

“You couldn’t possibly feel as badly as I do. Please leave.”

“I feel bad for Jack, yes. But I’m damned if I regret making love to you. It was destined to happen, Paris. I knew it the minute I met you, and so did you.”

“No, no I didn’t.”

“You’re lying,” he said quietly.

She snuffled a laugh. “A minor offense compared to fucking my fiancé’s best man.”

“You know that’s not what this was. It would be much easier for us if that’s all it was.”

That was true. Behind the shame, her heart was breaking from the despair of knowing that it would never happen again. Perhaps she could have forgiven herself a simple tumble, a hormonal rush, a temporary fall from grace. But it had been far too meaningful to dismiss and forgive.

“Just leave, Dean,” she sobbed. “Please. Go.”

She laid her head on the table again and closed her eyes. Scalding tears rolled down her cheeks as she listened to the rustle of his clothing, the jangle of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper, and his muffled footfalls on the carpet as he walked to the door. She endured a purgatorial silence until she heard the door open, then close quietly behind him.