Here I Stay (32 page)

Jim moved slowly, cautiously up the stairs. When the sound of his footsteps had died away, Martin chuckled. "Subtle, isn't he? He thinks I wouldn't have nerve enough to make a pass with the lights
on."

"Are you going to?" Andrea asked drowsily.

"Sure. Why do you suppose I've been plying you with liquor? And I'd hate to disappoint Jim."

She wasn't prepared for what happened. She had no intention of objecting to something so trivial; it didn't matter, one way or the other. When his arm went around her she leaned against it, relaxed and content. The gentle touch of his hand stroking her cheek and throat, brushing the hair back from her forehead, made her feel like a contented kitten. She yielded readily when he tilted her face toward his, and giggled a little as the stubble of beard pricked her cheek. A breath of soft answering laughter warmed her parted lips before his lips found them.

Gentle at first, then more demanding, his kiss
roused feelings so long denied that their presence filled her with a vast astonishment. Turning, she strained against him, holding him. Long—so long, so cold in the outer darkness, starved and forgotten...How was it possible to forget? Or had it ever happened? Not like this, not this way.

Martin was the first to pull away. He had to free her clinging hands; raising them to his lips, he held them clasped in his for a moment before returning them to her in a grave, almost ritual gesture of relinquishment.

Crimson and gold, silver and blue, the lights flashed in the darkness like fallen stars. Breathless and dazzled, Andrea reached for Martin. He had moved back to the far end of the sofa, leaving an empty space between them.

"Why did you stop?" she whispered. "Why don't you..."

Martin was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, "It must be your decision, reasoned and deliberate. You know I love you. Maybe now you know how much. Too much to tumble you on the couch when you're in a mellow mood, and have you regret it next day."

She recognized the quality of his caring but denied its wisdom. The dictates of the mind and the demands of the body were irresolvable; reasoned passion was a contradiction in terms.

Martin took her hand and held it lightly, at arm's length. "I'm too old to make love on the couch," he said mockingly. "It gives backaches in the morning. Besides, I don't do myself justice that way. Invite me to your room, Andrea, and see what happens."

If he had taken her in his arms or even stroked her hand in a certain way, she would have spoken.

His withdrawal was deliberate, his casual tone a calculated move in a game she had already lost. She felt chilled and bewildered. But he had been as aroused as she; she could not be mistaken about that.

"I don't believe you," she said.

He didn't ask her what she meant. "There are too many of us here," he said. "It has to be just you and me."

It couldn't be the practical difficulties he was
concerned about, though they definitely concerned her. Somehow she couldn't see herself carrying on an affair in her own home, with guests coming and going, and right under Jim's nose. That might have been what Martin meant by his enigmatic reference to "too many of us." He couldn't make a simple statement, he had to dress it up in flowery literary language. He had always been critical of her love for Jim; was he jealous, or, despite his apparent sophistication, inhibited by the presence of a younger man, who was also her brother?

It wouldn't bother Jim. His manner made that clear; he greeted her with his usual smacking kiss and casual "good morning," but there was a gleam in his eye and a meaningful smile on his lips that spoke louder than words. Obviously he assumed that he and Martin had—what would his generation have said? Made out? Had sex? Whatever he called it, Jim was in favor of it. His air of pleased complacency made her want to slap him.

He was still at the table when Martin appeared, and although Andrea was grateful for the presence of a third party, Jim's sidelong glances didn't relieve the tension. However, Martin seemed unaware of nuances. There was no change in his treatment of Andrea, not even a tender look behind Jim's back. Gradually Andrea's self-consciousness was replaced by annoyance. Martin was acting as if nothing had happened. Well—nothing had happened. She had made too much of it. Apparently it had meant nothing to Martin.

She dismissed it from her mind, or tried to. The effort was made easier by Martin himself, who had resumed his old manner, friendly and casual and mildly sardonic.

The arrival of guests left Andrea too busy to brood until the morning of the twenty-fourth when the last of them left. She and Mrs. Horner spent the day cleaning up. She had a card for Mrs. Horner, enclosing an extra day's pay, but somehow that seemed inadequate after she found three parcels under the tree; the tags were printed in large round letters such as a child might have used.

It was Jim who made the gracious gesture she had neglected. He came downstairs as Mrs. Horner was preparing to leave. "Merry Christmas," he said, handing her a package and kissing her on the cheek.

"What was it?" Andrea asked after Mrs. Horner had taken her leave, speechless with emotion and clutching the parcel to her ample bosom.

"Just a little shelf I made. I copied the one in the kitchen, with the curved sides and the cup hooks. She said once she liked it."

"Jimmie, that was sweet."

"I made all my presents," Jim said proudly.

"So that's what you've been doing up there."

Jim lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I made a box for Martin, out of a piece of walnut Wayne found for me. Do you think he'll like it?"

"He'll love anything you made, darling."

"I better get back to work. I haven't finished Reba's present, and I want to give it to her tonight. She is coming, isn't she?"

"Unless she chickens out."

Andrea had been forced to revise her plans for Christmas Day. Reba had pointed out, with some justice, that she had to be on hand to greet old customers, some of whom had been coming to her for years.

"Christmas Eve, then," Andrea said firmly. "I'll
ask Sue and Al and some of the others. Come late if you must, but come. You have to, Reba. You'll never get over this if you give in to it."

Reba had listened glumly to Andrea's facile diagnosis of what ailed her. Convinced she was not, but she obviously wanted to please her friend.

"Oh, all right. I'll give it the old college try. But if I bolt don't be surprised."

"You just have to keep trying," Andrea said.

Reba rolled her eyes and groaned.

Later that afternoon Andrea opened the leaves of the mahogany table in the green parlor and began setting out plates and napkins for the buffet she had planned. The food could not be set out until the last minute, for Satan would browse among the sandwiches if they were left unguarded. Satan took a dim view of Christmas. Andrea had caught him backing up to a basket of boughs, tail raised and quivering, and had sent him flying out of the room with a smack on the behind. However, his greed was stronger than his fear of her and she didn't trust him an inch.

Martin found her there. "Here's your Christmas present," he said, offering a large box.

"You shouldn't have," Andrea said formally.

"Open it now."

"We agreed we wouldn't open presents until tomorrow."

"I want you to open this one first."

Curiosity got the better of her. The package was beautifully wrapped, undoubtedly by the store at which it had been purchased. Neat corners and dainty gold bells in a nest of green ribbon were beyond Martin's skill.

She unwrapped it carefully, taking her time and
reminding herself not to thank him too effusively. If he wanted to play it cool, she could be cool too. But when she saw the contents she could not hold back a cry of delight.

It was a long hostess gown of sherry-brown velvet. Intricate scrolls of gold braid and beads trimmed the wide neckline and trailing sleeves. She had never owned a dress so extravagant and so obviously expensive, and as she stroked the soft velvet her spontaneous smile faded.

"Martin, I can't accept anything like this."

"Don't you like it?"

"It's gorgeous. But you'll have to take it back."

"I can't. It was on sale."

"Liar."

"I won't take it back. Throw it out, cut it up for dust cloths, give it to Mrs. Horner. I don't care what you do with it. But I had hoped you would wear it tonight."

"I can't possibly."

"At least try it on."

She knew what he was thinking—that once she put the dress on she would be unable to resist keeping it. She would show him she wasn't that weak. She would tell him the dress didn't fit. Then he would have to return it.

But when the soft fabric slid caressingly over her body and she turned to look at herself in the mirror, her resolutions went up in a puff of simple vanity. The color brought out the creaminess of her skin and the hidden highlights in her brown hair. The fit was perfect, clinging to her shoulders and breasts, falling in graceful folds from the waist. The face that looked back at her from the mirror couldn't refrain from smiling; flushed cheeks and shining eyes completed the flattering, irresistible image.

Before the glow faded, while she stood posturing and turning, there was a knock on the door. It opened a crack; Jim peeked in.

"Hey, wow," he exclaimed, and flung the door open so that Martin, immediately behind him, could see too.

"I couldn't put it better myself," Martin said. "Hey, wow!"

Trying not to smile, and failing conspicuously, Andrea shooed them away and changed back to her working clothes. Martin knew he had won; she couldn't give the dress up, it was the most becoming thing she had ever owned. There was something almost diabolical about his awareness of her weak points; she had not realized herself until she saw the shimmering image in the mirror how much she had longed for a pretty dress. The fit was perfect, even to the length, and she could not help but be moved by the grace and subtlety of that demonstration of caring. He knew her so well he saw desires she herself was barely conscious of. He knew the very shape of her body.

He also knew how to undermine her independence. The gift was the sort of thing a husband might give a wife, or a lover his beloved—costly, intimate. When people admired the gown, as they were sure to do, she would have to explain that it was Martin's gift, and they would draw the obvious conclusion.

Probably they had already drawn it. Strange that that had not occurred to her before...Ladiesburg loved its gossip, and the townspeople would assume as a matter of course that an adult male and an adult female sharing the same house were sleeping together. They might gossip about it, but they
wouldn't really care; times and morality had changed since the days of Mary Fairfax.

Martin's gift would remove any remaining doubts. It was the crowning irony that the assumption should be false. Utterly bewildered, Andrea gave the gown a last, loving look and shook her head. She couldn't figure out what Martin had in mind. She wondered if he knew himself.

Her dress attracted the attention she had expected. Several of the wives favored her with knowing smiles, but the only one to comment directly was Sue, who had evidently had a nip or two before she came. "If you ever get tired of him," she said, pointing at Martin, who was mercifully not within earshot, "throw him my way, will you?"