Rachel Lee (33 page)

Maybe because some part of her hadn't completely given up hope.

Whatever it was that compelled her, she nodded and followed Hardy down the hall to his bedroom.

She watched him roll a blanket and put it down the middle of the bed.

It was a king-size bed, so there was plenty of room left. Little chance that they might touch each other accidentally. Little chance of anything, except talk.

"There," he said. "You can go get in your pajamas, if you want. I promise, you're safe with me."

Safe with him was, she realized, the last thing she wanted to be. But she had no doubt she would be. Hardy was a man of his word. "I'll change," she said, her voice muffled by disappointment.

Then she remembered she hadn't even commented on his room. It ran along the entire back of the original house, full of space, and in the daytime it was probably full of light coming through the row of windows along the back wall, windows now covered with closed wooden blinds.

Unlike the rest of the house, where he had pursued the Victorian touch, here he had gone for clean, uncluttered lines. The carpet was a soft beige, the ceiling a study of lines and angles that played with shadow.

The colors he had selected were a deep green and burgundy, warmth against the coolness. He even had a fireplace, and his own bathroom, which she glimpsed through a partially open door.

"It's a beautiful room," she said finally, then left before he could answer.

She changed into a white flannel nightgown that was dotted by rosebuds.

Nothing exciting. Nothing tempting. Just warm and comfortable. It probably said something about her that she didn't own a single negligee. No temptress, she was just a back-porch kind of girl.

When she returned to his room, she found he had changed, too, into navy blue sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. He squatted before the fireplace, coaxing a couple of logs into flame.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said over his shoulder.

She doubted she would be able to do that around him. Awareness of him was like a perfume in the air, surrounding her, reaching all her senses. Inescapable.

Finally she forced herself to look away from him and sit in an easy chair.

"This is a really nice retreat," she said finally, trying to distract herself.

"Thanks. I like it." Satisfied with the fire, he brushed off his hands and sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, facing her. "You feeling any better?"

Slowly, Joni shook her head. "Not much. I said some horrid things. I don't like to say horrid things to people."

"No kind person does. But you needed to say them, Joni. You know you did."

"I guess."

"Didn't you feel any relief at all?"

She thought back over the evening, trying to remember her reactions.

"No. I just felt sick to my stomach."

"I'm sorry. But all those things have been bubbling up in you for a while. You've said most of them to me over the last week. You just finally got around to saying them to the right person, that's all."

"I guess."

"Come on, let's lie down. We can talk just as easily, and maybe we'll even fall asleep."

Obediently, she went to one side of the bed. "This okay?"

"Fine. I'm not particular."

When he pulled back the covers, she noticed for the first time that the blanket he had rolled up to put between them wasn't a blanket. "That's a quilt."

"Yeah." He seemed surprised she had commented on it.

"The colors are pretty." Sitting down on the bed, she leaned over to take a closer look. "That's hand stitched Somebody put an awful lot of time and effort into it. Look how fine the stitches are. Is it an heirloom?"

"I guess you could say so." He sat on the other side of the bed and put his hand on it. "My mother made it for me, to take to college with me. She worked on it for years."

"Wow. I can't imagine how many hours she must have put into it."

"Well, she started it on my thirteenth birthday."

"Can I see it?"

He hesitated, and she looked up to catch something vulnerable in his gaze. She had the feeling she was trespassing into a place where he didn't really want to go.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's none of my business." After all, she just wanted to look at it to distract herself a little longer.

That was a lousy reason to pry.

"No," he said. "No, it's okay. It's just a quilt."

Rising, he began to unroll it. She helped him, until they had it spread out on the bed. But as soon as they opened it up and she looked down at the blocks, she knew it wasn't just a quilt. It was memories.

Lots and lots of memories.

In the lower right corner there was a boy dressed in jeans and a red shirt, flying a kite high above some pines. It was a cute kite, with a smiling face and a colorful tail.

Next to it was a block showing a boy bent over a book with a piece of paper and a pencil next to him. Then there was another block with a carefully drawn bridge that appeared to have been done in a child's hand. Scanning the rest of the quilt quickly, she discovered that nearly every block held a boy or a man.

"This is about you, isn't it?"

Hardy looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. Sort of. She wanted it to be a quilt full of memories."

Fascinated, Joni knelt on the bed and studied the blocks one after another.

"Was that your first kite?" she asked.

"I, uh, made it."

She smiled at him. "You've always been talented. And the boy with the book?"

"I had to study hard. Especially math."

"Me too." She bent again to the quilt and followed the scenes of a little boy until she came to a plain black square. It was part of a pattern of three plain squares on the quilt. "What's this? Just pattern?"

He hesitated so long that finally she looked at him. Something in his face seemed tight, too controlled. "Hardy? I'm not trying to be nosy.

If you want me to stop asking, I will."

Nearly a minute passed before he answered. "It's okay. That's my dad.

A dark patch in my life."

"Oh." She caught her breath and instinctively reached across the quilt to take his hand. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right. Everybody knows what he was like. Everybody." His fingers curled around hers.

"It was hard on you, wasn't it?"

"I guess. He was a nasty drunk." He shook his head, as if wanting to dismiss the memories, but his fingers tightened around hers.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm past it."

She wondered if he really was. He might think so, but she suspected some of those childhood wounds were the reason he'd taken so much guff from Witt over the years. The reason he still felt responsible for the accident.

"You have a lot to be proud of," she told him. "You've come a long way."

"Maybe." He shrugged again and changed the subject, pointing to the sketches on the quilt. The first was the bridge she had already noticed, the second was a tall office building, and the third was a dramatic-looking house. "I guess I was always headed toward architecture. Mom copied those off drawings of mine."

"Pretty impressive." She looked closer and realized that the drawings were full of intricate detail. More so than one would find in the haphazard drawings of most kids . unless, of course, they were drawing fighter planes or something similar. What was more, they were appealing. "You have real talent."

"I'm adequate. But no Frank Lloyd Wright."

"Not yet, maybe. I wish you could do the hotel for Witt. Hannah told me how beautiful it was."

"I kinda liked it."

She looked at him again. "Only kinda?"

"Well, it wasn't as much as I would have liked to do. But given the budget restraints..." He shook his head. "It wouldn't have won anyway. Concrete construction is cheaper than siding and gingerbread and porches."

"Another cold monolith, huh? I wonder if Wilt's that stupid."

"It's not stupidity. It's fiscal responsibility." He shifted until he was facing her directly. "Everybody has a budget. Very few people want to throw in all the frills, bells and whistles. So I accommodate them and try to give them something special at the same time. They aren't always interested. That's the risk I run."

"It must be so frustrating."

He squeezed her fingers and smiled. "I'm getting used to it."

She looked down at the quilt again and felt drawn to the two other solid squares. One was pure white; the other was bright sunshine yellow. Something warned her not to ask. But curiosity wouldn't let her keep silent. "What's this white square?"

He glanced at it. "Something lost."

Karen. It represented Karen. Suddenly she didn't want to look at the quilt anymore. With shaking hands she began to roll it up. "Thanks for sharing it with me, Hardy. It's beautiful."

"What's wrong?"

"Not a thing."

"I don't believe you." He came around the bed and sat beside her, taking her face between his hands. Her hands still clutched the edge of the quilt. "Stop hiding from me, Joni. Stop lying to yourself.

We're never going to get anywhere if you won't be honest with me."

She shook her head, feeling her throat tighten. God, she was getting tired of being on the edge of sorrow and despair.

"Talk to me, Joni. Just talk to me." His tone was gentle, gentle enough to provoke her into speech.

"That was Karen's square, wasn't it?"

"Actually ... no. It wasn't."

"Oh, come on."

"I'm not kidding." His hands tightened just a little as they cradled her head, letting her know he didn't want her to look away. "That's not Karen. There was a time when I wanted her on that quilt, when we first started dating, but my mom wouldn't let me do it. You know what she said?"

"No..."

"She said a high school sweetheart was a passing thing, and I wouldn't want to carry a memory of her through my life. Friends, she said, are the ones you want to remember. That square is a friend, Joni. Someone I still treasure. It's not Karen."

She believed him. Crazily enough, she believed him. Something in her heart seemed to swell, and she reached out for him, forgetting the quilt, forgetting everything else except her need to comfort him and be comforted by him.

"We're going to be okay, Joni," he murmured as they hugged each other.

"We're getting through this already. A brighter day will come for all of us."

She nodded, wanting to believe him, but more, just wanting to be close to him. She never would have believed that being held like this could make everything else seem so unimportant. That a man's arms could make her feel so sheltered and safe.

But the step from sheltered and safe to the heat of passion proved to be a very short one. As if someone had thrown a switch, all the desire she had been feeling earlier came sweeping back. Every muscle in her body seemed to soften, and the throbbing deep within her returned as strongly as if it had never gone away. She wanted him. She craved him. And she didn't want to spend another night without being in his arms. Tomorrow didn't matter. She needed him too much to worry about consequences.

Dizzy with the feelings flooding her, she tilted her head back and kissed him on the mouth. He stiffened, just long enough to make her fear he would pull away, but then his mouth fastened to hers, drinking from her as if he were starving.

Which was exactly what she was doing, too. Her fingers began to dig into his back, trying to pull him closer still. Pulling him until they fell onto the bed, she on her back, he partly over her.

He tore his mouth from hers suddenly, catching her face between his hands. "Joni ... Joni ... look at me."

Hazily she opened her eyes, resenting this interruption, fearing he would call a halt.

"Joni, are you sure about this? Last time..."

"I'm sure. Hardy, I'm so sure...."

He needed no more encouragement. He began covering her with kisses as he struggled to pull away her nightgown, his shirt and sweatpants, hurrying to bring them as close as he could possibly get them.

Impatience rushed them along, both uninterested in dallying on this journey. Joni felt as if she needed something more elemental.

Something as primitive as what was raging through her. Something .

deep.

Moments later, he entered her. The sensation was so exquisite that a thrill raced through her, leaving her transported on joy and passion.

Nothing, she thought dimly, nothing had ever felt so good or right.

He seemed to be arrested by it, too. For long seconds he hovered over her, his eyes closed, motionless, absorbing the sensation. Then his eyes opened sleepily, and he looked down at her. "I never thought I'd be here again."

"Me neither."

"Sorry?"

"No!"

His smile broadened. Then he sank down on her, and they took the time to pleasure each other in every way they could think of.

Later, a long time later, as they dozed wrapped in each other's arms, Hardy murmured, "Joni?"

"Hmm?"

"That white square was you."

"Me?" She was suddenly wide-awake, and her heart was hammering again.

"You," he repeated. "So is the yellow one. Yellow because you were sunshine in my life. White because you went away after ... she died."

"Oh ... oh." Tears were suddenly flowing again, but this time they were tears of joy. "Oh, Hardy..." She squeezed him as tightly as she could. "Oh, Hardy..."

They didn't sleep for a long, long time.

Witt didn't wake in the morning, he roused. He hadn't slept, except for a couple of brief bits of dozing in his armchair. His thoughts wouldn't leave him alone; they kept clawing at him until he felt as if he were in tatters.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal, not because he liked it but because Hannah would have liked him to. Standing at the sink, trying to rinse the sticky stuff out of Wl his bowl, he stared out over the town as another clear, cold mountain morning dawned. Only when he realized the tap water was turning his fingers into icicles did he stir.