Summer Storm (12 page)

“Teach?” she said weakly.

“Yes.
Or write. Isn’t that what you like to do best? Your book was excellent—as I’m sure you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You read my book?”

His eyes were smiling at her. “You saw my movies.”

“Yes.” How could such dark eyes look so softly tender? She sat up and leaned her forehead on her knees. “You’d want me to go on teaching?”

“Of course I want you to go on teaching!”
He
sounded almost violent. “I’ve always wanted you to fulfill your potential. I would never stop you from doing that. That’s why I was so upset when—when you said you would give up your fellowship.”

He had shied away from mentioning the baby and she too avoided touching that particular pain. “I don’t know. Kit. It’s too hard to combine careers. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. Someone’s always got to give.”

Her hair had begun to dry in the sun and a strand of it swung forward over her cheek. He reached out and gently pushed it back off her face. “If you like,” he said, “I’ll move east.”

Her eyes were great blue pools in her clear, fine-boned face. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes. I don’t think I could manage Massachusetts. I’d have to be closer to New York. Maybe Connecticut again if you want to stay in New England.”

“I don’t know,” she said again and heard the uncertainty in her own voice.

“Will you think about it?”

“I—yes.”

He smiled at her. “Good girl.” He rose to his feet and held a hand out to her. “Time for lunch,” he said lightly, and she put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. “Your nose if red,” he said as he picked up the towels.

“Rats. My sunscreen is in my bag. I forgot to put it on.” She peered at her shoulders. “I’m really not the California type. Kit.”

“I’ll build you a screened-in porch,” he said. “Come on.”

“All right,” she answered irritably, annoyed by his haste. “What’s the big rush? Are you
that
hungry?”

“Yes, I am.” He looked at her, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes. “But not for food. If we stay here any longer, you’ll find out what I
am
hungry for.”

“I’m coming,” she said quickly and picked up her bag,

He raised an eyebrow but said only, “Follow me, Stanley,” as he walked into the pines.

Her nose
was
red and so were her shoulders. She decided to make herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and spend the afternoon on her porch reading the papers. It was difficult, however, to concentrate on the problems of the Middle East and Latin America. The problems of Mary O’Connor Douglas seemed so much more urgent.

She had told him she would consider going back to him. She couldn’t believe she had said that, but she had. She had meant it too. She must be insane.

Of course he hadn’t meant what he said about coming east. She knew Kit too well. His career came first with him; he had only said that to get under her guard. And he had got under her guard—damn him.

Part of her longed for him, longed for him and ached with missing him. And part of her feared him, feared what would happen if he turned away from her again as he had once before. She didn’t know if she could dare to risk it again.

At about four o’clock George appeared at her door and she invited him in for a drink. He left at five and she went in to change for dinner. There had been no sign of Kit all afternoon and she found herself looking forward to seeing him at dinner.

He wasn’t there. Nor was Margot Chandler.

“Where are Chris and Margot?” Carolyn Nash asked George, and Mary could have kissed her for her bluntness.

“Chris went over to the Stafford Inn this afternoon to work with her,” George replied calmly. “I expect they’re having dinner there.”

“Just who is the director around here, George?” Alfred Block asked insultingly. “Ever since the Queen Bee arrived it seems as if Chris is taking over.
He
tells her what to do, how to stand, how to speak.”

“That’s true,” put in Eric Lindquist. He gave George a sunshiny smile. “I haven’t liked to say anything, but...”

“You creeps!” said Carolyn indignantly.
“It isn’t Chris’s fault if she hangs on him like a parasite.
He’s
only thinking of the good of the production.”

Mary was startled and a little alarmed. She had no idea there was such discord in the ranks. She looked at George, who did not seem the least perturbed by what was being said. He looked so high-strung and nervous, she thought, that his calm was a perpetual surprise to her. He said now, pleasantly but firmly, “I am the director of this play, no one else. And I have a leading lady to deal with who is extremely nervous about her first stage role. She will do very well if only we can instill some confidence in her. Chris is the person who has had the most success doing that, and I am grateful to him for his effort. But when it comes down to what happens on that stage, I am in charge. And I would suggest that none of you forget it.” He went back to eating his dinner.

Mary looked at him in admiration. He glanced her way, caught her look, and winked. She smiled a little in return and pushed some food around on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. The idea of Kit and Margot together quite took her appetite away.

They played cards after dinner.
If nothing else, Mary thought, this summer will have improved my bridge game.
By ten o’clock she had a headache, however, and excused herself to go to bed. Melvin Shaw, who hated to see the best player after himself disappear, protested. But she rose, said firmly, “Good night, Melvin,” and prepared to leave.

“Shall I see you to your cottage?” George asked.

“No. I really am tired and headachy,” she said. “I’ll
see you tomorrow.”

“It’s probably the coming storm that’s put you out of sorts,” said Nancy Sealy. “It’s amazing how the weather affects one.”

“Is there a storm coming?” asked Mary sharply.

“There’s supposed to be,” the girl replied. “I heard it on the radio before I came down to dinner.”

“Oh,” said Mary faintly. “I see. Well, good night everyone.”

The night was cool as she stepped out into the darkness, and there
was
the feel of a storm. Mary hurried up the path, anxious to reach the shelter of her cottage. Kit’s windows were dark and his car was gone.

Once she was inside she undressed quickly and got into bed. She felt strung-up and tense. There was going to be a thunderstorm. She knew it, could feel it, and hated it.

When she was fourteen years old, Mary and a friend had been walking home from the tennis courts when a sudden thunderstorm had come up. They were taking a shortcut across a field and the lightning had been terrifying, shooting in jagged bolts from the sky. Mary had been frightened, but she remembered what her father had once said about getting caught on a golf course in a thunderstorm. “We should lie down flat!” she shouted to her girl friend.

“Yuck. The ground is soaked,” her friend had replied. “I’m going to run for it.”

The sky had lighted up. “Not me,” said Mary, who had great faith in her father’s wisdom. She had dropped to the ground as the other girl began to run across the field. A bolt of lightning had been attracted by the upright, running figure. The girl had been killed instantly, and ever since then Mary had been petrified by thunderstorms.

It didn’t actually begin until about midnight. There was distant rumbling for about half an hour and then it started to rain. A bolt of lightning lit up the night outside Mary’s window and a few seconds later came a sharp crack of thunder.

Wrapped in a blanket, she crawled out of bed and went to hide in the corner of her bedroom. She was huddled there, shaking uncontrollably, when she heard a voice from the sitting room calling her name. She tried to answer but a crack of thunder drowned her out. Her bedroom door opened and Kit stood there, dressed in jeans, and a sweat shirt. He saw her almost immediately. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said gently. He crossed the room and sat down on the floor beside her. “You’re perfectly safe, you know. If it hits anything it’ll be one of the trees, not the cottage.”

“I-I know,” she stuttered, turning with a great rush of gratitude into the warm safety of his arms. “But somehow knowing doesn’t seem to help.”

He held her closely, drawing her into the shelter of his body, knowing from past experience that this more than his words would comfort her. She closed her eyes and pressed against him, not even noticing the wetness of his shirt under her cheek.

The storm lasted for about twenty minutes, during which time they stayed huddled together on the floor. Then it began to abate, the thunder sounding more distant, the lightning flashes less bright. Finally all that was left was the rain, beating steadily against the roof and the windows.

“It’s all over,” said Kit’s voice gently.

“Yes.” Her tense, cramped muscles relaxed a little. She tried to laugh. “I feel so stupid, but I can’t seem to help it.”

“I know.” His hand was moving slowly, caressingly, up and down her back. His cheek was against her hair. She closed her eyes and rested against him.

“You knew I’d be a basket case.”
It was a statement not a question.

“Yes. I thought I’d better come over and check on you. It was a nasty storm.”

“Mmm.” It wasn’t fear she was feeling now but something else. His hand continued its smooth rhythmic stroking and she drew a deep uneven breath.

“Mary,” he said and she looked up. He bent his head and began to kiss her, a deep, slow, profoundly erotic kiss. She lay back in his arms, her head against his shoulder, her arms coming up to circle his neck. His lips moved from her mouth to bury themselves in her neck. His hand slid under her pajama top and cupped her breast. “Mary,” he muttered, “my princess, my Irish rose ...”

The love words, the touch of his mouth, his hand, shattered whatever resistance she had left. “Let’s get into bed,” he murmured.

Her will to deny him had totally left her; she felt herself giving up, giving way. “All right,” she whispered, and he got to his feet, pulling her up with him. He picked her up and laid her on the bed and stood beside it for a minute as he stripped his shirt off and undid the buckle of his jeans. She had left a lamp on and she watched him in its dim glow. Then he was beside her, his long fingers undoing the buttons of her pajama top, going to the elastic at her waist.

He touched her bared flesh and she felt him as a flame of desire, a flame that burned deep within her; and deep within her rose the urge to answer him, to satisfy him, to give to him and hold nothing back for herself. “Kit,” she whispered, and he kissed her again, his long lean body hard and heavy now on hers. Her own body remembered the feel of him all too well, and quite suddenly she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. There was no one like him, nothing else in the world like this. “Kit,” she said, urgently now, and then “Ah . . . h” as he buried himself deep within her. She shuddered as the piercing, quivering, throbbing tension began to mount within her. Her fingers were pressed deep into his back, white with pressure.

“Mary, baby, love.” As one they moved together
in
profound, shuddering, ecstatic passion.

Afterward she was utterly still, lying quiet under the weight of his body, and he was still with her. After a long time he stirred and shifted his position. “I’m too heavy for you.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

He looked down at her with dark, warm, peaceful eyes. “Go to sleep. Princess.” he said, and turned her over on her side, the way she liked to sleep, and pulled her into the warmth of his body. She closed her eyes and in two minutes was deeply asleep.

Mary woke early the next morning to the sound of the birds. She turned to find Kit lying beside her, his chin propped on his hands, his brow lightly furrowed. He turned his head slightly when he heard her move and his eyes, meeting hers, were uncertain and wary.

He had taken advantage of the situation last night and he was evidently unsure of what her reaction would be in the clear light of the morning after. If I had half a brain, Mary thought, I’d tell him to get out. She felt her lips curving in a smile. “I knew I’d be like King Canute,” she said.

His face dissolved into laughter. “Why King Canute?”

“He was the fellow who ordered the tide not to come in.”

He was still laughing. “God, Mary, I love you. There isn’t another woman alive who would drag in King Canute at a moment like this.”

“He’s very appropriate. Alas.”

“Don’t say ‘alas.’ ” His face had sobered. “It’s been such hell, being around you, wanting you ... It reminded me a little of when we first met, only this was so much worse.” He moved closer, put an arm across her and buried his face between her breasts. “Wanting and wanting and not having,” he said, his lips moving on her bare flesh as he spoke. Then, deeply, fiercely, “Wanting what was mine.” He rubbed his cheek against her and she protested a little as the roughness of his beard scratched her tender flesh. He rested his head on her breast and she gently ran her fingers through his tousled black hair.

“It’s not like this with anyone else,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment,” she replied a little acidly. “I haven’t got your standard
of
comparison.”

He chuckled. “Thank God for that.”

Her fingers continued to move caressingly through his hair. “You’d better go,” she said. “I don’t want anyone to see you leaving here.”

“Why not? We’re married.”

“Yes—I know.” Her fingers stilled and he raised his head to look at her. His nostrils looked suddenly tense.

“I thought you were coming back to me.”

“I . . .” She looked up into his face. It was hopeless, she thought. She was weak with love for him. “I suppose I am,” she said helplessly.

His face relaxed and the eyes that looked down at her were so dark, so unbearably beautiful. “Then I don’t give a damn who sees me,” he said and began to kiss her again. He didn’t leave for another hour.

She lectured that morning on Hamlet, and as she talked about the problems of the play and the characters she kept seeing Kit’s face. What had he meant, she wondered, when he had said that to play Hamlet well he would have to reveal himself?