Tell Me When It Hurts (18 page)

“
Spoken by Johnny, a.k.a. Patrick Swayze, in
Dirty Dancing,
to Baby’s a.k.a. Jennifer Grey’s, father. So is that a yes?”

“
Yes,
it’s a yes!” she proclaimed, and she stood up, took Hadley by the forepaws, and began two-stepping about the living room, with Hadley doing her best to keep up. Alice began barking and chasing Archer around the room, bouncing up and down, as Connor’s laughter added to the general uproar.

“
Okay, I get it,” said Connor. “You dance. Now, does that mean you only dance alone, or just with large dogs?”

“
I dance with other people, too—under the right circumstances,” Archer said with great dignity.

The plan took shape. Jenny, Archer’s dog sitter, would watch both dogs, and Millie was placed with the owner of the feed store, who had an empty barn stall and a small pasture and was happy to have her while they were out of town.

* * *

Every few days, Connor called Three Chimneys. Usually, he just got the answering machine and left instructions: call the vet about worming next month; make sure the fields have the fall fertilization; check the barns for leaks before it gets too cold. Sometimes he got one of the men. At other times, his farm manager, Felix, called back. When Archer answered, he stammered.

“
Hey, McCall, I think I make him nervous.”

“
You make
everyone
nervous, Archer. It’s your destiny,” he chuckled.

One day, after Felix apparently managed to ask if Mac was there, Archer covered the mouthpiece and whispered: “Hey, McCall, are you also known as Mac?”

“
Yup, that’s my Wyoming moniker.”

“
Hey, Harvard, no need to show off with big words to impress me,” she said with a grin, handing him the phone. Their fingers touched briefly, and Connor tried to ignore the little jolt he felt. “Then I guess this is for you.”

Connor talked about tagging the new sheep, outstanding orders to be filled, and business arrangements to move money for funding various projects, payroll needs, and repairs.

“
So, Mac,” said Felix at the end of the call, “when you coming home?”

“
Well, you seem to be running things real smoothly, Felix, my good man,” Connor said jovially.

Felix paused and said, “Mac, we need you. I’m doing okay, but the guys aren’t afraid of me like they are of you. You know, when you screw up your face and yell at everybody and pound your desk, things are really good for a while.”

Connor sighed. “I know. Soon, Felix, soon.”

* * *

“
You’re a killer, aren’t you?” Connor asked out of nowhere as they sat together on her front porch steps one evening, watching the sky darken.

“
What do you mean?”

He turned a cold gaze on her. “Just that. I’ve seen your gun. And I’ve seen you shoot, you’ll recall. And that’s the ‘legal work’ you sneak off to do, isn’t it?”

No answer.

“
So, just out of curiosity, tell me, is it freelance or organized?”

Archer sat bolt upright in bed, sweating, her heart racing. She tugged at the neck of her T-shirt, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. Her gaze darted around the room, into corners mottled in dark calico by the moonlight. The snug, comfy room felt mysterious and somehow menacing.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see Hadley sleeping on the needlepoint rug at the foot of her bed, her breathing steady and regular. Reassured, she felt her own breath slow and her senses relax.
Just a nightmare, silly,
she chided herself.
Connor doesn’t even talk like that. If you must dream, at least dream realistically
. . . But he had sounded so accusing and hostile, even mean—not like himself at all.
What a stupid nightmare.

Reaching back to pull up her pillow, Archer sank back down in the bed.
A killer?
She had never thought of herself that way. Avenger? Yes. Hit woman? If the shoe fits . . . But
killer
? No
.
She folded the white cotton quilt back and got out of bed, padding barefoot into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Killer.
Such an ugly word.

CHAPTER 19

Connor and Archer arrived in Boston just before dark, in Connor’s F-350 crew cab dually pickup, which, apparently, was something of a novelty at the Four Seasons. The valet, who looked to be about fourteen, was rendered temporarily speechless.

“
Yes, please park it,” said Connor, “but no joyriding, okay? Though I know the temptation is great.” The humor was lost on the valet, who kept staring.

Once the valet recovered, they went into the lobby. For their first evening, Connor had made dinner reservations at the hotel’s four-star restaurant: cushioned seats, benches for two, candlelight—the room positively oozed elegant serenity.

After checking in, Archer and Connor went to their rooms. Archer’s was big, with a yellow and red chintz sofa under a big window. The cream wallpaper with pink flowers was reminiscent of a Yorkshire bed-and-breakfast she’d seen in one of her design magazines.

She pulled a looped cord hanging along the right edge of the window, and the thick drapes parted to give a view of the Boston Common, all green and yellow in the weak November light. Across the park stood the red brick homes of Beacon Hill, on cobbled streets lit by the faint glow of gaslights. It was peaceful, like a painting of Victorian London.

I’ve missed a lot in six years,
she mused.

Entering the white and green marble bathroom, Archer grabbed a thick white towel and ran a hot bubble bath, then undressed slowly, enjoying the pleasure of being in a beautiful place. She lowered herself into the water, gripping the edges of the huge porcelain tub. The little water tank at home allowed for only the smallest, quickest, meanest of baths, making this bath a wild and decadent luxury. She lay back and relaxed, with only her head and toes sticking out of the water. The water sloshed over her, sensuously dipping in and out between her legs and lapping over her shoulders, soothing her.

She wondered about tonight. Connor had planned this trip with her interests in mind. He was so different from Adam, she mused, and yet both were so appealing, so basically
good
. She and Adam had built a history together, while she and Connor had a history to get past. And she didn’t know if they could or if she even wanted to. What she did know was that her heart fluttered at the end of every day, when she heard his whistle as he stepped up onto the porch. She thrilled to his huffy whispers at the movies, reliving them for days, and weakened when, after dinner, he handed her a plate to dry and their fingers touched lightly.

Since the day on the mountain when Connor shocked her with his non-declaration declaration, it was as if he’d never said it at all. There was no awkwardness, because it was as if no new element had been injected into the mix. In fact, his behavior was so utterly unchanged that some days Archer wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. Was it just a giddy moment for him, brought on by the high altitude up there on—what did he call it? Mount Loh? Maybe he was embarrassed now and hoped it would never come up again. Then she scolded herself,
Oh, Loh, just enjoy the weekend, for God’s sake. Don’t analyze everything to death. Snap out of it!

Archer stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, and slowly dried off. Pulling on a clean white T-shirt and cotton bikini underpants, she lay down on the plush bed, imagining she was like any other person in the hotel, on a little getaway, taking a short nap before dinner.

She woke up an hour later, feeling refreshed, and began to dress for dinner. She had brought a black dress—from her past, of course—with sequins and a ruffle along the bottom that had a bit of a Carmen Miranda look. The front was just below knee length, with a back hem several inches longer, falling to just above her ankles. The dress dipped in a swoop to mid back; black stockings and black high heels completed the effect. The only jewelry she wore was a pearl and diamond ring set in platinum, which had been her mother’s, and small diamond earrings. She planned to wear her hair down, loose. Closing the drapes, she sat at the vanity mirror to finish getting ready.

* * *

Across the hall, Connor felt like a fool. He had rented a tuxedo, and it had just been delivered to his room. This was his chance. His only hope of changing the dynamic between him and Archer was to change the context—to stun her, but in a good way. Now was the time.

He stood in front of the mirror, eyeing himself in the Ralph Lauren black tuxedo and a black cummerbund. It fit his lean, athletic form as if it had been tailored for him alone. His starched white shirt and platinum cufflinks looked graceful, elegant. But what if Archer laughed at him, maybe even secretly pitied him, catching the scent of his desperation? Most women found him handsome, but not all did. Looking appraisingly at himself in the mirror, he decided he looked as good as he ever would.

This is as good as it gets, at least for me,
he reflected, giving his bow tie a final tug. And he left his room and knocked on Archer’s door.

* * *

Archer turned from the mirror. She had one earring on and was fumbling with the second one. “Just a minute!” she called out as she finished getting the little diamond stud through her right ear.

She looked at herself, satisfied, and turning away from the mirror, she walked to the door and opened it. And stared.

Was that Connor? It looked like him, but it didn’t. She had seen him only in jeans and a rough jacket, and thought he couldn’t possibly look better in anything else—they suited him. But in this tuxedo, with crisp shirt and hair freshly washed and combed, he looked amazing. Yes, “amazing” was the word. Amazingly good-looking. She swallowed hard and then smiled.

* * *

For his part, Connor was frozen. When he saw her, sparkling there in a black-sequined dress, eyes expectant and smiling, and dressed up for no other reason than that he had asked her to dinner—well, she could have worn anything. But she had chosen to adorn herself in such finery, knowing that she would be with him alone. Clearly, she had made an effort to look good. But she had overshot the mark—she was breathtaking.

“
Okay!” she said nervously, turning back to get her room key and then quickly drawing open the drapes to let in the lovely scene of Boston Common. “Let’s go!”

Closing the door behind her, she checked the handle to be sure it had latched, and then turned to Connor, who was waiting patiently for her, leaning casually against the corridor wall.

“
Hey, cowboy, stand up straight,” she said. “We’re not in the hills anymore.”

“
Thank you for doing this, Ellen.” he said awkwardly, unsure how to break the ice with this goddess standing before him.

“
McCall, that’s way too easy!” she hooted. “Don’t patronize me!
Dave,
in the White House, just before Dave, a.k.a. Kevin Kline, and Ellen, a.k.a. Sigourney Weaver, are going to appear on the balcony.”

“
Well done. Gold star,” said Connor, taking her elbow and guiding her down the hall to the elevator.

Arriving at the restaurant entrance, Connor stepped up to the maitre d’hotel.

“
McCall, two for eight, please.”

“
Very good, sir,” said the host, leading them to a table for two in a corner. There was a fresh pink carnation in a cut-glass vase, and a candle with a beaded shade.

The whole room was golden, with a sky blue ceiling and patches of red light thrown by the red-beaded lampshades on the tables. The chandeliers had a soft peach glow.

Arriving at the table, the host seated them, and Archer laid her black beaded purse on a corner of the table, smiled, and looked around. The host handed each of them a menu, thanked them, and backed away.

“
So, have you ever been here before?” Archer asked as she opened her menu. “I mean, being brought up in Boston and all.”

“
Not exactly. Where I grew up in South Boston, we were lucky to afford a dinner at the local pub once in a while. Forget this part of town—it may as well have been on the moon. And then at Harvard, I was on pretty much a full scholarship. My part-time job was as a waiter at the Crimson Joe’s, a little Irish pub, behind Harvard Square—that was for spending money. No Four Seasons for me. . . . Ever been to South Boston?”

“
No,” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t think so.”

“
You’d remember if you had. I laugh like crazy when I read about it now. It’s become gentrified and desirable. When I was growing up, it was mostly welfare cases, with real divisions between black and white, and serious crime and drug problems. My parents held their own and were proud that they owned their home, but they were the exception.”

“
Lots of changes in twenty years.”

The waiter came, and Connor ordered a nice bottle of pinot grigio.

“
You know,” he continued, “most of their friends had at least six children; some had eight or nine. They would always say to my mother, ‘Colleen, why just one?’ But Mom was this pretty, fragile daydreamer who got pregnant only once—at least that I know of. And that was that.

“
When she was growing up there, the least desirable area was the waterfront—overrun with rats and trash and the homeless. She would never believe the million-dollar condos there now. She’d just say, ‘Now, Connor, don’t toy with me,’ and shake her head, smiling coyly. She was something, that woman.”