The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER TWENTY

Friday started as a cold crisp morning, brilliant with sunlight on the snow. The novelty of Roman's injury had not worn off and he was helped solicitously onto the bus by classmates. The driver winked goodnatured reassurance at Mirelle before she trudged back to the house. She heard the phone as she reached the front walk and ran, slipping on the walk where ice had formed in the night. Never will understand why the phone has to be answered, she thought to herself. She slithered past the dining room table, arm outstretched to flip the instrument off the hook before the caller gave up.

"What took you so long?" Steve demanded.

"Loading Roman on the bus. Ice on the walk." She got the answer out in spurts.

"What did you say to Ralph?"

"Ralph?"

"Yes, Ralph Martin, my brother," Steve said acidly. "He tracked me down, hotel by hotel, until he found the right convention. Got me up at 12:30. Out of a sound sleep, I might add."

"He didn't ask me which hotel. He was upset." Mirelle resolved to keep her temper.

"I know that! I want to know what you said to him."

"He wanted to know what had upset his mother, because she was being hysterical, and then he tried to tell me that she isn't the hysterical type…" Despite her resolve, Mirelle felt her anger rising. "So I told him what happened when Roman got home, and then he said something about us treating the injury casually, and us forcing alcohol down Roman's throat."

"He said you called Mother hysterical and narrow-minded."

"Oh, Steve, do I have to defend myself to you, too? You were there! I'm not ashamed of giving Roman a shot of bourbon when he needed the stimulant. Nor are we an insensitive and alcoholic household. And I'm so proud that our son could get up and walk himself home…"

"That's it! Is that what you said to Ralph?"

"Steve, for God's sake…"

"Can't you imagine how that would make Ralph feel?"

"I don't care how Ralph feels. I know how I feel! Damned for doing the right thing at the right time in the right way! Do I have to use the same warped precepts your mother uses?"

"I didn't realize you hated my mother so." Steve's voice was low and bitter.

"I don't hate her, Steve," Mirelle said wearily. "I'm sorry for her, sorry that we're so different we can never be friends at all. But most of all, I'm sorry for us. Because every time she comes, she rips us wide open."

"I know, I know," Steve answered irritably but suddenly he wasn't fighting her anymore. "But damn it, Mirelle, you just don't tell your own mother that you don't want to see her again."

Mirelle stifled her surprise. Steve's remark had been more to himself than to her, but it clarified Ralph's attitude and his purpose in contacting Steve. She leaned a little weakly against the wall. She had won her long grim battle against the domineering Marian Martin. It gave her no sense of triumph, certainly no pride in having had to force the issue. And it would not be easy for Steve to live with his conscience, now that he had made his stand. Mirelle hoped that Dad Martin wouldn't become an enemy, as Ralph had. Surely the old man had seen and understood, even if he hadn't intervened.

"Mirelle? Are you still there?"

"Yes, Steve," she said, frantically wondering if there was anything she could say.

"How's Roman? What's this about his getting on the school bus?"

"Will Martin said he'd be kept quieter at school than if I tried to control him at home. He knows Roman."

"Yeah, he does. There's no danger of him slipping down those bus steps? The risers are steep."

"The driver said he'd carry him off to be sure."

"Okay. Look, Mirelle, I have to stop off in Cleveland on my way back. Don't expect me before Tuesday."

"We'll miss you, Steve."

"I've got to go."

The line went dead. Mirelle realized humorlessly that she had spent a lot of time lately, staring at silent phones. She started to hang it up and then, in an unexpected decision, left it off the hook.

"I shall have my coffee and read the paper in unbroken quiet."

She resolutely put all thought of the last phone call out of her mind and read with great concentration. Five minutes later, she couldn't recall a single sentence. She read the comics, the medical column, closed her eyes to the horoscope section, and went down the notices and the services columns in the classifieds. She had so firmly put the conversation out of her mind that it wasn't until she took the dress she planned to wear to the concert out of its plastic bag that she remembered she hadn't rehung the phone.

Suppose the school had been trying to reach her because Roman had slipped or hurt himself? She cradled the phone and calmed her fears. They'd have called a neighbor or Will Martin, she chided herself. She really shouldn't go to the concert, she thought wearily. No matter what Roman says about being able to manage the kids. Steve's out of town and I just shouldn't go. Well, really, why not? When have you been to a concert recently? You used to go often with Steve: you both enjoyed it. Until … say it … until Allentown and Mother Martin's diabolical finger poked fun at her concert-going son. I will not think such thoughts! There is no harm in going to a concert with a friend. A chaperone!

Thinking of whom, Mirelle dialed Sylvia's number, letting it ring and ring until she remembered that Sylvia had said that she had to be in Philly during the day. It was already 11:30. Sylvia would have left. So, Mirelle would have to go to the concert. She had the tickets and Sylvia would be waiting for her. In that case, she'd better take the train up to Philly. Sylvia always drove. Mirelle had also better taxi to the station. Oh, dear, is it worth all the trouble?

She held the black dress up to her, appraising her reflection in the mirror. The smell of the satin, the feel of it in her hands, the lingering scent of the perfume she usually wore clung to the gown, all evoking other festive occasions and exciting evenings. Yes, she needed the therapy of the concert badly. She needed to lose herself in music, in the passive participation of listening.

Mirelle whirled away from the mirror and hung the gown on her closet door. She went down to the kitchen to make brownies for dessert, iced brownies. She must remember to check if she had enough Coke for Roman to use as reward or threat.

I'm just unused to sheer dress fabrics, Mirelle told herself as she tried to wrap her coat more firmly around her and shut out the chill wind. If I make my muscles relax, they won't shiver. She forced her shoulders down and took a deep breath.

Another breeze found a minute opening and streaked up her backbone. She hopped around the corner, peering anxiously up and down the street for Sylvia. It was twenty past eight.

The nagging suspicion that somehow or other Sylvia was not going to join her grew stronger. But Sylvia had said she'd come, Mirelle insisted to herself, firmly, loyally. At twenty-five past the hour, Mirelle gave up all pretense and marched to the box office.

"My name is Martin. Was there any message left for me?"

She received a frown from the pear-shaped man in the box office as he peered at her over his glasses, pursing his lips in disapproval. He glanced over his shoulder at the plump man checking figures on an adding machine. "Any calls for a Mrs. Martin?"

"Martin? Martin? Yeah, a Mrs. Eshazy called. She ain't coming." The plump party returned to his column of figures.

Mirelle was given a quelling stare. "No refunds, lady." She turned quickly away to cover her disappointment. Hurriedly she fumbled for the tickets in her evening purse. Took one and handed it to the bored doorman. She went through the routine of being passed from usher to usher, and down the aisle to her row, nervously stepping over feet and muttering apologies until she reached her seat and could settle herself, and hopefully her emotions. What could have happened to Sylvia? And how was she to get home now? Why had Sylvia let her down? And why was the non-appearance so distressing?

The house lights dimmed and Jamie appeared, holding back one section of the curtains to allow the soloist to make an entrance. Then he followed her to stage center. Mirelle swallowed nervously and slid down a little in her seat. She righted herself, annoyed by seeing him so professionally aloof, so sure of himself. He was suddenly in a perspective that alienated him from her previous knowledge of him. He was a stranger in the complex and glamorous world of the performing artist: no longer the amusing stranger, the sick acquaintance, or Margaret's garrulous father.

The applause which had greeted the soprano's entrance died down as she gracefully acknowledged it and took her place in the curve of the grand piano. The concert spot narrowed, framing her in an island of light which spilled over onto Jamie's head and shoulders. Mirelle caught her breath as she fancied that Jamie looked for her, directly at her in the audience. To be sure, he must know her relative position from the numbers of the tickets he had given her, but that he wanted to make sure she had used them gave her a deep and unexpected satisfaction. He had seated himself now, and Mirelle realized that he had brought no music with him. Her respect for him, professionally, rose higher.

The audience quieted: the hall was completely dark. The soprano, her full figure elegantly gowned in rich garnet red, nodded to her accompanist and the chords of the first song filled the darkness.

Wide-eyed with shock, Mirelle gripped the arms of her seat. The notes of the Handel aria were so sweetly familiar: with this beautiful song Mary LeBoyne had opened the last concert which Mirelle heard her mother sing. Madame Nealy's voice compounded the anguish by having much the same timbre. Mirelle closed her eyes. She could see so clearly her mother's figure, standing on the makeshift stage in that awful little auditorium. The air had been cloying with the smell of the burnt, the burning, and antiseptic. The previous night's bombing had been heavy in the area and the stink of it was everywhere. Mirelle, about to be sent off to America for the duration, had accompanied her mother as a special treat. Self-conscious in her school gabardine, desperately shy, she had sat at the back of a hall filled with convalescent servicemen. She had been convinced, even then, that this was the last time she'd hear her mother sing.

The Mirelle of 1940 knew exactly why she was being sent to America: she was becoming too much of an embarrassment to Edward Barthan-More. And that afternoon, Mary Margaret LeBoyne had told Mirelle the circumstances of her birth, in a halting, embarrassed voice, flushing with the memory of humiliations at the hands of her vindictive husband. Half weeping, Mary Margaret had begged her daughter's forgiveness for the ignominies and slights which the child had suffered at her stepfather's hands. She apologized for being so selfish as to keep Mirelle by her when the girl might have had a happier childhood in some foster home where her irregular birth was no stigma to social acceptance. Embarrassed by her mother's anguish, Mirelle had fought the intense relief she had felt at knowing that she really wasn't the daughter of the cold autocratic vicious man whom she had come to hate for the many petty acts he was fond of committing against anyone subordinate to, or dependent on him. She had suffered agonies of mind because she was 'supposed to love her father' and couldn't. And she had hated him most because of the way he had treated her mother. To go to America to live with her mother's best friend, Mary Murphy, was no exile to Mirelle. It was paradise. And she knew, in her sudden maturity, that Edward Barthan-More would never give his wife permission to go to America once the war was over, to see her daughter. Her mother knew it, too, from the way she had clung to Mirelle that afternoon.

Mirelle was suddenly startled out of her reverie by the applause for Madame Nealy.

Somewhat bitterly, Mirelle wondered if there was any way Jamie could have known how much the woman sounded like Mary LeBoyne. But how could he? There were only a few recordings of her mother's voice, and they were on ancient 78 rpm discs. Jamie's contained face, dramatically highlighted in the spill of the spotlight, was intent on the soprano for her cue to begin the next song. Jamie wouldn't be so deliberately cruel, Mirelle told herself. She sat up in the seat, determined to put aside these painful memories and really listen to the performance.

Fortunately, the Gluck aria which was next held no painful connotations for Mirelle. She could appreciate the delicate balance between singer and accompanist, and she found herself unaccountably jealous of the hours of rehearsal necessary to achieve such rapport. Madame Nealy was an undeniably handsome woman but Mirelle could not picture Jamie as her lover. Now why on earth would I think about that, Mirelle wondered, as if it made any difference to me at all whom James Howell had affairs with. Listen! Mirelle, you're here to listen!

There was a brief intermission before the lieder section. Mirelle waited patiently, determined to hold her mind to the concert without further ruminations. Her knowledge and appreciation of lieder was good. She'd learned German as a small girl because her mother had been well received as a lieder singer in Germany. Mirelle's happiest childhood memories were the four tours on which she had accompanied her mother when Mary Margaret had been singing all over the Third Reich. That had been before Mary Margaret had become aware of the military build-up and the penetration of Das Kultur in all areas of German life.

It was impossible to stem the flow of memories: dust motes dancing on the beams of sunlight flooding a music room, her mother's patient repetition of "Die Ring an Meinem Finger", beyond the windows so bright from the attentions of the parlor maid that morning, the glittering sweep of the Neckar River.

Surrendering for the first time to the pull of associations, Mirelle leapt from one reminiscence to another: all of them centering around her mother and those four tours, though Mirelle hadn't been more than six on the first one. She remembered the starchy feel of her linen 'good' dress, the way her shoes had pinched her toes because Nanny would not tell Mother that the shoes were outgrown: the scent of her mother's cologne, the yeasty smell of buttered rolls, and the taste of well-milked coffee, a special treat in the mornings when she and her mother had breakfasted together in bed.

And never once, not even in that last painful interview, had her mother ever mentioned Lajos Neagu.

Once freed of her guilty hatred for the man she'd considered to be her father, Mirelle had nothing but contempt for Edward Barthan-More. Her hatred she had transferred to the father who had ignored her existence, and left her mother to endure the vindictive intolerance of her stepfather.

Tonight in the darkened auditorium, familiar lieder melodies and words reinforcing associative memories, Mirelle could begin to appreciate her mother's silence; her father's apparent neglect. The long-held hatred dissipated and the bitter regret was absolved. Mirelle was limp with emotional strain by intermission and stumbled over feet with inordinate haste for the refuge of the sidewalk, chilly or not, and fresh air.

She could be relieved now that Sylvia had reneged. There would have been bright remarks and curious questions. Or perhaps, Mirelle pondered, she would not have switched to that train of thought in Sylvia's company. But where was Sylvia? The notion that Sylvia had arranged their meeting at the concert for someone else's benefit… as an alibi… reasserted itself. But surely if Sylvia had had no intention of keeping the appointment, why hadn't she had the decency to phone and warn Mirelle? It was only fair. Then Mirelle remembered leaving the phone off the hook all morning. She was partly to blame for her present situation, and she grimaced. The theatre lights blinked a warning.

Before the concert resumed, Mirelle had time to look at her program. Madame Nealy might have taken the selections from one of Mary LeBoyne's concerts. Even the arias had been in her mother's repertoire, and they were not the usual sopranic standbys, except "Pace! Pace!", the lovely old war-horse from Forza del Destino!

Peace, peace, Mirelle muttered under her breath. She could do with some of that, but if she immured herself in a hermit's cell, would she get as much done as she did now?

The lovely paean, "Il est doux" from Herodiade was next and, as the melody lifted, Mirelle found her eyes returning to Jamie. 'He is gentle, he is kind,' the aria said and Mirelle applied the adjectives to Jamie and found them suitable. 'I was suffering and alone, and my heart was calmed when I heard his voice. Oh, Prophet, so beloved, can I live without thee!'

That's enough of that, Mirelle told herself sternly. This concert is an unqualified disaster. I should have stayed home with the children, where I belong.

Nonsense, said the sane observer in her mind. Tragedy is the catharsis of the soul. You've been denying your past and until you face up to it, it will distort the future.

She had tried to submerge her background, wanting to eradicate anything that she owed to Barthan-More, and those English years, in her allegiance to her new country, and her love for Mary Murphy. And then, when her father's totally unexpected bequest had alienated the Martins, she had doubled her energies to camouflage her identity, to deny her parentage, and the talents that were her genetic legacy. But moulding herself on the pattern which she thought would please the Martins had not been successful. She'd become a shadow of a woman, and a shadow wife to Steve. Had she chosen Steve as a.husband because he represented all she felt she'd missed? A happy home-coming father and a loving husband? Candidly Mirelle doubted that: hoped she had reason to doubt it or the last fifteen years had been a complete lie and she was crippling her children as subtly as she had been crippled in her childhood in the Barthan-More nursery.

Lucy, hand to her wayward hair, feet flying in an effort to stay in the same place, Lucy of the statue was superimposed on the other distressing images. Lucy who didn't apologize for her poetry or her housekeeping or her mistakes but kept on running, somewhere, anywhere so long as it was ahead. Lucy who had tried to pry open Mirelle's clamshell, mend the hurt and encourage her talent.

And Mirelle thought of Sylvia, bitter because she didn't have Mirelle's ability to sculpt. Sculpting, Mirelle thought sardonically, was a ready-made out, for sculpture is never very popular so that if she had filled a studio with her industry, she wouldn't sell very much anyhow. Only she sold as many of the creche figures and the Dirty Dicks as she could produce.

The applause snapped her out of those reflections and she found herself clapping violently just as her neighbors ceased. She slid down in her seat, so intensely embarrassed that she was separated completely from reflections.

Fortunately the final portion of the program was made up of totally unfamiliar contemporary American art songs, devoid of any connotations with the past.

Madame Nealy was called back for two encores during which Mirelle gathered her shattered composure. Jamie, respectfully bowing the soprano through the curtains, looked directly at her as the houselights came on. A jerk of his head indicated that she should come backstage.

Rebelliously she waited as the audience cleared from the hall. She did not want Jamie's company. He was too perceptive. She dreaded his sly probes. But there wasn't a train until 3:00 a.m. Damn Sylvia! She was forced to go backstage and beg a ride from James Howell.

A bored usherette gave her directions and she found the green room crowded with elegantly dressed well-wishers. She hung on the fringe, knowing that she would simply have to wait, nervously wishing herself anywhere but in a crowd in her present state of mind.

She was pushed forward by a gaggle of newcomers and inadvertently found herself in line to congratulate Madame Nealy. She did so, trying not to sound perfunctory, when Jamie intervened.

"This is Mary LeBoyne's daughter, Mirelle Martin, Madame," Jamie said with cheerful helpfulness.

Madame Nealy was more commanding on stage than off, Mirelle thought. And right now the woman looked exhausted.

"That was a demanding program," Mirelle said, smiling, "but you made it sound so effortless, so buoyant."

"It's far easier to sing for an appreciative audience," the soprano replied kindly. "I had the pleasure of hearing your mother sing at the Albert Hall before the war. Such a lovely voice. Such a beautiful artist and a very gracious woman."

"I take after my father," Mirelle said, laughingly in answer to the question in Madame's eyes, and moved on to be grabbed by Jamie.

"No chaperone?"

"Sylvia didn't come. I don't know what happened."

"Need a ride home?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

He looked at her a moment, his expression grave. "My pleasure," he said automatically. "Go sit down in a corner. You look as if you'd sung every note in the program."

"I feel as if I had."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Mirelle regretted them. Just the sort of thing that Jamie would pick up on the drive home. When only a few people remained, Madame Nealy came up to Mirelle and invited her to join them at supper.

"Madame," Jamie said as Mirelle was fumbling for a plausible excuse, "I rose from a sickbed to play and my doctor told me that I had to return to it immediately."

Madame looked from Mirelle to Jamie, eyebrows slightly raised.

" 'S'truth," Jamie swore, raising his right hand. He did, indeed, look tired.

"Yes, we're none of us as young as we once were, able to party into the early hours," she said with a smile. "I can't thank you enough anyhow, Jim, for tonight." She turned to Mirelle. "I always feel that I can just forget about everything but interpreting my music when Jim plays for me. He anticipates every retard, every nuance."

She kissed him warmly on both cheeks and then turned back to her guests. Quickly Jamie motioned to Mirelle. He gathered up his topcoat and hat, and headed her towards the door before anyone could stop them with further importunities.

"That's over," he sighed as they stepped into the cold night.

Mirelle couldn't agree more. His hand gripped her arm, guiding her towards his car. She could feel herself violently shivering as the wind whipped about them. Jamie unlocked his car, threw in his briefcase and settled her. He said nothing as he deftly maneuvered the big Thunderbird down the narrow streets, swinging at last onto the Schuylkill Expressway.

"There's a dirty dive a ways from here with the best steaks in town. I'm always ravenous after a concert," he said genially, "and I can't abide little snacks and champagne cup. I want meat, red meat."

"Do waitresses drip blood on you as they serve?" she asked brightly.

"You're lucky if that's all they drip when they serve." Mirelle searched desperately for some way to continue the light conversation, anything to cover her growing unease. The tension in the car was palpable and yet she couldn't think of a way to tell Jamie what had upset her. She glanced nervously at him, but he was watching the road, both hands on the steering wheel. At first she thought it was a trick of the overhead lights, but then she realized that his hands were trembling.

"Playing a concert is exhausting," he said, noticing her intake of breath.

"You shouldn't have played such a demanding concert so soon after the pneumonia," she said, semi-scolding.

"Oh, then you did find my playing adequate?"

"Adequate?" She echoed the adjective in dismay. "You play magnificently."

"It's nice to hear you say so."

She caught her breath sharply at the unexpected cut, and found that she had to bite her lip to keep back the tears. But he was justified. She'd been exhibiting an appalling self-centeredness. But she didn't know how to redeem herself in his eyes.

Then Howell brought the car to a sudden stop. Mirelle saw that they had pulled off the Expressway onto a suburban street. He flicked off the lights, turned round to her purposefully.

"All right, what's the matter?"

"Matter?" The word came out as a blubber.

"Yes, matter. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want you to see me at my professional best, but I certainly didn't expect to be received by a dull thud. The least you could do was be courteous."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that…" And she buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Mirelle! Mirelle darling." She felt herself pulled into his arms. His hands, warm and no longer trembling, were gentle and comforting. He held her close to him, her face on the soft camel-hair of his overcoat.

"The concert was like a nightmare for me, Jamie. It was Mother. Every song was one she'd sung… it was like old ghosts rising up to haunt me. I remembered hundreds of details about her that I hadn't thought of in years. And you played so beautifully. It wasn't your fault. I've just been upset all this week and everything had added to it. It wasn't Madame's fault that she has the same timbre in her voice as Mother. It wasn't yours. It's just me. I'm being self-centered and childish. And unmannerly and you wanted to give me a nice treat. And now I've spoiled the evening for you as well."

She looked up, trying to stop crying. He mopped the tears from her face with his handkerchief, his expression tender and concerned. Abruptly, she stopped crying. For the first time, the inner James Howell was visible to her. As she looked, their eyes met and he began to smile. Holding her face with his free hand, he lowered his head to kiss her, very slowly, very carefully, very thoroughly. Nor could she have gathered the strength of will to resist. His kiss, so expert, so loverly, was an anodyne to her torn emotions: like a benediction, she thought, and the music of the Herodiade aria sang through her.

"Il est doux, il est bon" she whispered as he raised his head.

He let out a burst of laughter, hugging her tightly to him in surprise.

"I am no prophet," he crowed, looking down at her with a broad grin which faded as quickly as it came. "And I'm no saint," he added almost angrily.

This time he kissed her with no tenderness at all, his lips hard and bruising as his caresses awakened a passionate response which she was unable to control. He released her abruptly, almost flinging her to the other side of the front seat. Wrenching himself around, he gripped the wheel with both hands.

"Have you a little idea of how you affect me, Mirelle?" he asked hoarsely.

She sat, unable to speak, as he started the car and spun it onto the road. He drove with skillful speed, as silent as she, and Mirelle struggled to assess the impact of his declaration. She paid no attention to the twists and turns of the road; instead she watched his hands on the wheel, the hands which had fascinated her for so long. Again she felt their strong grip on her ribs, her arms, her neck, like invisible burns. It had actually not occurred to her that more than friendship existed between them. She was certain that she had never encouraged anything more. How amazing that he had developed a tendresse for her. None of this shattering evening would have happened, she thought bitterly, if Sylvia had been along. Damn Sylvia! She had needed a chaperone. Oh, God, how she needed one!

Jamie braked, flicked off the lights and pocketed the key in one swift movement before Mirelle realized that they were in a garage. His garage.

"I want you, Mirelle. Christ, how I want you," he said softly, roughly, leaning towards her, his face a fierce shadow. His body pressed hers into the seat leather, his hands quick and expert, his lips searching and finding her sensitive places. He guided her out of the car and into the cold dark house. Thoroughly aroused by his seeking hands, she found herself undressing in his room as, somewhere in the dark, he cursed the folderol of dress clothes. Then his warm smooth skin was against hers and they were beside each other in the bed.

"What say you, my silence?" he asked in a whisper at her ear, his long body heavy against her as his restless expert fingers excited her.

"I need you, Jamie. Just now I need you very much."

"Thank God!"

Afterwards, lying in a lovely lassitude, Mirelle could not be sure if Jamie slept. Turning her head cautiously, she saw that, on the contrary, he was watching her intently. He lay on his side, barely touching her body, one hand propping up his head. As she turned, he tucked the blanket close about her, then let his hand rest lightly on her belly.

"The piano's not the only thing you play well," she said.

He chuckled softly, pulling her against him. She thought he sounded relieved, and, in the candid expansiveness of loving's aftermath, she asked him if he was.

"Yes, Mirelle, I am." He kissed her softly.

"Why?"

He looked down at her steadily. Her eyes were used to the darkness now and she met his gaze.

"I've taken a rascally advantage of your distress, my dear…"

"No, Jamie. I needed loving… your kind of loving… desperately."

He cocked his head slightly, his expression quizzical as he waited for her to continue. She ran her forefinger down the line of his face. He caught her hand and bit the finger. "No, Mirelle, no sculptor's pensive tracing now, please. This is between James Howell, man, and Mirelle LeBoyne, woman."

"Yes, that's who it's between, isn't it?"

He buried his face in her neck, kissing the line of her throat and she knew she had said the right thing, at last, in Jamie's presence. And she also knew why she'd phrased her answer that way.

So she pressed against him, inching her body closer to his, felt his legs overlap hers, his hips angling against her. He was strong, so strong and so the restraint with which he used her was all the more surprising. The difference between his and Steve's lovemaking was incredible yet she followed his lead as if they'd been lovers for a long time. Their bodies seemed to match, to fit, and he knew exactly how to draw out the tension before their climax to the precise and critical point of complete release. This second time she was unable to resist the need for sleep.

She woke, though, startled and immediately aware of the unfamiliar surroundings. The illuminated dial on his bureau alarm read 3:10. She ought to be getting home but the thought of moving from his arms - his head pillowed against her shoulder - was unbearable. She could indulge herself this once. The children would all be safely asleep. No one need know where she was or how long she'd been gone. Even the late late train from Philadelphia didn't get in to Wilmington until close to 4:00.

She counted carefully. Nor would she get pregnant as a result. The reassurance amused her and the giggle got as far as her chest, which was far enough to rouse Jamie.

"And what amuses you, my love?" he asked, as flippant as ever.

"I won't get pregnant."

"That's a good girl. Oh, you mean, unlike your mother?" He propped his head up, unwillingly, she thought, for he kept the other arm draped over her, his hand on her breast.

"Mother did not have the advantages of modern science."

"She was quite a woman for all of that."

"Yes, indeed she was."

He gave her a long hard look. "You've forgiven her?"

"I guess I have, though I didn't know that I had to."

He stroked her face, his fingers idly dropping to her throat, her breast again. "And?"

She caught his hand, held it against her breast, feeling his fingers cupping the soft flesh, gently, possessively.

"Right now, I could even forgive my mother-in-law for her transgressions."

He laughed aloud, a vastly amused whoop of a laugh and rocked her into his arms, until her body was athwart his, her forehead pressing against his neck, his hands playing with her hair and caressing her back.

He was a marvelous lover, she thought, aware that love-making need not stop with the climax but could be, as Jamie proved, deliciously prolonged to ease the return to separate awareness. She did not want to leave this bed, disturb this mood…

"I've got to get you home, Mirelle," Jamie murmured with a groan of regret, and then began to kiss her face avidly. "But, God, how I hate to let you go."

"I hate to leave."

He held her from him a little so that he could see her face.

"Do you?"

She caught her breath, half afraid of what he might say next. "Yes, I do." She had to be honest with Jamie. "But I also have to go."

"I know you do, my silence." He was gentle again. No, not gentle, responsive. He understood what she meant. "Promise me one thing, Mirelle?"

"What?"

He grinned because she'd jerked her chin up defensively. He kissed her there. "Don't regret this evening. No, be quiet." His arm tightened to reinforce his order. "I damn well took deliberate advantage of your emotional state, but I've been trying to get you into my bed for some time. I'm not sorry I have. However, in the cold clear light of tomorrow, back in lower Suburbia, you may view the romantic nonsense of being swept into my bed as tawdry. I don't want that, Mirelle, not for you, and not for the way I feel about you. Lie still! You're a decent woman, Mirelle. You did nothing to lead me on so don't have that on your conscience tomorrow. And you're honest. At least you have been tonight in my arms. Don't turn plastic tomorrow. Or ever."

Mirelle ran her free hand up into his hair to pull his head down so she could kiss him deeply. "Thank you, Jamie." She couldn't find any other words but he held her tightly, so perhaps what she couldn't say was expressed properly.

Then, as if only a violent movement would suffice, Jamie threw back the covers and rose from the bed, his long frame silhouetted briefly in the moonlight. She rose, too, shivering in the chilly room, and they dressed in an easy silence.