by Susan Napier
Honor fanned through the other pictures and was surprised to see they were mostly of the same woman involved in various outdoor activities that showed off a pear-shaped figure that might have been considered the feminine ideal—three hundred years ago. Honor sympathised with the picture of the woman in a swimsuit, although she didn’t appear to be self-conscious, laughing with the small child frolicking in the water beside her, a chubby child with straggly blonde hair and big eyes that...
Honor looked harder. She looked from the child to the woman. She scrabbled among the photographs until she burnt her fingers on one in which the woman, pregnant this time, had a male escort, a big, husky man who towered over her as he held her in the crook of his long arm...
The tingling flame shot up Honor’s arms and coagulated in her chest, burning even more fiercely as she slowly turned the photograph over. There, written in age-faded blue ink in a hand she knew as well as her own, was scrawl:
Mary and I at the Hannigans’ Harvest Dance. Mary’s varicose veins wouldn’t let her cut up wild on the floor as usual!
Honor raised her hands to her mouth and pressed them there, closing her eyes briefly.
Mary. Helen of Troy. Two women as dissimilar as it was possible for them to be.
No wonder Adam had said it was a joke between them. Mary was painfully plain. But loved—very much loved...and very loving. It shone out of her eyes and her face; even in the unsmiling shots she looked happy, the supreme contentment of a woman who knew she was cherished above all others. It showed in the photographs and it showed in the brief commentaries written on the back, some addressed by name to Joy, others just a hasty notation to freeze a marvellous moment in time.
When Honor picked up the last photograph, a wedding shot of Adam with shoulder-length blonde hair slicked back and a carnation pinned to the lapel of his sports jacket and Mary wearing a white shift and clutching a small yellow posy, she was blinking away tears for the umpteenth time that day, and nearly missed the small buff envelope that had slipped under the edge of the blotter.
‘Honor Leigh Sheldon’.
He was taking no chances.
It was unsealed.
‘Honor, My Only Love’...
It was a love-letter. Intended for her, delivered to her. Hers alone...
‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...’
There were twenty-seven.
Twenty-seven reasons why he loved her, and they were all his own! Not Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s, nor Donne’s nor Dryden’s nor Shakespeare’s, but Adam Blake’s...stark and exquisitely unadorned, simple yet passionately sincere.
I have never felt as alone as I did when Mary died, as wounded and sick with grief and pain...until today. I knew I loved you but until today I don’t think I really knew how much...
I need you, Honor, much more than you can imagine—not for Sara, not for your glorious generosity in bed, not for your laughter, your wisdom and your wit—although all those things are certainly part of my love—but out of pure selfishness, for me...
I can’t let you go, not even for a day, without telling you that. I never loved you with my eyes, but with my heart and mind. If you believe nothing else, believe that. I want to love you, live with you, marry you, have children with you. I want to be that sensuous phantom lover of your creation but also the flesh-and-blood man who can turn your dreams into reality... Last night I promised you sweet and slow but I was too greedy to set the physical seal on our relationship. I lost control and I didn’t keep that promise...that’s why I was angry that it was your first time. I was afraid you were disappointed with me, as you were entitled to be. In truth the knowledge I was your first lover is something that I will treasure for the rest of my life...
She read it avidly, over and over again, her tears flowing as hot and as healing as the beautiful words.
This time there was no doorbell to warn her, only a faint rattle at the French doors.
Honor looked up and was instantly transported back in time. Adam, dressed in black jeans and sweater, stood outside looking in through the square panes, but instead of darkness shrouding him in mystery cruel sunshine etched the drawn lines of his face, revealing the aching uncertainty that he had set out so clearly and honestly in the letter that trembled in her hand.
The other major difference from the last time Adam had stood out there was resting stiffly in his arms, glaring balefully at Honor.
Her hands were trembling so much that it took three tries to unlock the French doors, by which time Monty’s tail was beginning to twitch angrily against the rough black denim of Adam’s jeans.
Adam looked at the letter crushed in her hand, and a faint rash of red appeared on his cheekbones. He cleared his throat. ‘I thought if you could love an arrogant, bad-tempered, selfish, ill-mannered character like Monty enough to share your life with him you might find it in your heart also to share it with me. Although I don’t think I’m quite as bad as he is; at least I won’t bring dead rats into the house...’
‘Oh, Adam...’ Honor smiled through her tears, recognising his humour for the defence mechanism it was.
‘You’re crying, I’m— Ouch, you horrible beast! Damn it, I had this touching love scene all rehearsed—ouch—hold this monster for a moment, will you, while I get his claws out of my sweater...?’
They disentangled the cat but in the process somehow managed deliciously to entangle themselves. As Monty leapt to the floor Adam held her close and buried his face in her hair.
‘Oh, God, you’re not going to make me wait for your answer, are you? You read my letter— Was it...? Did you like it? I was so afraid I rushed it, but I needed to say everything I’d foolishly left unsaid—’
She lifted her head and stroked the roughness of his chin before stopping his nervous mouth with her fingers. He hadn’t even stopped to shave before he had sat down with pen and paper and poured his life into her hands, she thought wonderingly. Then he had driven over to brave her rejection. ‘It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. I love you, Adam. I always have. It was my own insecurities that made me doubt I could mean as much to you. I was afraid to ask for what I really wanted.’
‘Always?’ His voice deepened huskily. ‘Even last night?’
She looked at him with warm eyes that deepened his flush. ‘Especially last night. You were a wonderful lover, Adam.’
‘Even this morning, when I was so inept—?’
‘Adam, you’re not going to spend the rest of our lives asking me to account for every single moment of my love, are you?’ she chided him on a lilt of joyous laughter.
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly, and kissed her until she stopped laughing. ‘I love to hear you say it. I’ll never tire of it. I’ll write you a love-letter every day of my life if that’s what it takes to make you feel secure. And we won’t only tell each other, we’ll show each other daily, too, starting right now!’
They sank to the floor, the love-letter crushed beneath them as they communicated in a language more rich and varied than words.
Under the couch a bare metre away a fat, furry figure stopped licking its paws and started eyeing with malicious interest the shifting movements on the sunlit carpet. Slowly the massive head lowered and the solid hindquarters began to bunch and lift and the claws to flex in evil feline anticipation...
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8431-9
Phantom Lover
Copyright © 1994 by Susan Napier
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