A Kiss Remembered

by Sandra Brown

  “Your skin is glowing all over,” he said awhile later. He had caught up with her in her bathroom after arranging his books in a bookcase they had set up for that purpose earlier in the week. She had rinsed her face and artfully applied her makeup. Now she was unwinding her hair from the curlers.

  Catching sight of him in the mirror, she saw that he wasn’t looking at her face, but at the bare skin of her thighs. The heated yearning in his eyes burned into her, fanning the coals of her own desire. “Maybe you should go in the other room and wait for my parents and your brother to arrive.”

  “I probably should,” he agreed without conviction, watching each motion of the hairbrush as she dragged it through the thick strands of dark hair. He wasn’t incognizant of the sway of her breasts under the nightshirt each time she moved her raised arms. “On the other hand, they’re not due to arrive until noon. We have awhile.”

  She tore her eyes from his. It had been a week since they’d allowed themselves to make love, and if his hunger came anywhere near matching hers, it was gnawing at him like a ravenous monster. “You look nice,” she said lamely, lightly misting control on her hair with a pump spray bottle.

  His dark suit, light blue shirt and conservative tie looked incongruously formal in the intimate atmosphere of the bathroom. “Thank you,” he said absently. He was studying her throat, counting each pulse that beat in the seductive hollow at its base. “So do you.”

  “I … I’m not dressed yet,” she said breathlessly, turning around to face him.

  “That’s what I mean.” His voice was rough with arousal. The pupils of his eyes were dilated so that they almost filled the irises. She saw herself mirrored in them, saw her arms lifting to encircle his neck.

  “It’s getting late. I ought to dress.”

  His arms went around her and he buried his face in the side of her neck. “Yes. By all means go dress. Don’t let me keep you from doing something you ought to do.”

  All the while he was talking, his hands were lifting the hem of the nightshirt. First his fingers, then the palms of his hands glided under the waistband of her panties to cup her hips and draw her against his hardness.

  Feverishly her mouth sought his and fused with it. As he pressed she rotated her hips over him, begging him to put an end to the craving that threatened to destroy her.

  He lifted her and carried her to the bedroom, setting her down beside the bed. She wrestled with the buckle of his slender lizard belt until it came free, then unzipped his trousers. With trembling hands, she rid herself of the wispy swath of sheer nylon that had done little to deter his caress.

  He loosened the knot of his tie and whipped it over his head after dropping his suit coat unceremoniously onto the floor. He stepped out of his pants, eased off his shoes and peeled off his socks, his eyes never leaving her as she lay back on the carpet and unbuttoned the nightshirt. He had only managed to undo half the buttons on his shirt when he collapsed to his knees.

  Draping her thighs over his, he worshiped her first with his eyes, then with his touch, then with his lips. All the love he felt for her was made manifest in the sweet supplication of his mouth.

  Endearments poured from two sets of lips in harmony, like a rehearsed chant. He knew the moment she could take no more and covered her with his hard chest, burying himself in her receptive body. Each thrust was a love song composed by his body for hers. His passion exploded at the moment she hurtled over the edge of the universe and their cries spiraled above them in a crescendo.

  Replete, he slid down her length to rest his head on her breasts. Cradling it, she traced with adoring fingertips the planes of his face.

  He raised himself enough to kiss her breast, gently sucking her nipple in a tribute to all that made her a woman. Then he looked up at her. The same lassitude he felt within himself was reflected in her slumbrous eyes, shining with love’s completion.

  His fingertip outlined the pouting fullness of her lower lip and touched her dimples. “I don’t know what to expect of the wedding,” he whispered. “But the honeymoon is going to be terrific.”

  Shelley clipped on her pearl earrings as she hastened down the hall into the living room. Grant was already there greeting her parents. He shook hands with her father and spoke politely to her mother.

  He had been retying his necktie when the doorbell chimed. He’d met her eyes in the mirror, which he was using over her shoulder. “One more kiss and we’d never have made it,” he said teasingly. As he drew on his coat he kissed her fleetingly on the cheek. “You’ve got a smudge of mascara just beneath your left eye.”

  “And you’ve got a piece of carpet lint on your right lapel,” she called to him in a stage whisper. He dusted it off as he raced across the bedroom.

  She’d repaired the smudge, smoothed her hair, checked to see that she hadn’t forgotten an essential garment in her haste, and then rushed to join them.

  There was a flurry of activity and conversation as Shelley was embraced lovingly by both parents, complimented on her oyster silk suit with its teal blouse and presented with an armload of presents sent by home-town folks.

  “Bill, that’s my brother, is obviously running late,” Grant said. “He and his wife are driving in from Tulsa.”

  Shelley was grateful for her parents’ ready acceptance of her husband-to-be and the instant rapport among the three of them. “Would you like coffee?” she offered.

  “Sounds good after that drive,” her father said.

  The doorbell and the telephone rang at the same time.

  “I’ll get the telephone and the coffee,” Grant said. “You get the door. It’s probably Bill, so introduce yourself.” He hugged Shelley briefly, then rushed toward the kitchen.

  When Shelley swung the door wide, her welcoming smile changed to an inquiring one. “Yes?” she asked the uniformed man standing on the covered porch.

  “Is Mr. Grant Chapman here?”

  “Yes. You are—”

  “Sheriff’s Deputy Carter, ma’am. May I see Mr. Chapman please?”

  “That was Bill,” Grant said, returning to the living room. “They’re running late … What’s this?”

  “Mr. Chapman?” the deputy asked.

  “Yes.”

  He placed a subpoena in Grant’s hand. “What is this?” Grant repeated.

  “A subpoena. You’re to appear in civil court at ten o’clock Friday morning. There’s been a suit filed against you.”

  “Court … suit?” Grant stammered. “What kind of suit?”

  The deputy’s eyes darted around the room. He took in the pretty young woman, the man looking every bit a bridegroom in his dark suit. There was a wedding present wrapped in paper sitting on the coffee table beside a florist’s box with an orchid corsage inside its cellophane top.

  He couldn’t quite meet Grant’s eyes when he said with a mixture of embarrassment and pity, “A paternity suit.”

  CHAPTER 10

  P-paternity suit!” Grant sputtered on a short laugh. “Is this a joke? Say, did the guys from the racketball club put you up to this?” He turned around to Shelley, smiling widely. “Those guys are—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chapman,” Deputy Carter interrupted. “This is no joke.”

  Grant studied the deputy for a moment, then shook out the folds of the subpoena. His eyes scanned it rapidly, but its validity was quickly ascertained.

  “Zimmerman,” he ground out. “That conniving little bitch.” His words were softly spoken, but they seemed to reverberate off the walls of the silent room.

  “It’s short notice, but we haven’t been able to reach you to serve the subpoena. I’ve been by your house several times. You’re advised to contact an attorney—”

  “I’ll represent myself. Ten o’clock Friday?” The deputy nodded. “Forgive me if I don’t say thanks.”

  “I’m sorry,” the deputy said to Grant. Touching the brim of his hat, he nodded to Shelley and muttered, “Ma’am,” before turning away and walking briskly down the
sidewalk toward the official car parked at the curb.

  Grant closed the door and released his breath in a long, weary sigh. “Helluva wedding present,” he said bitterly as he turned. “God, Shelley, I’m—”

  Seeing the stricken expression on her face was like being hit on the head with a sledgehammer. Her eyes were wide and vacant. The radiant complexion he had complimented her on only an hour earlier had blanched to a deathly white. A fine chalky line defined her lips, making the glossy coral lipstick look clownishly garish. She stood ramrod straight, but she was trembling, as though only her skin were holding her together, keeping her from flying into a million fragmented pieces.

  “Shelley.” His voice had a ragged edge. “Tell me you don’t think … Tell me you don’t believe I got that girl pregnant.”

  As though in a trance she shook her head, slowly at first, then more vigorously. “No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “No.” Her eyes blinked several times, then journeyed around the room aimlessly, focusing on nothing.

  He took two long strides toward her and closed his hands around her shoulders. “Look at me,” he demanded. She was held in his iron grip like a lifeless doll. “I didn’t have anything to do with that girl.” He pushed the words past clenched teeth. “Do you believe that?” He shook her slightly. Her arms flopped loosely at her sides, but her glazed eyes never wavered from his tight, furious face.

  She wanted so badly to believe him. Of course he hadn’t had anything to do with Pru Zimmerman, but … She’d been a young girl, too, the first time he’d kissed her… . And Missy Lancaster … Pregnant. He’d said Missy’s baby wasn’t his, that he hadn’t been her lover. He wasn’t lying. Couldn’t be. He loved her. Her, Shelley. Still …

  He took his hands off her shoulders, releasing her so quickly she nearly dropped to the floor. For a moment he stared at her averted face, disgust and heartache battling for supremacy. Shelley was never sure which was the victor.

  He turned away from her and said to her father, “Bill was going to meet us at the chapel. I’ll head him off there and cancel the ceremony.”

  When he turned back to her, she couldn’t meet his eyes. At that moment she didn’t feel anything. No anger, no pain, no disappointment, no despair. She was cata-tonic, completely void of feeling. Her spirit had deserted her, leaving behind a vast wasteland that once had been her heart.

  When he left, Grant didn’t slam the door. But the quiet click of its closing couldn’t have sounded more final.

  “Shelley, dear.” Her mother was the first to break the funereal silence in the room. Shelley didn’t know how long she’d been standing there, staring at the closed door. Her mother repeated her name.

  Shelley lifted her head and saw that her parents were looking at her cautiously. Did they expect her to fly into a rage, gnash her teeth, tear at her hair, bang her head against the wall? Their wariness was justified. She felt capable of such acts. “I guess you drove down here for nothing.” She laughed harshly. “It doesn’t look like there’s going to be a wedding.”

  Her parents stared back at her in sympathy. She couldn’t stand their pitying expressions. It was like a reenactment of the days immediately following her divorce. “I think I’ll lie down for … for a while.” She began edging toward the hall, and by the time she left the room she was running.

  She fell across the bed, hugging the pillow tight against her face as she screamed into it. Her body twisted against the excruciating pain of her soul. She vented her fury with tears and curses, pounding her fists into the mattress beneath her. Never had she succumbed to such a fit of temper, but then, never had her world been so unmercifully destroyed.

  But the rage was soon spent, and she became exhausted. And the exhaustion was accompanied by despair, black and encompassing and absolute, suffocating her.

  She rolled onto her back, heedless of the rumpled state of the carefully tailored silk suit. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

  Why had she questioned Grant’s innocence? Suspicion had ruled her reactions. Why hadn’t she been angry at the wiles of Pru Zimmerman and offered her support to Grant? That was what he had expected her to do.

  But she hadn’t. Why?

  Because deep down she felt there was the slightest possibility that it might be true. She had told him repeatedly that the scandal with Missy Lancaster didn’t matter to her, but apparently it did. The seeds of mistrust had been planted in her brain to burst into life with the first breath of uncertainty.

  Could everyone else except her be wrong about him? That didn’t seem likely. Was the love she’d always had for him blinding her to the duplicity of his true nature? Was she still no more than an infatuated teenager accepting everything he said as dogma?

  She didn’t think he’d been with Pru Zimmerman since she had become his assistant. The girl could be lying just to make good her threat to get even with him for spurning her. But Pru had felt comfortable enough at his duplex to waltz right in… .

  “Oh, God,” she cried and buried her face in the pillow again.

  None of that made any sense. The way he’d looked at her from the first day he had spoken to her, the way they had loved so unrestrainedly that very afternoon, couldn’t be misinterpreted. He must love her. Passion of that magnitude couldn’t be faked.

  For hours the thoughts swirled through her mind in a macabre dance. One moment she wanted to run to him, to beg his forgiveness for her lack of faith in him, the next she was remembering that he had kissed her when she was only sixteen. Missy Lancaster had been more than a decade younger than he. So was Pru.

  In his mind, was she in the same category with them? No, no.

  “Shelley?”

  A light tapping on her door caused her to stir. Groggily she sat up on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Mom.”

  The door was opened and a wedge of light sliced across the room. When had it grown dark? “I thought you might like some tea.”

  She nodded absently. “Thank you. That sounds good.”

  Her mother set a tray on the bedside table. “Here, dear, let’s get you out of that suit.”

  Within minutes she was lying between the sheets in a nightgown much more prim than the one she had planned to be sleeping in that night. She looked at the pillow beside hers, the one Grant would have used. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. Her mother took her hand and pressed it sympathetically.

  “Go to sleep, dear. You need to sleep.”

  The dishes rattled slightly as her mother carried out the tea tray. When the room was plunged into darkness once more, Shelley soon found the oblivion of sleep too appealing to resist.

  Her parents reluctantly left the next morning. They offered to stay with her for a few days, but Shelley preferred being alone. Feeling like a shell of a human body from which the heart and soul had been scraped, she maintained a solitary life for the next several days.

  On the third day, she ate for the first time. She called friends in her various classes and asked for copies of their lecture notes, knowing that at some point in the future, she’d have to get on with the business of living again. She couldn’t afford to get too far behind in her studies. The building of her career would be the only thing she had to look forward to.

  When her classmates came by with the requested notes, she didn’t invite them in, claiming she had a dreadful virus that her doctor said was highly contagious.

  Her parents called every night and she strove to inject some animation into her voice so they wouldn’t worry. Little did she know how forced her speech sounded.

  It was with the same lethargy that Shelley pulled herself out of bed Friday morning. Mechanically she dragged herself into the kitchen and began to make unwanted coffee. When the phone rang, she reached to answer it without any interest.

  “Shelley,” her mother said peremptorily, “your father and I think you should come home for a few days. You’ve got to get out of that house.”

  She slumped against the counter. “No, mother. For the last time,
I’ll be all right. It’ll just take awhile to get over him.”

  “I don’t think so. You always had a special feeling for this man, didn’t you, Shelley?” her mother asked softly.

  “Yes, Mom. Always,” she admitted.

  Mrs. Browning sighed. “I thought so. That whole year, I think it was your junior year, he was all you talked about. When he left, you went into a decline, lost interest in everything. At first I didn’t put two and two together, but when you continued to drop his name, always wistfully, I began to wonder. Eventually you seemed to recover and went away to college. I had forgotten all about him until he called that day. I was surprised to hear from him out of the blue like that. Once he’d introduced himself—”

  Shelley pressed the telephone receiver closer to her ear. “He called?” she breathed. “He called? When? He came to Poshman Valley?”

  Her mother recognized instantly the new alertness in Shelley’s voice. “No, he telephoned from Oklahoma City. He said he had come down to the capital on an errand for one of the congressional representatives. I—”

  “What did he want?”

  “He … he asked about you, wanted to know what you were doing, where you were.”

  Shelley’s heart had begun to pound. He hadn’t forgotten about her! He’d called! She swallowed hard. “Mom, when was this? What was I doing? Where was I?”

  “Oh gosh, Shelley, I don’t remember. I think it was in the spring just after you married Daryl. Yes, I think so because I remember you and Daryl were talking about your quitting school to go to work and—”

  “I was married. And you told Grant that?”

  “Well, yes. I told him you were married and living in Norman. I’m surprised he never told you this.”

  Shelley’s head dropped. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the stabbing pain behind them. He had tried to contact her and she had already been married. He had been in Oklahoma City. So close. She’d only been married a few months. He’d gone back to Washington and she’d never known he had called. So close. If she hadn’t been married she could have met him and … So close. If only … But it had been too late. Too late … Then!