She sighed and slipped into Zach’s robe, wrapping the belt snugly around her waist, then she walked down the hall to the living room. Zach had fanned a crackling blaze to life in the fireplace, and was warming two snifters of cognac on the mantel. The tree, as Janie had suggested, had been cut free of its twine and had been leaned up against the wall by the window.
“Thought this might warm us up some,” Zach said, handing her the cognac. “You look nice with your hair down like that. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Millions of men,” Janie replied, sipping the drink. It burned her mouth and made her eyes sting, but it also sent a warm wave through her veins. “I wear it up, you know, as a kind of protection. Keeps the slavering masses at bay.”
He leaned over and lifted a strand of her hair off her shoulder, rubbing it lightly between his fingers as if he were trying to guess what it was made of. “I’m serious, Janie. You have lovely hair. You should show it off some.”
“What are you, my personal dresser?” Janie demanded, but she found herself pleased rather than annoyed by Zach’s comment. It was so typical of Zach to always be trying to improve others, convert them, repackage them, sell them to a wider market. She thought back to the argument that had driven them apart—his cutting speech on her inability to change—and felt suddenly sorry that she had taken his comments so much to heart.
“Yes, exactly,” Zach replied, leaning against the mantelpiece. “I’m your image consultant, didn’t you know? I’ve no idea how you’re going to get on without my indispensable advice and sterling suggestions.” He took a deep swig from his snifter. “Or how you’ve been getting on without them the last few months. How have you been, Janie? You look … different somehow.”
“It’s this new wardrobe, I guess,” Janie replied, spinning around. “The ever-so-chic terrycloth look for spring. What do you think?”
“I think you look quite wonderful,” Zach retorted, then put his glass down abruptly. “And I think I must be getting drunk.”
“Why?” Janie demanded, suddenly hurt. “Because you said that about me? Is that such a crazy thing to say?”
“Oh no, sweetie,” Zach said, turning to her. “You do look … I don’t know … you shimmer. That’s not what’s crazy.” He looked down into her gaze for a long moment; he felt that he was about to fall, like Alice, into a strange new world. “The crazy thing is…”
He took a step toward her. He discovered that his hands were closing around her shoulders. He felt himself draw her to him. He knew that he was kissing her, really kissing her, because, oh, she tasted so sweet. He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t stop his hand as it touched her cheek. Her skin was so warm and soft, like nothing he had ever felt before. He tried hard to think, to consider, to control himself … but, suddenly, more than anything he had ever wanted in his life … he felt a need to run his hands through her hair.
“Zach … Zach … please,” she said, pulling away. He felt air hit his lungs—hard and mean—like a man who has stayed underwater too long. He could feel his heart thudding against his still damp shirt. He had to be drunk, or maybe he was getting a fever. He should change his clothes, he told himself, he should try to snap out of it. But he found, though Janie pulled back, that he couldn’t let her go.
“What?” he demanded roughly, looking down at her. Her cheeks were flushed with color; her eyes were dark, stormy. He knew her so well, but he couldn’t read her at all suddenly. All he knew was that he wanted her—Janie—and it terrified him. He was so used to getting what he wanted from women that he was afraid to begin with her. At the same time, he realized, he simply wasn’t able to let her … go.
“What are you doing, Zach?” she whispered. She knew, but she didn’t know. How in the world could she tell him that she had never done this before? Do you tell a man that? she wondered, hardly able to hear herself think because her heart was beating so hard. What did he want? Was this what he wanted? Zach, who could have anyone. Why would he want her? He felt sorry for her, that was it, and she felt her pulse start to slow with the pure, leaden agony of that thought.
He saw something in her gaze—and suddenly he remembered—Alain, and the fantasy life she was leading. Is that what she wanted? Daydreams? An empty bed? Was she going to keep her self pure for some damned ideal that didn’t exist? He felt his grip tighten on her arms, and he leaned over and began to kiss her again. This time, Zach knew, he would not hold back. She was so warm and gentle and soft, and he wanted her. He stopped thinking of her as Janie; he stopped thinking at all.
When he could hardly hold back from pulling her to the floor … he took her by the hand and led the way to his bedroom. He turned on the converted kerosene lamp on the end table and stared at Janie as she sat, her head bowed, waiting for him on the edge of the bed. He kneeled down and lay his head on her lap. He heard the sharp intake of her breath as he began to kiss the inside of her thighs through the silky layer of her slip.
“Oh, please, Zach…” she cried. “I don’t know … I don’t…”
“Shhh…” He stood, pulled her to her feet and kissed her on the lips. She could feel him pushing against her, urgent, ready. But he took a step back and slipped the silk straps off her shoulders and took her breasts in his hands … and then into his mouth … and she moaned as he lowered her to the bed again.
“Please don’t, Zach, please…” He held back, caressing her skin, her hair, kissing her mouth, her breasts. He couldn’t get enough of her. He had never known a woman so miraculously soft and gentle. He loved the way she arched with pleasure when he touched her. He loved it when she called his name. I love her, I love her. The words reverberated soundlessly through his whole being as he mounted her finally, as he plunged into her needfully, selfishly, unable to stop. Even when he realized, too late, far too late, what she had been trying to say. Afterward, it was Zach, not Janie, who wept. It was Zach who felt the loss—sharp as a knife, cutting into her innocence and trust—and who stayed awake for hours, rocking her gently as she slept in his arms.
Chapter 19
“I’m … sorry,” Zach said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, a tray of coffee things resting on his knee. He had on the robe Janie had worn the night before.
“I thought real men didn’t wear these,” she replied, ignoring his apology and sitting up on one elbow as she touched his sleeve. “And I can see why … you look like something that escaped from a health spa.”
“Thanks,” Zach retorted, smiling down at her. She was trying hard to set the right noncommittal tone, he realized, but he wasn’t about to pretend last night hadn’t happened. He didn’t know how he should be feeling—guilty? responsible?—when actually he felt quite wonderful as he watched Janie lean forward to pour a cup of coffee. Her hair fell across her face, a sheen of red shot with gold, and he had to force himself not to reach over and brush it gently back.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he began again, almost involuntarily. They had to talk about it, he thought, recklessly plunging ahead. “I had too much to drink. I don’t often drink, so I’m afraid it took me by surprise. That’s not much of an excuse, but, well … I’m sorry.”
“That’s three ‘sorrys’ in less than five minutes,” Janie replied, sipping her coffee. “I think that will do it, Zach.” She didn’t want to talk about it. She was hardly ready to think about it. A part of her was still trying to process the fact that it had happened. And it had been wonderful, at least for her. But poor Zach. He probably had been drunk, she realized now. What else would have prompted him to take someone who looked like her to bed? And now, no doubt regretting his actions, he was trying to make plain to her that it all had been a mistake. She understood. She wasn’t about to hold him to anything. She wasn’t at all sure what she felt, but she knew that she was grateful to him. He had been so gentle and concerned afterwards. He had said some very loving things that she knew he didn’t mean.
“No, that won’t do it,” he retorted, sta
nding up and starting to pace the room. He stopped at the French windows that overlooked the park outside the Museum of Natural History. The rain had turned to snow sometime during the night, and it was still falling. A layer of white iced the ground and tree limbs. It was Saturday morning, and children were already sledding down the park’s gentle incline. He watched a little girl in a red woolen cap bob down the hill and then turn over at the bottom, blond hair and mittens flying. He winced as she fell; he hated to see people get hurt. He turned back to Janie, saying, “We should talk this through, you know. We should know where we stand with each other. How … how are you feeling?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Janie thought angrily, he didn’t have to spell it out in big block letters. Hadn’t he made it clear enough that he was sorry he’d gotten involved? Sorry he’d made love to her? Of course. Why belabor the point?
“I’m feeling just fine, Zach,” Janie answered sharply. “And I don’t see that there’s much to discuss here, is there? You’re sorry. I’m sorry. We both had too much to drink. We both understand that it never should have happened. And we’re both adults … so we’ll go on with our lives as if this never occurred.”
“I see,” Zach said, picking up a book, then putting it down again. “Is that how it is? That’s how you want it?” He turned to look at her. She was lying back against the pillows, her red wavy hair spread out like a fan. She looked so sensuous and so sure of herself—for a moment he found it impossible to believe that this was Janie. He found himself wanting her again, aching to walk across the room and touch her again. He felt suddenly ridiculous in the terrycloth robe, silly in his bare feet, stupid to be longing for a woman who clearly didn’t want him. But this was Janie, he reminded himself again. What was happening to him?
“Don’t worry, Zach,” Janie reassured him, “of course that’s how I want it. You’ve done nothing to be sorry about. I’m not going to come banging on your door late at night. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“But what…” Zach demanded impulsively, taking a step toward her, “… what if I wanted to take care of you?”
Her laughter stopped him before her words did. “Oh, Zach, don’t you know yourself better than that by now? You’d take care of the whole world, given half a chance. No … I don’t need your help. I’ll be fine. You can devote your philanthropic energies to a better cause than me.”
“That’s not what I meant, dammit,” he retorted, stung by what she had said, how she must see him. He wasn’t used to being so vulnerable and easily hurt. More than anything else, Zach hated feeling foolish or pitiful. He could still remember—with horrible clarity—the way the women in his old Brooklyn neighborhood used to cluck over him when Walter did one of his disappearing acts. It made him angry and resentful, the way he was feeling toward Janie now. He continued harshly, “But then, I almost forgot, why should you need me when you have Monsieur Chanson to take to bed in your dreams—”
“Zach, please,” Janie stopped him nervously, “don’t start in.” She put down her coffee cup and pushed the tray away, all the while watching Zach carefully across the room. She didn’t want him to know—yet.
“Or are you giving up that particular dream,” Zach continued, “along with your job? I suppose you did consider that when you decided to leave us?”
“Yes, I took it into consideration,” Janie answered, pulling the sheets around her as she started to get out of bed. Naked, she felt vulnerable and embarrassed, and she despised the half-truth she was telling Zach. She needed to get away from him before she dug herself in any deeper.
“That means you’ve given up?” Zach demanded, crossing the room. “The fantasy life is over?” She sat on the edge of the bed, and he stood before her, blocking her escape. She looked up into his hard, set expression. Why was he making this so difficult?
“Why should you care?” she asked lightly, standing quickly and trying to squeeze past him. But his right arm closed quickly around her waist, pulling her to him. The warmth of his body pressed into hers.
She could feel his lips brushing against her hair, as he told her, “I don’t know why I care, Janie,” he murmured, “but I do. I want you to be happy. I need to know that you’re going to be safe … that you’re doing the right thing.” His chin rested on the top of her head, his arms around her. She felt warm and secure … and terribly sad.
“I’m doing the right thing,” she told him, “for me.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Janie,” he whispered, as they rocked gently back and forth. “I should know, shouldn’t I? Aren’t I the great connoisseur?”
“Thanks for the expert opinion then.” Janie laughed, but he could tell by her look that she didn’t believe him.
“Whatever you do,” he said, looking down at her intently, “don’t change too much.”
So he knew, Janie realized, that change was what she wanted. That in leaving him, and the comfortable confines of her old life, that was what she was doing. Breaking free of the cocoon. Stretching her wings. Attempting flight.
“I won’t,” Janie told him, but she didn’t mean it. What she was saying to herself was: I will, I will, I will…
Christmastime in Baldwin was storybook beautiful that year. A foot of snow blanketed the town. An ice storm Christmas Eve transformed the bare oak trees that lined the Penrods’ half-mile driveway into double rows of glistening chandeliers. This year, the big house was filled with Janie’s brothers and sisters and the new, quickly growing generation of Penrods. The cries and laughter of children echoed out across the bluff where Janie had gone for an early morning walk on Christmas Day. As she stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea, she felt, rather than heard, someone come up behind her.
“Hello, Jane.” It was Henry, followed shortly after by his aging golden retriever. “You’re out early.” His words escaped in short breathy bursts. He was sporting a walking stick.
“I guess I’m not used to so many people,” Janie told him. As usual, she felt shy and dull beside him.
“I’m not either,” he told her. “Most people think Faith and I are horribly lonely kicking around in this place by ourselves these days, but it’s not so. I like the solitude, to be honest. I relish the peace.”
Janie glanced at her father and then away. It was unlike him to confide such emotions, especially to her.
“That’s funny,” she told him, as they started to follow the retriever’s progress along the bluff. “I’ve always thought of you as happiest surrounded by a dozen or so students.”
“Heavens, no.” Henry sighed, whistling to the dog who had run too far ahead. “Actually, I’m quite worn out by the whole business. Teaching, I mean, and running the school.”
“Are you … all right?” Janie asked uncomfortably. “I mean physically?”
“Yes,” Henry assured her. “It’s not that, Jane. I’m just well … tired. Every year I get older … and the students seem to get younger. It becomes a bit dispiriting after a time, you know. Seeing people make the same mistakes over and over again. Knowing there’s nothing you can really do to stop them. That’s the hardest part, actually, sitting by uselessly while history repeats itself.”
The wind whipped at their coats, burned into their skin. Janie glanced at Henry and saw that his eyes were red-rimmed, and his mouth looked thin and chapped. With a pang she realized that his face was turning into that of an old man.
“Is there anything in particular?” she asked, trying to match his aggressive stride. Her words sounded rushed and uncertain, but he heard the question and nodded grimly.
“Yes, there is,” he muttered. “Or was. I suppose you’re old enough to be privy to this sort of thing now. I actually forget sometimes, Jane, that you’re not our little baby girl anymore.”
“Oh…” Janie replied stupidly, finding it difficult to imagine either parent ever thinking of her in such affectionate terms. She looked sideways at Henry, trying to fathom what was on his mind. “Well, whate
ver it is, Father, I assure you I’m old enough to hear.”
“Yes,” Henry replied, thrusting his walking stick deep into a snowy embankment, “I know you are. And I suppose in your world, in New York, drugs are everyday, commonplace.”
“Not for me…” Janie started to correct him, but Henry waved away her explanation.
“Of course not for you, Jane,” he interrupted, “but they’re something you read about in the papers, see on the sidewalk, etcetera. Up here, well, they’re done—I suppose even I knew that—but not openly. As you know, drug or alcohol use of any kind is cause for suspension from Baldwin Academy.”
“Yes,” Janie replied, remembering the long list of rules and regulations posted in the Baldwin assembly hall. Henry set the tone for all of Baldwin, and it had been a strict, authoritarian one. Janie doubted much had changed since her brothers’ days there.
“Well, this past spring,” Henry continued, his gait slowing a little, “we discovered that three of our senior boys, among our very best, were smoking marijuana on the roof after lights out.”
“Marijuana?” Janie asked.
“Yes,” Henry replied irritably, “grass, whatever it is they call it these days. You have to understand, I was very proud of these boys—especially one of them, John, who had been a work-study student from South Boston. They were in the top ten of their class, and the other two boys were from wealthy families and had been accepted at Princeton. John had just been given a full scholarship to Harvard. Imagine! I just couldn’t let him throw all of that away.”
Changes of Heart Page 15