Tara decided to unpack some of her clothes in the master bedroom, which was, by itself, half the size of the efficiency she had shared with Connor back in the city. As she removed blouses and tops from the first of several boxes marked “Clothes”, Tara mentally catalogued the different garments, planning what she might wear that evening. Maybe the emerald dress, the one Connor said matched her eyes. She had to take that compliment with a grain of salt, though. She shook her head, remembering that for about a month when they first started dating, Connor kept telling her she had the most beautiful blue eyes. Sometimes, the man just didn’t know any better.
Tara carried an armful of tops to the closet, wood boards creaking in protest beneath her feet. She opened the closet door, and screamed.
A man faced her from within the closet; handsome, but with a touch of malice in his expression. Oh, his painted-on expression, she could see now. Tara sighed with relief when she realized that it was just a portrait left in the closet. Perhaps she might have noticed, too, the portrait rested on the floor, against the wall, making it very unlikely to be an actual person.
“Tara!” Connor bounded up the steps and burst into the room. He ran over to find his wife standing at the open closet door, camisoles and tanks dropped at her feet. “Are you alright?”
With a hand at her racing heart, Tara reassured him. “I’m fine, just feeling stupid. I saw that painting and thought it was someone in the closet.”
Connor frowned at yet another one of her flights of fancy. Occasionally Tara woke him in the middle of the night when she thought the shape of a white shirt hanging in their closet was a person. She admitted to herself that sometimes her imagination really could get the best of her. “I’m sorry,” Tara apologized to her husband. “I guess I just need to get used to this place.” Eager to change the subject, she asked “So, you want to go into town, have a drink and meet some of our new neighbors? Our fellow Milfordonians?”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Milfordonians?”
“Yep. That’s what they call a person who lives in Milford.”
“Or that’s what you call a person who lives in Milford,” Connor suggested. The man did know something about her, after all. He looked around the bedroom, to the king size bed in the center and the few boxes of clothing and bedspreads scattered about the room. “Yeah,” he said, “looks like the movers actually put everything where it was supposed to go. Let’s at least unpack this room, and then we can take a look around town.”
Satisfied that they were moving on from the incident of the painting, Tara whistled to herself as she and Connor filled their new closet. Still, every time she hung another blouse, Tara could not help but glance at the portrait of the man. He had a strong jaw line and thick black hair. A goatee and a somewhat olive complexion gave him a foreign air, perhaps Spanish or Italian. She wondered why a century-old painting of an Italian man should be in a Victorian house here in Pennsylvania. Tara also wondered why a painting should affect her so much. Shuddering, she turned the portrait to the wall. If Connor noticed that the back of the painting now faced them, he said nothing.
*****
Tara pursed her lips together, making kissy faces at herself in the mirror, trying to get her lipstick line just right. Connor was downstairs fiddling with the hot water heater, wanting to make sure it was performing up to par before he got ready. He was an analytical man and he approached nearly everything in life with the same pragmatic precision he applied at his work as a petroleum engineer. Things had to be reduced to equations to be solved, or he couldn’t fathom them.
Tara would feel impatient if she didn’t know that it would take Connor all of five minutes to get ready once he finished downstairs. He shaved with military discipline each morning and styled his hair with a barber’s razor in the same fashion he first adopted as an engineer in the Army. All he would need to do is put on some slacks and one of his many identical white button-up shirts. Connor’s muscular frame filled out his shirts well, but sometimes Tara wished he might wear something besides one of two identical outfits each day. He just didn’t care to spend any time thinking about clothing. How odd that a style maven should marry someone whose outfits came in one of two colors.
Motes of dust floated in the dying sun’s final rays of light. None of the windows had yet been hung for drapes and so now in the twilight, beams of light and shadows wove a tapestry across seldom-used hallways. Always the artist, Tara looked at the intersecting lines and squares of darkness and light, seeing in their shapes eldritch faces and forms. If New York City was like Connor, somewhat cold and aloof, then Milford was more like Tara - enchanting, a place where it seemed anything might be possible.
Tara finished applying her make-up and was about to head downstairs to chide Connor about being late when she found herself, instead, at the closet. When she opened the door she knew she wasn’t coming in to consider a change of outfit. No…Tara was drawn still to that painting, the one of the darkly handsome young man. She flipped the painting over and, for the first time that day, looked it in the eye. Perhaps the paint had aged, but each orb had irises that seemed to be almost black, nearly indistinguishable from the pupil. A cruel slash of a mouth, the lip curled somewhat in contempt. Hard angles formed a delicate bone structure, and curly locks of hair spilled across the forehead. The painting’s mysterious man must have been something for even a painting of him to arrest her so completely. She turned her gaze back to his eyes…
“Ready, babe?” Tara heard Connor call from the doorway. Startled, she shoved the painting behind some jeans on her side of the closet. Why was she hiding it from Connor?
Wiping her now-sweaty palms on her dress, Tara emerged from the closet to find Connor already dressed in his customary outfit. Ever the pragmatist, he had evidently already dressed for the evening before getting to work on the hot water heater. “Yeah,” Tara told Connor, “I’m ready. I was just…thinking about changing. You don’t think this dress is too much for drinks, do you?”
Connor rolled his eyes. “I mean, it’s a dress. You look fine. We need to be leaving now anyway. I have to be back in New York by five o’clock tomorrow for my flight, so we can’t be out too late.”
Tara followed her husband down the main staircase, casting a final glance into the gathering shadows within the house, before stepping into the night. What other surprises waited here, besides the painting?
Ten minutes later the couple arrived at the Hotel Fauchere. Inside lay the Bar Louis, surprisingly contemporary for the aged exterior. Connor ordered vodka martinis for the both of them from a young twenty-something blonde girl behind the bar.
Delicately placing skewered olives on the lip of either glass, the girl asked, “Are you staying with us here at the hotel?”
Before Tara could respond Connor answered, “No, Alice. We actually just bought a house here. Just a mile outside of town.”
Now it was Tara’s turn to roll her eyes. As curt as Connor could be with her, other women seemed enthralled by him on first impression. He still had that erect bearing which spoke of the military, even out of uniform, and he was handsome in his own rugged, indifferent sort of way. And so, after simply reading her name tag and answering a question, of course this girl would be charmed by him.
“Oh how wonderful! I just know you’ll love it here. Milford’a fantastic place to live!”
“Are you from here?” Connor asked.
The girl, Alice, nodded. “Born and raised. I left the state for school, but came back. Milford has a way of getting into you!”
That was an odd phrasing, Tara thought. Still, the girl might know some interesting things about the town. “So what’s fun to do around here?” Tara asked, adding, “We’re from New York City, but I’m ready to try something new.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “New York City? Wow! Well, we don’t have too much in the way of nightlife - the Bar Louis is about as good as it gets - but there’s so many other things you can do! We’re right by that Delaware National Park
, so you can go hiking and camping and fishing and” - here Alice had to take a breath before continuing - “kayaking. There are some wonderful bookstores in town too. You know they used to have the science fiction writers convention here?”
Connor seemed taken by this morsel of information. “No, I didn’t! That’s fascinating,” said the man who had never cracked a science fiction book in his life, who had no use for it, and who ate, slept, and breathed nothing but pure science fact.
Alice nodded happily before adding. “Yep. Heinlein, Philip Dick, even Isaac Asimov!”
At that Tara blinked. Huh. She wouldn’t have thought this girl had ever cracked a book, much less known sci-fi writers. Tara was familiar with the field because when she first began creating art commercially she’d been commissioned to create covers for fantasy and sci-fi novels - tableaux of fur bikini-clad goddesses draped over muscular he-men. Fantasies for boys who could only believe that such things were possible: mindless sex goddesses and adventuring heroes who could win a woman’s heart only by cutting the head off a giant snake or wrestling some foul nightmare creature. Never by talking to them; the only words directed to the female characters in these novels were commands.
Tara interrupted with another question. “This one has to leave for Singapore tomorrow, but I’ll still be settling in this week. What’s the first thing I should do to get a feel for Milford?”
“Oh, definitely climb to the top of the Knob!” Alice told Tara.
Connor joined in, “Is that the big cliff we saw coming into town?”
Alice nodded, “Yes sir, the bluff’s 400-feet high. From the top you can see all of Milford, and even the Delaware River!”
That did sound interesting to Tara, and she made a mental note to try climbing “The Knob” sometime that week. Without Connor around and with no contracts on the horizon, she would have extra time in the day to fill, and a nice hike sounded as good as anything else.
A few drinks later, Connor decided it was time for them to go. “Thank you, Alice, we had a terrific time,” he told the blonde bartender.
“Yes, Alice, thank you.” Tara added, if not as warmly as her husband. She was quiet the entire car ride back to the house, but Connor, perfectly content with silence, never questioned her.
*****
Back in their bedroom in their new / old house and feeling pleasantly warm and tingly from the evening’s drinks, Tara crept up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around his muscular torso. One benefit to his obsessive need for routine was that Connor rarely, if ever, missed a workout, and he retained the thick frame gained in endless hours of physical training, begun when he joined the service.
“Not tonight, Tara.” Connor brushed away her arms. “If I expect to be at the airport by three tomorrow I’ll need to get up bright and early.” Typical Connor. There was plenty of time to christen this bedroom at least once before they fell asleep, but if something was not on his schedule he wasn’t likely to do it. Not even sex with his wife. Tara pouted but knew he was unlikely to change his mind, so she mumbled a “G’night” and fell into their bed. Distantly she could hear Connor thumping down the stairs; undoubtedly to tighten some loose bolts he had seen somewhere before calling it a night.
*****
That night, Tara dreamt. It was the type of dream she’d had since she was a girl and she first discovered the joys of her burgeoning womanhood, refined further when she discovered how much pleasure her body could bring. Feral dreams of wordless passion, of a language expressed only in touch and desire.
In her dream the man whose face was hidden between her legs, between the legs of her jeans in the closet, rather, pursued her. Tara ascended up a steep path, which she knew led to the top of the bluff called the Knob. She breathed heavily, exerting herself both in the climb and with the tremulous excitement of her seducer behind her. He seemed not to share the same difficulties in ascending the path, although Tara knew with her background in cross-country marathons she should be easily ahead of him. Instead he slowly sauntered after her as though he knew she would not run far beyond his reach. It was the pursuit of a predator who had already caught his prey.
Tara knew he would not finally catch up to her until she reached the top of the bluff, backed against the sprawling expanse that lay beyond the cliff, so she eagerly raced upwards. Whatever should happen between the two would happen there at the summit, and Tara was eager to reach it. She continued up the path, knowing that no matter how fast she ran that when she turned around the dark-haired stranger would always be the same distance behind her, striding confidently in the still night.
Tara finally reached the top, reached the edge, the precipice, of the Knob and waited for the man who pursued her. From this spot she could see the whole town - even, she imagined, her own home. The young man stood behind her, saying nothing. He seemed strangely shy, speechless in a way, for all the confidence he exuded. He walked as though every path were made only for his feet; he had the grace of predator, loose and lithe. And yet he said nothing to the woman he’d chased to the top of the hill.
Tara was about to turn to the young man, to say something, to question him, when she felt his hand pull back her hair, draping it over her neck. He gently pushed her head to the side, a caricature of curiosity, and leaned in. His breath was hot against her neck, and he hovered there for a moment, his lips pressed to her skin as her pulse quickened. Refusing to be passive, Tara turned and faced the ethereally handsome youth. The thick strands of black hair ruffled in a wind she could not feel. The casual messiness, combined with the slight smile of content on his face, lent a sleepy air, as though he were a boy just woken from a nap.
The beautiful youth held out a hand, which Tara took and placed on her chest. She wanted him to feel her too-quick beating heart, to feel the small, firm breasts, to feel his mouth…to feel. They stood there like that a moment, only his hand resting on her chest, but Tara could still feel him all over her body, his eyes following her every slightest curve and contour. He observed her not without erotic interest, but also with the detached appreciation of an art connoisseur, noting the lines of her body, the subtleties that rarely made it within the classic scope of sexuality. The freckle on her cheek, or the slight scars on her knees from playing soccer as a girl…
Desperate now to break the impasse between them, Tara pulled the youth, who stood a head taller than she, down to meet her face to face, to kiss those slightly curled lips which looked like they would most assuredly hurt but she didn’t care. Hands, delicate and probing, ran over her body, somehow lightly enough that she could barely feel the pressure or the heat of him, only a slight tingling graze across her flesh, even through her clothes.
And then…his mouth was everywhere. The young man kissed her all over, his mouth open to greet her slender wrists, in that narrow ‘v’ of space plunging down the neckline of Tara’s shirt. He tasted her as though she were a flavor he would never tire of, and she eagerly pushed him to taste more, pushing his head down her body to another ‘v’ and-
“Babe? Are you alright?”
Tara groggily blinked to life, lying in bed beside Connor. She had evidently been moaning in her dream, moans which he had mistook for fear. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a nightmare.” Tara reassured her husband.
Satisfied, he rolled back over to fall to sleep. Tara could not so easily follow suit, although she was eager to return to the dream which she’d left. As her husband snored beside her, Tara curled her body around a tingle that she’d not felt for far too long. In the morning, Connor would fly to Singapore for a month, and Tara would have to figure out how to satisfy this newly awakened hunger.
No Safe Word
Bacon. Sausages. Waffles. A half-dozen competing and combing aromas crept up the stairs to Tara’s nose, calling her to consciousness and to come downstairs. Flipping aside a heavy, gray comforter, she slid out of bed, shivering as her feet hit the chilly wood floor. At the foot of the bed, Connor had left her fuzzy bunny slippers, which he must have un
packed that morning. Tara thrust her feet into the faux rabbits and hopped her way downstairs to a waiting breakfast.
“Good morning, sleepy head!” Connor called out as he heard her thumping down the stairs.
Tara spied the diced fruit and breakfast foods lying on the table. “Mmm, smells good.”
Connor told her “Well, hurry and eat up, I’ve got to be at the airport in 2 hours. Can’t be late.” He was right about that. After Newton’s three laws there was a fourth law of physics that stated “Connor MacMillan cannot be late.” It was as inviolable as gravity. But not as tasty as gravy, Tara thought, pouring some from a carafe over a pair of biscuits. She added several strips of bacon and some sausages, and even a waffle, before finally compromising and putting a few slices of mango beside the fattier foods. She reckoned it ought to balance out. Connor looked at her plate and raised his eyebrow.
“Shut up!” Tara flung a grape at him.
“Hey I didn’t say anything! That’s just your own guilty conscience!” Connor reminded her.
Guilty conscience. Like dreaming of a fling with a handsome stranger? Of courting a man who was not her husband? Tara didn’t respond. Instead she looked down to her plate and hastily filled her mouth with a too-large bite of syrupy waffle. Connor attended to his breakfast as well, an egg-white omelet, a glass of some juice concoction he had run through their power juicer, and on the side- more fruit. They had been here for not more than a day, and the man had already been able to set up a fully functional kitchen.
Lust and Mistrust Trilogy Page 2