'Where's the cramp?' Joe had arrived and, leaping out of the boat, ran up on to the beach.
Petra sat up. 'His bad leg,' she said.
But not even Joe's experienced hands could release the spasm. By this time, Sunny had shooed Jennifer back up to the cabin and had then driven around the curve of the lake in the car, and they were able to half-carry Geoff up on to the gravelled road and then lay him down in the back seat.
'Let's take him into town,' Joe said. 'He's going to need more than an aspirin and a heating pad for this.'
Petra held Geoff's head on her lap as they bounced and jolted their way into Mercy. He moaned once but otherwise kept his teeth clenched so tight that she could see the ridge of muscle in his neck and jaw. His eyes were closed too, and Petra did the little bit she could to help him. Over and over again she rubbed his temples in half-circles and then ran her fingers back through the hair over his ears. The texture of it was different from her own silky strands; it was coarse and thick, a dark-gold where it was wet and a silvery gold where it was dry. It curled around her small hands and, unconsciously, she tugged gently on it, enjoying the feel of it between her fingers.
Joe pulled with a screech up to the small brick building that was Mercy's hospital. Within minutes, Geoff was out of the car, on to a stretcher and being pushed into the emergency ward. Joe, Sunny and Petra sat in the tiny waiting-room with towels over their bare shoulders. In the rush of the moment, they had left the lake clad only in their bathing suits.
'I shouldn't have let him try that swim,' Joe said. 'His leg wasn't up to it.'
'You couldn't know that,' Sunny said. 'He'd been doing so well.'
But Joe was still upset. 'Too much, too soon,' he muttered to himself.
Petra tried to bury herself in a tattered old Ladies' Home Journal. It was a Christmas issue from three years before, and it was almost impossible for her to maintain an interest in tree decorations and gingerbread houses. Finally, she gave up, drew the towel tighter around her shoulders and leaned her head against the wall at the back of the chair. Closing her eyes, she tried to eliminate Geoff's face from her consciousness, but that was impossible, too. Now that the crisis was over, now that Geoff was under the responsible care of a capable medical staff, Petra was remembering with astonishment and not a little embarrassment the way she had acted when he was hurt. She had not been able to keep her hands off him. She had touched, handled, stroked and caressed a man that she professed to dislike intensely as if… as if she desired him.
Petra opened her eyes and stared down at her traitorous hands with their narrow palms and small, delicate fingers. She didn't do much for her hands except to put lotion on them to keep the skin from drying out after so much exposure to water. Her nails were short and unpolished and she never wore rings. Her hands were bare of ornamentation and tanned now from exposure to the sun: the hands of a woman who rarely gave them any thought but who, in a most unconscious way, used them to express tenderness, affection, love.
Petra flexed her fingers and realised that she'd never, understood that before, had never realised that what she couldn't articulate in a verbal way was spoken silently by her hands. She'd often touched her small students at school, brushing the hair back from their eyes, patting them on the head, holding their hands in her own when she was trying to make a point. And then there was her affinity for animals. She loved to hold them and pet them, small furry beasts that, in their mute way, sensed what those caresses meant and returned her affection with an unqualified enthusiasm and undemanding love.
Petra had always thought of herself as cold, as aloof, as unaffectionate. Her mother had once sadly told her that she was as distant as a stranger; her ex-lover had accused her angrily of having ice running through her veins. And Petra had believed them because she'd had no other relationships that she could use as a mirror to reflect who and what she was. Sunny and Joe's affection had been so unconditionally offered to any swimmer that came under their supervision that Petra had never counted their feelings towards her as realistic assessments of her personality. What she had believed was that she was unlikable and unlovable except by children, animals and other helpless creatures.
'Oh,' she said and Sunny looked up.
'What?'
'Sorry, it's nothing,' Petra said and closed her eyes again. Was it so surprising then that she should offer to Geoff, in his most helpless moment, some of that care and tenderness? It had nothing to do with the fact that he was a man and she was a woman. His body was attractive, yes, but her reaction was not what she feared. She hadn't fallen over into the terrifying abyss of infatuation or sexual interest. No, instead she had bestowed upon him gestures that were natural to her, instinctive. Yes, that's what they were, she thought with a sense of relief, an instinctual response to a being who was hurt and in distress. And, of course, he wouldn't remember anyway. He'd been far too involved with pain to notice anything that she had done. Petra took a deep breath and relaxed, letting her head once again rest against the wall. Everything would be just the same as it had been before, she thought complacently, all the pieces of the world held within their rightful place.
It was a belief that she was able to hold to until it blew up in her face. What Petra had quite forgotten in her frenzy of rationalisation had been the enjoyment, that wonderful pleasure, she had got from touching Geoff. That forgetfulness should have been no surprise; she'd spent a lifetime training herself to conceal her true feelings behind facades, explanations, and abstract reasoning. It was a habit that would take a strong man and a great deal of love to break. But that was in the future.
Geoff came out of a deep sleep and, for a moment, wondered where he was. Then he noticed the ceiling made of boards, the logs that made up the walls and the primrose-printed curtains that Sunny had hung on the window of his bedroom. The late afternoon sun filtered through the rose and cream fabric, its rays low and angled. He shifted slightly in the bed, felt the ache in his leg and remembered. With a sigh he lay back and felt the old despair return. Hell, but he was tired of being sick, of hurting, of limping, of finding himself hemmed in on every side. His world had contracted since the accident. He couldn't jog, he couldn't hike, he couldn't go dancing, he couldn't assume any more that he had the stamina and ability to try even the simplest of physical activities. All he had done this morning was swim, a few more lengths than he was used to, that was true, but look where it'd got him. Flat on his back, convalescing once again. Damn.
And he'd almost drowned. The muscle had cramped and the pain had bent him double. He understood now how people could actually die in the water from abdominal cramps. When a muscle as strong as the stomach went into a knot, the swimmer wouldn't have a chance. He, at least, had been able to straighten up occasionally. Well, two painkillers and one cortisone shot later, and he was once again fit to join the human race. Not that he'd be without pain. The muscle ached now, unremittingly. He hated like hell to take drugs, but he supposed he'd have to take another pill in order to sleep tonight.
There was a tentative rapping on his door and he said, 'Yes?'
'Are you awake?'
Geoff had the urge to ask how he could have answered if he were asleep, but he recognised the anxiety in Jennifer's voice and didn't have the heart to hurt her feelings. 'Yes,' he said.
The door opened and she peered around its jamb. 'How are you feeling?'
'I'll live.'
'Oh.' She was in the door then, carrying a tray that held a steaming cup of tea and some slices of Sunny's lemon bread. 'I brought you something to eat. I mean, you've been asleep for hours, and I thought…'
Geoff took pity on her. 'It's all right,' he said. 'I am hungry.'
'Oh, good.' Jennifer smiled brilliantly at him and placed the tray on his dresser. 'If you sit up a bit, you'll be able to eat.'
Geoff pulled himself up slightly, holding the sheet to his bare chest so that it wouldn't slip down. He was naked beneath the sheets and, from the way Jennifer had glanced at him and then shy
ly looked away, he saw that she had guessed at his condition. God knew what kind of fantasies that would generate in that overheated adolescent imagination of hers. Geoff tried to envisage what went on in the female teenaged brain and then gave up. On the other hand, he could sense her palpitations from three feet away. He cursed to himself, but offered her a pleasant smile as he accepted the mug from her outstretched hand.
'I hope you like Earl Grey,' she said.
'Love it.'
'Do you? Oh, me, too.'
It figured.
'And the lemon bread is delicious,' she went on. 'It really is.'
Geoff stared down at the plate she put on his outstretched legs. 'Thanks.'
'Of course, Sunny thought you might want something… well, more substantial, but whenever I'm not feeling well, I like tea and cake.' She gave him a worried glance. 'Don't you?'
'My favourites.'
Jennifer gave a happy sigh. 'I knew it,' she said as she perched at the foot of the bed, crossing her bared legs. She was dressed in her usual outfit, a T-shirt that was too tight for her and a pair of denim jeans. Her blonde pigtails were adorned with their blue bows.
It occurred to Geoff that Jennifer was in the early stages of becoming the kind of blonde he'd been accustomed to taking out. She certainly had all the equipment: curves, long legs, big brown eyes, and a conversational patter that was eminently forgettable. He took a sip of the tea, a bite of the bread and then, as the slanting sun caught her face, stared at her in growing horror. What on earth had she done to her face? Pancake make-up was spread so thick on her skin that she looked as if she were wearing a mask. Her eyelashes were so black and mascara-laden they could have walked of their own accord, spider-like, across the floor. Her cheekbones had been slashed with red, and her mouth… Jesus, that wasn't 'hot pink'—the colour was so vivid, it was practically at the boiling point.
But Jennifer, oblivious of his horrified stare, was chatting on in her usual fashion. '… and they brought you back from the hospital and you couldn't talk. I mean, you were muttering and mumbling to yourself. And you looked terrible, sort of white. Joe practically had to carry you in here.'
This wasn't the kind of information that Geoff particularly wanted to hear so he diverted Jennifer by asking her about her afternoon swim when she and Joe worked on her strokes.
'I'm working on my left arm,' she said. 'It's lazy.' And then she launched into a technical discussion of streamlining, efficiency and water friction. It interested Geoff that, when she talked about swimming, Jennifer suddenly became pragmatic and mature. When he'd first met her, he'd thought Joe was crazy to take her on; Jennifer hadn't seemed like champion material. But she was a phenomenal swimmer, and she took her talent seriously, training willingly and with enthusiasm. The only trouble was that, when she wasn't talking about kicking techniques, stroke rates and sprint times, she reverted right back to her thirteen-year-old self.
'The tea and cake were great,' Geoff said, handing his cup and plate to her. 'Thanks for thinking of me.'
Jennifer was all smiles. 'Oh, I didn't mind,' she said. 'And I'll bring you dinner, too.'
'No, thanks.'
'Really,' she protested. 'I'd love to.'
That's precisely what Geoff was afraid of—hours of Jennifer, hovering over him, studying his every expression, wanting to talk to him, trying to pamper the life out of him. He saw that he was going to have to nip this nurturing instinct in the bud.
'I've got to get up now.' Geoff pushed down the sheet slightly so that his navel was now visible.
Jennifer's eyes grew wide with alarm. 'But, I…'
The sheet went down another half-inch. 'Nature calls, sweetheart.'
'Oh!'
Geoff had never seen such a quick exit in his life. He was still grinning as he divested himself totally of the sheet and swung his legs to the side of the bed. The ache in his muscle intensified to the point that his grin was erased. It was a moment before he could stand, and another moment before he could hobble, carefully, over to the dresser where he pulled out a pair of jockey shorts, jeans and a T-shirt. Dressing was slow and painful. Geoff indulged in several pointed remarks that would have made his mother blush had she been around to hear them. As it was, no one was witness to his colourful vocabulary or the excruciating process by which he got his clothes on. Which was just as well, because his weakness and his trembling would have embarrassed the hell out of him.
After dinner Geoff sat out on the screened porch on a chaise-longue. Sunny had fussed over him, putting a blanket over his knees, a cup of coffee at his elbow and a pile of novels on the floor for him to read if he got bored watching the sun set over the lake. Renoir, who had a yen for the chaise-longue, was curled up in a silvery grey ball at his feet. Joe and Sunny had taken Jennifer into Mercy so that she could call her parents and see a movie, while Petra had gone for a walk down at the edge of the lake. Geoff, therefore, had the cabin, the porch and the view on his own, but he wasn't particularly enjoying them. He was bored, restless and disgruntled with his own company. What he would have liked to do was go to a party where there was plenty of food, liquor and women, but his choices were far more limiting. There was the sunset, a novel or his own thoughts. Geoff opted for a book and picked up the nearest paperback. From its cover a man dressed in olive army clothes and with a machine-gun stared out at him. Behind the man was a smoke cloud, a collapsing house and people running off into the distance. Shades of Beirut, Geoff thought with a shudder and, putting the book down, picked up another one. A couple in eighteenth-century clothes grappled on the front cover. Geoff judged that the man was winning the wrestling match because the woman's bodice was ripped open to a point just short of indecency.
He stared at it for a moment, speculated on the woman's half-hidden breasts and then leaned back on the chaise-longue, closing his eyes and wondering when the hell he was going to get laid again. Geoff wasn't used to going without sex for long periods of time, but the pickings at Indian Lake were mighty slim by Hamilton standards. Sunny was a nice but married lady, Jennifer was jail-bait and Petra was… hmmm, well the truth was that Geoff no longer looked upon Petra as a female with the sex appeal of a wet paper bag. He didn't know whether his tastes were changing or whether abstinence makes the heart grow fonder or whether there wasn't just something about her that added up to more than the apparent sum of her parts. She wasn't voluptuous or beautiful or sexy or ravishing. She wasn't flirtatious, and she was impervious to any vibes or signals that he gave out. He rather suspected that Petra Morgan's sex life was a big zero, a goose egg, zilch. But there was something about her that… well, intrigued him.
Geoff felt Renoir shift on his ankle as he pondered the ethics of sleeping with an interviewee. All sorts of complications could arise. His own reporting would be coloured by the emotional dust raised during an affair. His perspective would be tainted, altered, and distorted. He might grow sentimental or, if the affair crashed on the rocks, vindictive. No, Geoff thought regretfully, it wouldn't do to get intimately involved with the subject of his next feature article. He'd just have to suppress natural urges and inclinations, put a lid on his libido, tell that unruly part of his body to switch itself into neutral for the next few weeks. Then, when he returned to Toronto, there'd be females galore. There was even Marnie if he was so desperate that… damn, how crazy could he get? Marnie. That would be like jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Marnie. Christ.
There was a squeak as the screen door moved on its hinges and Geoff opened his eyes. Petra was back from her walk with Rembrandt trotting alongside her.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to wake you.'
'I wasn't sleeping.' He smiled at her. 'Sit down and share the sunset with me.'
Geoff had thought she would refuse, but Petra sat on the wicker chair beside him and looked out of the screened window. The sun was sinking over the far edge of the lake, its golden half-circle reflected in the surface of the water as if it were a vast, gleaming mirror. Above it, the s
ky had turned to purple, its scattered clouds the colour of rose. Within half an hour, when the sun had finally disappeared, the dome above them would be a velvety black dotted with glittering, silver stars.
'It's pretty, isn't it?' she asked.
'I thought you'd watch it out on the jetty.'
'The bugs were starting to bite,' Petra said.
'And the mosquitoes around here are as big as fighter planes.'
She smiled. 'You're sounding better.'
'I thought I sounded okay at dinner.'
She shook her head. 'You were groggy.'
'Was I?' Geoff shook his head. 'Damn pills.'
'Is your leg still bothering you?'
He shrugged. 'Only a bit.'
There was a companionable silence for a while, and Geoff stole a glance at Petra. She was looking out at the sunset with an abstracted air, her hand idly stroking Rembrandt's head. Her hair curled around her head like a dark, gleaming halo and he noticed, for the first time, how pure her profile was. Like a Botticelli painting or the face on an ivory cameo.
Geoff cleared his throat. 'A penny,' he said.
Petra's turned shy. 'They're not even worth that much,' she said. 'In fact, I wasn't thinking much about anything.'
Her unexpected ease with him encouraged Geoff to move one step closer to intimacy. The tack he took, however, was seemingly innocent. 'I tried to read some of these,' he said, waving his hand at the pile of books, 'but I couldn't get into any of them.'
Petra glanced down at them. 'Are you a reader of fiction?'
'Rarely. I like biographies, history, that sort of thing. What about you?'
'I've never been much of a reader. I don't know why.'
'Do you like movies?'
Petra shook her head. 'I don't go to movies very much either. That's weird, I know.'
Love is a Distant Shore Page 7