by Helen Conrad
He didn’t answer.
“Are they there?” she asked, referring to her parents.
“Yes. They’re always there.”
She took a deep breath. “What do you expect me to do?” she asked briskly. “Knock on the door and yell, ‘Hey, Mom, I’m home’?”
“That would be one way. Don’t you think she’d open her arms to you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Reid, I don’t think you know them as well as you think you do.”
“Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t.”
She spun and stared at him.
He shrugged. “Get some good sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She nodded, turning away from him. He hesitated for a moment, watching her. The tumbling chestnut curls invited an affectionate hand to rake through and put them in order. When she looked up at him, her eyes barely visible beneath the windblown hair, she looked so forlorn and vulnerable he had the urge to sweep her up and kiss her red mouth until . . .
“Good night,” he forced out, jaw twitching.
“Good night,” she whispered back.
He left her alone.
He was going to be strong. Leaving her room, he went into his own, closed the door tight, and leaned on it, drawing in a deep, ragged breath. Yes, he was going to be strong if it killed him.
CHAPTER FIVE:
Memories of a Golden Boy
Jennifer spent the next morning exploring Reid’s old room. What she would have given for a morning like this in the old days! Free rein in the midst of all Reid’s secrets.
Unfortunately, he either didn’t have many or he’d hidden those he had somewhere else. When he moved out, he’d left behind a shelf of beautifully crafted paper and wood airplane models, a wooden pencil box he’d obviously made with his own hands in some shop class, and a stack of well-thumbed-through fifteen-year-old Playboy magazines. But other than sports equipment and trophies, that was about it. She turned toward the bookcase, hoping for better luck there.
“Do men ever keep diaries?” she muttered. If they did, they didn’t leave them in bookcases, because she couldn’t find a sign of one. She did find a discouraging number of law books, along with calculus and physics textbooks, which didn’t hold much promise. And then, finally, she discovered his yearbooks.
He’d gone to Dantan Prep, the same exclusive private school as Tony. She’d attended Fairfax School for Young Women and hated every moment. Somehow she’d never been able to consider herself one of the chosen few, the self-proclaimed ruling class. She hadn’t been comfortable with snobs. Every day of every year she went there, she’d pleaded with her mother to take her out and let her go to public school.
“The faculty at Fairfax knows how to prepare you to take your place in society, Jennifer,” her mother would scold. “Besides, the things one hears happening at that public high school—I wouldn’t send a dog there.”
Miserable at a school where she felt completely out of place, Jennifer took matters into her own hands. The faculty at Fairfax might know how to help debutantes prepare to give suitable dinner parties, but they hadn’t a clue as to how to deal with a young woman who, when asked to write a term paper on a great American, chose Al Capone, then followed that outrage, by entering the talent show and singing, to her own accompaniment on the guitar, “Love for Sale” to the startled parents assembled.
Two months into her senior year, Jennifer got herself expelled. She was finally deemed suitable for public school.
Public school hadn’t turned out to be quite the paradise she’d imagined. It wasn’t easy coming in during the middle of a senior year. All the cliques had already been formed, and at that age, suspicions made it difficult to make new friends. But Jennifer’s open warmth and ready smile had served her well, and it wasn’t long before she had a few pals to eat lunch with, then girls were asking her over for slumber parties and boys were asking her out on dates. All in all, she still considered the experiment a success.
She ran her fingers over the dusty covers of the yearbooks from Dantan Prep, then found one that looked familiar. Pulling it out, she was surprised to find it was the annual for her senior year in public high school. What on earth was Reid doing with it?
Her first thought was that her mother had given him hers, but when she flipped it open, she found the pages, which in her copy were filled with wisecracks written in by fellow students, were blank. Very strange.
But she spent a pleasant half hour looking through it, finding her own pictures and those of friends long forgotten. Then she turned to Reid’s yearbooks, and when she opened the last of them, a piece of paper fell out. Brown around the edges, it was apparently an old letter, probably written at the time his high school yearbook came out.
She smoothed it open, not even thinking that she might be invading a privacy. “Dear Reid,” it began in an ultra feminine scrawl, the “i” dotted with a tiny heart. “I don’t think you know me, but I watch you every day at football practice ...”
“Jennifer?” Reid rapped on her door.
“Come on in,” she called, forgetting she was still dressed in her flimsy nightgown. She smiled with suppressed anticipation as he entered, holding the letter to her chest and debating how best to tease him with it. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you.” He was dressed in steel-gray slacks and a crisp white shirt, the cuffs of which he was just buttoning. It was evident he planned to go into work, even though it was Saturday. His eyes narrowed as his gaze traveled over the revealing length of her, making her suddenly very much aware of how thin and clinging the fabric was. “Are you planning to stay in bed all day?” he asked gruffly.
“I don’t know,” she said saucily. “That depends on what you have in mind.” She made a sexy pose, twisting a bit so that every curve was well displayed, and gave him a vampy look. She was rewarded by the whitening of his knuckles as he clutched the back of a chair.
“Jennifer,” he said harshly, “for God’s sake . . .”
She laughed, spoiling the lady-tramp look by turning it into the girl-next-door instead, and waved the letter at him.
“Don’t give me that holier-than-thou stuff, Reid. I’ve got the goods on you right here. I know your secrets.”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “What are you talking about?”
Eyes shining, she slowly unfolded the paper again. “Listen to this.” Making a dramatic event of clearing her throat, she began. ‘”I watch you every day at football practice. You’re my favorite player. I like to watch you run. But most of all . . .’ “ She cast him a look from beneath her lashes and wiggled her eyebrows significantly. “ ‘Most of all I like it when it gets hot and you take off your shirt.’ “
His brows came together in a ferocious frown. “What? Give me that.” He reached for it, but she avoided his hand, laughing. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, halfway between anger and embarrassment.
“It was right here.” She patted the yearbook. “Pressed among the leaves of your memories.” She cast her eyes to the heavens. “Ah, sweet youth. Young love.” She grinned impishly. “Young lust.”
He tried to hide his grin. When that didn’t work, he turned toward the window, pretending loss of interest. “I remember it now,” he conceded reluctantly. “It’s trash. Throw it away.”
“What?” Indignation trembled in her voice. “And tarnish the memory of . . .” She glanced down at the signature on the letter. “Margot Peterson? Why, the girl loved you, Reid. Listen to what else she had to say.”
He whirled. “No!”
But Jennifer was not to be stopped at this point. She waved away his protest, relishing the moment. “Listen. ‘Your muscles are the bomb’—now there’s a saying we could do without—“
Reid leaned against the wall and glowered. “I’ll second that opinion,” he grumbled.
Was he actually blushing? Jennifer bubbled with delight.
“ ‘Your muscles are the bomb. I love to see you move, ‘special
ly when you’re just wearing those little cotton pants that show ...’”’
He came away from the wall in one swift movement of outrage. “Jennifer!”
“’. . . off your legs,’” she finished, grinning.
His shoulders sagged with relief, but she wasn’t through. “Margot was a sweetheart. Listen to this. ‘When I think of you at night, I call you Golden Boy.’ “ Jennifer bit her lip and risked a smirking look at Reid. “Cute.”
Reid’s face was stony.
There wasn’t much more to the letter, so Jennifer began to improvise, pretending to read from the paper.
“ ‘I dream about you all the time. I dream about touching those gorgeous muscles. I dream about running my hands down that cool chest.’ “
“Jennifer!” He moved forward and made another halfhearted pass at her, which she easily evaded.
He was actually turning beet-red. She giggled and jumped up, standing on the bed, to avoid him as he reached again for the letter. Moving back against the wall, she stayed as far from him as possible.
“ ‘I dream about running my hands down your slick body,’” she went on, waving the paper out of his reach and not even making a real pretense of reading any longer. “ ‘I dream about tugging off those little cotton pants’ . . . oooh!” Her last sentence ended in a screech as Reid dove for the paper, tackling her and landing them both spread-eagle on the bed. She held the paper above her head while he held her prisoner.
“Give me that, you . . .” He wrenched the letter from her, then looked down at where she lay beneath him. “Jennifer,” he began, but whatever he was going to say died in his throat as he became aware of her, aware of her body.
She lay very still, gazing up at him with huge eyes. No more teasing. He felt hard against her, hard and hot and exciting, and she wanted him with a hunger that was quick and sure.
She could see desire flicker in his silver eyes. The morning sun streaming in through the window lit his hair, turning it to dark spun gold. His hand dropped the letter and came down to touch the side of her face, fingertips trailing softly, and then his gaze dropped to her breasts. The nipples were high and tight, the fabric of her nightgown almost transparent, so they looked dark and enticing beneath the pink cotton.
She closed her eyes to keep from calling out to him. Her heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to fill the room with an urgent pounding, a sensual pulse that rocked her, rocked him. He softly kissed her neck as his fingers touched the very tip of her nipple before he took her waiting breast in his hand. Then he was jackknifing away from her with a muffled curse.
“Get dressed,” he said harshly without looking at her, “I expect you down at breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
And she was alone again.
She rose and picked up the scattered and crumpled papers of the letter, smoothing them, then folding it. When she went across the room to replace the yearbook, she could feel the warmth on her breast where he’d touched her. She closed her eyes for a moment, recapturing the sense of his body on hers, his kisses, his caress, and she caught her breath. Why was he rejecting her?
Because sex is not what he wants, you idiot, she berated herself. He brought you here for a reason, and he doesn’t want to confuse it with other things. What else could it be?
She dressed slowly. She looked out the window at her parents’ house. Memories of Tony came floating back—Tony laughing and running, Tony teasing her, Tony telling her his dreams. It was such a crime that he died so young. He’d had such a lot to give the world. The hurt, empty feeling returned, but she didn’t cry. She never seemed to cry anymore. Maybe some things were beyond tears.
“It doesn’t look as though anyone is there,” she told Reid later as they sat across the breakfast table from one another. “The yard is all neat and clean, and everything looks healthy, but”—she hesitated—“it looks lifeless.”
“That’s the way it’s been lately.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and took a hurried swallow of coffee. “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour, but I’ll be back this afternoon.”
He got up from the table and shrugged into his impeccable suit coat. “Will you be able to keep yourself occupied until then?”
She smiled at him. “Of course. No problem.”
“Do you have some old friends you’d like to look up? I want you to feel comfortable. Use my MG if you want. I’ll take the Mercedes.” He extracted a car key from his ring and put it on the table.
She was warmed by that gesture of trust in her— even an apology in a way, for what he’d done last night when she’d taken Nita home
He hesitated and she almost thought he was going to lean down and kiss her, like a husband on his way to work in the morning. But he patted her shoulder instead.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
And so she was all alone. What would she do to pass the time? More exploring? But she didn’t think it would be appropriate to rifle through his current bedroom, looking for clues to the adult Reid.
What did he want? He most certainly had been as aroused as she’d been on the bed, so why had he jumped away? They were both mature, experienced adults. What would have been so wrong in sharing their affection for each other?
She puzzled over that while she ate the piece of toast he’d left behind. Suddenly, she thought she had the answer. He was in love with someone else.
She put down the crust of the toast and stared into her coffee, a knot of misery in her stomach. He was attracted to her on a purely man-woman basis, but there was someone else. Someone he wanted to remain faithful to. Perhaps that beautiful blonde she’d seen him with days before?
“Sounds like Reid,” she muttered in disgust, but that was merely window dressing for her real emotions. Actually, she admired him. It was a rare man who understood and practiced fair play and that sort of devotion in this day and age. She would have loved to have a man like that, “Let’s face it,” she whispered, taking an orange out of the silver fruit bowl in the center of the table, “I’d love to have Reid.”
Was that really true? She peeled the orange and pulled apart the sections, then popped each into her mouth, one at a time, her mind completely focused on the question.
Did she want Reid? Her mind tried to dispel such a thought. He wasn’t the same man she’d loved all those years ago. He’d changed, hardened. He seemed to have thrown himself wholeheartedly into the high society life she’d never been able to fit into. She sighed. No. It could never be right.
Not that it was a problem she was going to have to face anytime soon. She allowed herself a rueful smile as she searched among the fragrant peels for just one last section of orange. Reid had made it quite clear what he wanted from her, and it had nothing to do with what she’d been considering. He wanted her to reconcile with her parents.
She left the breakfast table, luxuriating in the fact that she wouldn’t have to clean up and do the dishes. Everywhere she looked there were ghostly servants slithering around in the background. She’d forgotten about servants. It had been so long since she’d been in a house that employed them.
She went back up to the bedroom she was using and looked down at the house next door again. A truck drove up. It was the gardener. She watched while he got out and began unloading his mower and edger and other equipment.
She’d never realized Reid had such a panoramic view of what went on at her house. All those years, he’d probably known a lot more about her movements than she’d guessed.
Only once could she remember having had an inkling of how much he knew. She’d been seventeen and flush with the success she was having at public school. Her parents had gone to Beverly Hills to a party. They were planning to stay the night. Jennifer had been left alone with just one maid for company—and she was old and almost deaf and went to bed right after dinner. Jennifer had invited a boy over.
Lance Taylor was his name. She remembered him well. A swaggering early Marlon Brando type, she’d thou
ght he was pretty cute—and so different from the boys she’d dated at the country club. He seemed earthy and basic and thrilling.
She’d invited him to come over, and his visit had turned into a nightmare. He’d guzzled her father’s liquor, criticized the interior decorating, and then decided they both should go skinny-dipping in her pool.
She’d had about enough of him by then, and she’d definitely ruled out dropping her bathing suit, but he thought amorous persuasion would do the trick. They’d wrestled alongside the pool, Jennifer hissing, “Cut it out, Lance!” and Lance muttering, “Come on, baby, gimme one kiss.”
Luckily, Reid arrived in the midst of all the silliness and threw Lance Tanner out after giving him a swollen, bloody nose.
Reid had seen what was going on from the very place she was sitting, she was sure. She laughed softly as she remembered his stern lecture—and how embarrassed she’d been. It was no wonder he’d formed a picture of her wildness that was a little exaggerated from the facts. That scene, along with what had probably been relayed to him by his mother, on whose shoulder Jennifer’s mother regularly wailed her disappointments in her daughter, were enough to tarnish any reputation. What else had he seen from this window?
Jennifer stayed glued there for another hour. Nothing much was going on, but it held her with a strange fascination. Her mother and father were inside that house. So near and yet so far.
She fantasized walking up to the familiar front door and banging the huge brass knocker. The maid would be unknown to her—her mother never could keep maids longer than six months at a time. A stranger would open the door.
“May I see Mrs. Thornton, please?” Jennifer would ask, and then suddenly, there she would be, walking quickly on her short legs, always in high heels, always taking two steps to everyone else’s one.
“Jennifer?” she would say in astonishment, her pale blue eyes wide. They would stare at one another for a long moment, and then joy would suffuse her mother’s face. “Oh, Jennifer!” she would cry, flinging herself into her taller daughter’s arms. They would rock each other, holding tightly, laughing through a torrent of tears, laughing as though nothing would ever separate them again.