The Wall: A Vintage Contemporary Romance

by Thea Harrison

  Greg turned her around and pointed over her shoulder to an area about twenty feet away. “See the disturbed ground over there? If you go and look, there’s a bit of grass that’s about seven feet in diameter that I just laid down over the filled-in hole. That’s how I want this patch to look when I’m done with it. That way, in the summer there won’t be any scars in the area, only an extension of the grass, without having to plant seeds.”

  Light dawned. “Oh, I see. You know, I’ve lived most of my life in the city, and I’d never heard of that before. It’s ingenious!”

  He finished his drink and handed her the mug back. “Thank you. You’d better run inside before you get chilled.” With that, he bent and picked up his axe again, shaking his head to get the hair out of his face. Sara laughed at him and reached over to smooth it back out of his eyes, running her fingers through the unruly front lock.

  “There you go. What do you want for supper? I’ll fix it.”

  He surveyed her doubtfully. “Can you cook?” He sounded as if he wondered if she could even pick up a pan, and she shook a finger under his nose in retaliation.

  “Now you’ve gone and done it!” she warned. “You’ve made me mad. You’ll be lucky if you get a boiled egg—just see!”

  He was instant humble contrition. “I was only teasing a little, honest. Please don’t feed me a boiled egg, Sara. I don’t like ’em.”

  She considered his humble stance loftily. “We’ll just have to wait and see. I don’t know whether I’m still mad at you or not. I’ll decide later.”

  She was totally unprepared for his swoop down on her, and she shrieked with delight as he scooped her up in his arms and twirled her around and around. “You’ll decide now, madam,” was his grim warning, “or you won’t set foot in that kitchen again without my supervision and intervention!”

  “Oh, yes,” she cried, clapping her hands like a child. “Let’s have Supervision and Intervention instead of boiled eggs! I won’t boil you an egg for supper—Greg, stop twirling me around, I’m getting sick! You goon, I’ll throw up all over your shoulder, I swear it!”

  He stopped suddenly and the whirling world soon settled into proper perspective for her, but not before she watched it go round a few times without her. She kicked her legs experimentally, but Greg refused to put her down. He looked deep into her eyes. They were so close their cheeks nearly touched. “You really aren’t mad any more?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

  She backed her head up to look at him better, puzzled. “I was never mad to begin with and you know it! What are you getting at?”

  He shrugged and the movement sent her bouncing up once, making her remember how she was being held. She wriggled again, thinking it must be a strain on his back to hold her so long off the ground, but he only tightened his grip on her shoulder and under her knees, making it clear that he had no intention of letting her go for the moment. “It’s just that if you were truly angry with me, we could have kissed and made up,” he whispered, bringing his lips closer and closer. She shut her eyes as his dark head descended and met his lips eagerly with her own.

  Greg slowly let go of his grip under her knees, and she slowly slid into an upright position, his other arm tightening on her shoulders and pulling her hard against his chest. His free hand came to her hair and entangled itself at the back of her head, forcing her to deepen the kiss. She made no protest. Her arms were around his neck, her two hands at his nape. She felt his shoulders hunch, drawing her to his lean body, and she was aware of being set down gently, but her feet were barely touching the ground and Greg was supporting her whole weight against his chest. His legs were wide apart for balance, and she was flat hard against every part of his long, powerful body.

  The kiss changed, became pulsing and urgent for both of them. They explored each other’s mouths with an excitement and tenderness and a total mutual consent.

  For Sara, it was the first time that she had ever been completely concentrating on, and vibrantly aware of, another human being. She was lost in the embrace, drowning in sensation, overwhelmed with physical desire and emotional communication. She couldn’t explain it to herself; certainly she wasn’t able to at that time, and she couldn’t later examine her feelings with any degree of coherency. All she knew was that she wanted to be near this man, wanted to be close to him in his thoughts and feelings. She wanted to reach out her hand and feel his close over it. She wanted to make love to him and give the greatest gift she could possibly bestow on him—herself. She felt no fear at their closeness, nor of her own overwhelming feelings. She knew instinctively that Greg would never hurt her, and she felt, so close as she was to him now, that he was experiencing some powerful emotion himself. She felt it course through him like an electrical charge, making him shudder against her slim body, making him crush her against him with arms like bands of steel. It was a mutual experience, and it was right.

  Slowly, very slowly, she was lowered to the ground until she could feel the earth beneath her feet, and she was held gently, very gently, until she could stand on her own. Her head was leaning on his shoulder, in the warm shelter of the curve of his neck. She snuggled her face deeper into the strong column, putting her lips to the pulse pounding there, caressing it lightly. The hand in her hair tightened behind her head, pushing her harder against his neck as Greg heaved a great sigh. She tasted the salt of his sweat, then he was pulling her away from his warmth with a wry twisted smile. Held a little distance away from his encircling arms and the warmth of his chest, Sara felt suddenly very cold. A slight wind touched her and she shivered. She was watching his face, and she saw the rather blind look in his eyes gradually fade away until he was grinning down at her, back in control, noting her chills.

  “You’d better run inside, madam, before you catch your death out here,” she was told prosaically. “And let me get back to work with no more distractions!”

  She tossed her head, sending her black hair tumbling in a glorious gleaming swirl, greenish colour glinting in her eyes. Greg suddenly saw the temptress in her, the quality of sensuality that the press was able to catch in her sultry poses, the aura that the camera picked up with such sensitivity. He stood as if stunned, staring at her, unable to tear his gaze away. Sara backed away from him a few steps, hair still tumbling, caught in the wind and blown across her face. Through a cloudy curtain of darkness, he saw the mocking slant to her eyes and got the impression of curved lips. She pushed the hair off her forehead.

  “So that’s all I am to you,” was her murmured reply, “a distraction? Something to be used and experienced and then forgotten when one is working on other more important matters? Hah!” She was laughing inside at the expression on his face, the total concentration and fascination in his eyes. She knew that she was more than a mere distraction to him and that his choice of words had been teasing. Some irresistible imp had got hold of her, though, and she intended to tease him back for such an implication. She raised a saucy, wagging finger to him. “Honey, if you think this is distracting, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

  She didn’t need to turn around and look back as she re-entered the house, walking slowly, almost insolently. She knew and could feel his eyes burning on her back all the way into the house.

  She wasted no time when she reached the kitchen, but immediately set about preparing supper, deciding on a casserole of gratinée potatoes with chunks of salty ham liberally added in. After putting the dish into the hot oven, she made up a quick batch of homemade biscuits to go on the bottom rack in the oven. Then, while the bread baked, she deftly cut up a lettuce salad, adding bacon bits, onion, and tomatoes to it, and slipped it back into the refrigerator. Then she considered the dining room table. They had eaten in the kitchen before, on the everyday plates, but she wanted things to be a little more special than that. She rummaged around in a polished oaken cabinet in the dining room and came up with a lovely set of bone china. It would look beautiful. The table was quickly set and the biscuits rescued from the oven’s inte
nse heat, a temptingly golden crunchy brown. Sara covered them with a clean cloth and glanced at the clock. She wanted to be absent from the kitchen when Greg came in. She had a surprise for him. She didn’t have much time, so she hurriedly washed some fresh fruit and cut it up for dessert, adding the package of walnuts she had found in the cupboard when she was organising everything. Then, before she dashed upstairs, she peeped in at the casserole. It was cooking nicely and would be fine for some time.

  She then looked out of the window to see how Greg was progressing, and found him gathering up his tools. Sticking out her head, she yelled to him, “Dinner’s in about an hour. That enough time for you?”

  His head lifted and turned. “It should be fine!” he called back. “I’m just finishing now, and I’m going to take Beowulf for a quick run, before cleaning up!”

  Sara nodded and pulled back in. The fruit salad was put into the refrigerator and the counters cleaned and wiped off, then she was galloping up the stairs. There was just enough time. In her room and closing the door, she contemplated the open door of the closet with a secret smile. With a quick decision so characteristic of her, she yanked out an outfit and laid it across the bed. A silky pair of gossamer-thin pantyhose floated after it, settling softly on her pillow. Then she had drawn out a black pair of shoes, and clean underwear. Heading for the bathroom, she took a quick shower, thankful that she had washed her hair that morning. A few pins held it securely on her head while she swiftly cleaned up.

  Then she was sitting in front of the large dressing table mirror, contemplating her clean face. Greg had never seen her with more than just a minimum of makeup on. In fact, he had never seen her dressed up at all. With a return of her old caution, she knew that she didn’t want to wear her make-up as heavy as she did when she was performing professionally. It wasn’t her personal preference anyway. She reached for a jar of foundation and smoothed just enough on to even out her complexion a bit. It didn’t take much, for she already had a smooth silken quality to her fine clear skin. The foundation added just a bit more creaminess, making her appear alabaster white and very fragile against the thick dominant blackness of her curtain of hair. Then she touched her cheekbones with a blusher that, when blended skillfully and subtly, gave her the appearance of a fragile porcelain doll.

  She used a brown eye-shadow that gave her eyes depth and softness, and lined her eyes with a smoky black liner that she then smudged delicately. Her eyebrows were strongly marked and yet refined, so she left them alone. A few applications of black mascara made her lashes so long that they touched her cheeks when she looked down. She lined her lips, then filled in with a red rose colour that matched the shade of her blusher, then sat back to stare at her reflection critically. It would do; it would definitely do. Then she contemplated her hair, hanging like a straight waterfall. It would go up tonight. Her fingers moved swiftly and soon her hair was lying in a heavy complicated coil on her slender neck, emphasising the graceful curve of her nape and the slight curve of her cheek.

  The outfit she slipped on was black, a deceptively simple black skirt that foamed into a rather wide fall around the mid-calf, and fitted tightly at her slim waist. The blouse was filmy and transparent, needing the delicate black chemise underneath for decency, and it complemented both the skirt and her white skin perfectly. It was long-sleeved, allowing the white glimpses of her arms and upper chest to gleam through the gauzy black. Lastly the shoes were slipped on. They were a black leather pump style, with low heels and a small silver bow on top. She continued the silver motif with a slim silver belt that clipped in front, and silver chunky earrings at her ears.

  Greg knocked on her door quickly, and she called out, “Yes?”

  “I was just checking to see where you were,” the deep voice reverberated through the wood. “Supper smells delicious!”

  “Thank you. I hope it is delicious. I need to go and see about it,” Sara returned, stepping back and looking at herself. A slender vision of delicate beauty looked back, eyes huge, expression doubtful. How would Greg see her? Would he like what he saw?

  “I’ll be right down. I want to clean up and change,” he told her, voice fading away. She heard his bedroom door slam, and decided to go right down so that he wouldn’t see her until he was downstairs.

  She slipped ice into water glasses and set a chilled bottle of wine in a bucket of ice on the buffet cabinet by the table. Then she put out the biscuits and served up the lettuce salad in side bowls. She had just carried in the bubbling, steaming casserole dish and had set it carefully on the hot pad ready for it, when a noise from the doorway had her turning gracefully. The skirt flared slightly as she moved.

  Greg was at the doorway in a position that indicated he had been there for some time. He had changed into a dark pair of well-fitting slacks and a white shirt with a cream pullover sweater over it, and his hair was still damp from the shower he had just taken. The sleekly brushed hair that lay so close to his well-formed bone structure emphasised the rugged, slightly irregular quality of his facial features. She found herself fascinated by his firm, unsmiling mouth. He exuded masculinity, and she was as sensitive to the fact as if she had been a receptive radar.

  He looked brooding, intent. His eyes travelled over her as if he couldn’t see enough. She simply stood still, waiting for his perusal to end, waiting for some kind of reaction. He came away from the door with a slow, sensuous grace, his eyes never leaving her face. When he stopped, he was very near, his head bent to her. She could have leaned slightly forward and been fully against his chest, but she didn’t. She just stood as if she were stone, only her living eyes moving, watching him.

  “You’re beautiful,” Greg said huskily, deeply. That was all, a simple straightforward statement. Sara was used to fulsome flattery, extravagant utterances from all types of people, and she didn’t credit any of those kind of remarks with the truth, but Greg’s elementary statement sounded as if it had come right from the heart, and it pierced her to the quick. She reacted instinctively, immediately, by putting one hand against the side of his face. His own covered it. A smile grew in his eyes and he told her, “It’s a good thing I looked in here before I went upstairs to change for dinner. I was able to get the idea from the table setting that I should dress. You, of course, weren’t going to say a word.”

  She laughed up at him and shook her head. “I was getting back for that remark you made about being ‘just a distraction’ and I was going to hit you for all I was worth! A total surprise was the only way.”

  “It worked,” he said, smiling. “You’ve floored me. Go ahead, walk all over my poor devastated body!”

  “Don’t be silly. As long as you’ve got my point, the matter is finished,” she replied flippantly, and sat down in the chair he held for her. Deep down, though, she knew that it wasn’t finished. Something had started outside, in that chilly October wind. Things had just begun.

  Greg was flatteringly appreciative of the meal, and he made huge inroads in the casserole dish before him. She watched with a smile. Her own appetite seemed to have diminished, and she contented herself with a small helping and a few bites of salad. She nursed her glass of wine, for the most part just content to keep him company.

  They talked, and found that they had a great deal in common. They both loved outdoor sports, and were conscious of their own body’s fitness and health. Both seemed to like the same kind of movies. Both expressed an interest in their environment, and a deep concern for the gluttony and wastefulness of the general public. Sara found that she could converse well with Greg, and she didn’t hesitate to state her thoughts and feelings with a frankness and an intelligence that earned her a gleam of respect and admiration from him.

  She in turn was astounded at the depth of perception and keen understanding of the human mind that Greg possessed. His thought processes, she found, were clear and well organised, with a neatness of precision and a definite logical pattern to them. He was extremely well educated and informed on many issues of the day,
and he tended to be hotly argumentative on the subject of politics. He would never let her make a careless or thoughtless remark without some kind of proof or explanation to back it up. He was quick to respond to her remarks, even getting to the point of anticipating some of them as he became familiar with the way her mind worked. He became uncanny at this, until she protested finally that he must be a mind-reader, to anticipate her reactions so well.

  His reply to this was amused. “No, I’m not telepathic. I can just sense the direction of your thoughts when you’re thinking logically and unemotionally. Anyone can do it when a certain knowledge of a person’s likes and dislikes, interests and prejudices, is acquired. I’m beginning to have that kind of working knowledge of you, and so I can anticipate your reactions to certain subjects at times. You’ve got to realise, though, that when you’re dealing in the realm of human emotion, reactions and responses are infinitely varied and unpredictable. I could no more predict you than I could a total stranger. Oh, I don’t mean straightforward subjects. I’m fairly sure that if you were confronted with the sight of an animal being physically abused in public, you’d raise all hell, but the reason I know that is because I’ve seen the kind of gentleness and consideration that you treat Beowulf with. Therefore, I know that you harbour some love for animals in general, for dogs in particular. The kind of unpredictability I’m speaking of is the type of emotion that springs from associations with one’s past, dealings with relationships, and things of that sort. No one tells another person every single thing about himself or herself—it’s impossible. Thus, to some extent, we are all strangers to one another.”

  The wall, she thought, resting her chin on her laced fingers and staring off into nothing. It’s that damned wall every time. Even now, when he’s being open, intelligent, and as honest as he can be, that wall rears its ugly head. He’ll retreat behind it whenever he’s tired of me, or whenever he’s hurt.