“You no longer need to walk with a stick, so a little bullying does help sometimes,” she laughed at him.
“I don’t want to be bullied today,” he growled at her with mock-severity. “What about that picnic I suggested?”
“I think it’s a lovely idea,” she agreed enthusiastically.
It was a warm Sunday morning, and the tangy smell of the bush was all around them when they strolled along the river’s edge up to where it widened into a small, sheltered lake. Their lunch was in the canvas bag, which Grant had slung carelessly across one shoulder, and they were ravenously hungry when they flung themselves down on to the soft, wild grass beneath the willow and mimosa trees.
They ate their chicken sandwiches, nibbled at biscuits, and drank champagne out of tin mugs. It was crazy, but Liz loved every minute of it. Grant was again the man she had known all those years ago and, if it were at all possible, she fell in love with him all over again. He looked so tanned, so vital, so relaxed, and except for the premature greyness at his temples she could almost have flicked the calendar back six years. She wanted to touch him, but she was a little afraid to, so she rolled over on to her stomach and studied him where he lay beside her. His eyes were closed, she allowed herself the pleasure of looking at his perfectly chiselled features, her eyes lingering for interminable seconds on his mouth. The desire to brush her lips against his was incredibly strong, but she was still slightly hesitant at the thought of indulging in such familiarities with this complex man she had married only the day before. He knew that she loved him, but she would have to take care not to smother him with her feelings.
Grant stirred and opened his eyes, and she looked away quickly, saying the first thing that came to mind.
“Did you know that when I was sixteen I thought you were the handsomest man on this earth?” Her tongue was running away with her, but it was nevertheless the truth.
“I don’t doubt that you’ve changed your mind since then.”
“Oh, no,” she smiled down at him with teasing sincerity. “I still think you’re the handsomest man on this earth.”
Grant laughed out loud, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his strong teeth flashing white against his tanned face.
The years in between seemed to roll away, and she said quietly, “You should laugh more often.”
“I’m sure you’ll keep me amused,” he mocked her.
“I shall do my best, sir.” He raised his hand to touch her cheek, and she caught it between her own to examine the raised scars. “Grant… about your hand.”
He jerked his hand free, and sat up. “We won’t discuss it.”
“But you-“
“I said we won’t discuss it!”
Liz sat up slowly, aware of his anger and displeasure in the way he picked up a twig and twisted it between his fingers. She observed his hands absently for a moment, then more intently, and her mouth tightened with determination. “Don’t be a coward, Grant.”
He turned on her, his eyes glacier-cold. “What did you say?”
“I said, don’t be a coward.”
His face became distorted with rage. My God, I-”
“Look!” She was up on her knees in front of him, her hands gripping his wrists, and his eyes followed the direction of her gaze. His right hand was gripping the twig almost as tightly as his left. “If you haven’t noticed the improvement, then I have,” she said angrily, “and if you still don’t want to discuss it after this, then you’re a fool as well as a coward!”
She released his wrists and moved away from him, picking up the empty champagne bottle and mugs, and ramming then into the rucksack.
He sat there, almost as if he were in a daze, following every move she made with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Packing up,” she said stonily. “We might as well return to the cottage.”
“Liz,” he growled, flinging the twig from him, and pulling her down towards him so that she fell heavily into his arms, “you always were the most irritating thorn in my side. In the past I could always pluck you out, but now you’re there permanently,” he said derisively, looking down into her wide, shadowed eyes.
“Do you expect me to sit back and do nothing while you stick your head in the sand like an ostrich, and stubbornly refuse to do anything about your career?”
“My career as a surgeon is finished,” he argued harshly, silencing her with a look when she wanted to interrupt. “All right, so there’s a slight improvement in my hand. Perhaps it wasn’t as badly damaged as I first imagined, but what guarantee do I have that it will ever heal sufficiently for me to operate again?”
Liz stared up at him, at the way his crisp dark hair grew back from his broad forehead, the straight, high bridged nose, and the strong, often sensuous mouth above the square, determined jaw. There was an unmistakably deep anguish in his eyes, and she wanted to throw her arms around his neck in a rush of compassion, but she knew that this was the wrong moment to offer him sympathy.
“How often have you gone ahead with an operation without being able to give your patient the slightest guarantee that it would be a success?” her eyes never wavered from his for a second as she thrust home her point. “Do you want a written guarantee from someone before you’ll let them make an attempt to help you?”
For a long time he said nothing, he simply looked at her intently, then he kissed her hard on the mouth, and set her aside. “I think we’ve discussed this subject long enough. “Let’s go.”
The silences between them were strained. They both tired to make conversation on the way back to the cottage, but it just would not flow as it had done before. If only she could understand why someone with his determination should adopt such an attitude of defeat; if only he would talk to her and explain!
That night, when he lay next to her without touching her, she knew that she could no longer tolerate the situation. She switched on the bedside light and sat up in bed.
“I’m sorry, Grant,” she said, staring with anguished eyes at the broad, muscled back which he had turned so resolutely towards her. “I said all the wrong things again today.”
Grant remained stoically silent.
“Say something, for heaven’s sake!” she pleaded. “Accept my apology, or reject it, but please say something.”
“Acceptance doesn’t come easily to me, and standing in the shadows as an instructor while someone else does the job is not something I relish,” he obliged her, pushing himself up against the pillows and lighting a cigarette. “You’ve drawn my attention to the fact that there’s some improvement in my hand, but I don’t intend doing anything until I’m certain in my own mind that there’s reason to get excited about it.”
Liz’s mouth literally fell open in surprise. “You mean you’re not angry with me?”
“No, I’m not,” he smiled faintly, his eyes wandering to thrust of her small breasts against the diaphanous garment she was wearing. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, that’s all.”
“About what I said?”
“That, and more.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me about it?” she asked when he remained silent, but he shook his head and smiled that infuriating little smile that made her want to thump him hard on his chest with her fists. “Why do you insist on shutting me out? Why can’t you tell me what you’re thinking, and what you feel?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” he said, putting out his half smoked cigarette, and pulling her down beside him before she could prevent him. “I think you’re quite beautiful when you’re angry, and I want you.”
“Stop that, and be serious.”
“I am serious,” he argued softly, brushing aside the flimsy strap of her nightdress and nibbling sensually at her throat and shoulder.
“Grant, we must talk,” she protested weakly, her mind resisting, but her body yielding to the velvety warmth of his hands against her skin as he helped her out of her nightdress.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,”
he growled in her ear, then his mouth shifted over hers, and she was lost as the fire of his passion washed over her.
The clean male smell of him, the exciting abrasiveness of his hair-roughened chest against her breasts, and his murmured words of passion all helped to seduce her until she cried out with the intensity of her aching need. No longer aware of what she was doing, she feverishly caressed his muscled back and slim hips. It was a joyous experience, touching him like this, exploring the smooth skin covering the hard flesh of his virile male body, and with a shudder he came over her, taking her with a fierceness which would have frightened her the night before, but which she now found intensely satisfying.
She went to sleep once again with her head on his shoulder, and her corn-gold hair spilling over his arm on to the pillow. She felt happy and momentarily secure, but deep down there was still that niggling fear that her good fortune might be no more than fragile soap bubble.
The first two weeks of their marriage could not have been described as the most idyllic time Liz might have wished for, and the third week started off in much the same manner. Grant was often morose, lost in thoughts from which she was constantly excluded, and when she dared to question him he would slam out of the cottage and return some hours later, behaving as if nothing had happened. It frustrated Liz to the point of madness. She was never quite sure whether she could speak to him or not, and as a result she became tense and irritable, snapping at him quite often for no reason at all.
On the Tuesday evening of the third week, when he had helped her wash and pack away the dinner dishes, he turned to her and said quite unexpectedly, “I’m returning to Johannesburg at the end of the week.”
Liz stared up at him in blank surprise, then she shivered as if he had emptied a tray ice cubed down her back. “And what about me?”
“You’re coming with me, of course.”
“Oh?”
Grant glanced at her sharply, saw the paleness of her cheeks, and laughed shortly. “Did you think I would leave you here?”
“It was the way you said it, I suppose,” she brushed aside his question in a controlled voice, but a spark of anger had been ignited within her. “When did you come to this decision?”
“This morning,” he replied abruptly, taking his time lighting a cigarette, and leaning against the table as he blew the smoke towards the ceiling.
“May I know your plans, or shouldn’t I ask?” she said when it seemed as if he was going to offer her no further explanation.
“You have a right to know.” He smiled derisively. “You’re my wife, aren’t you?”
“I’m surprised you have remembered that when, just lately, you’ve been treating me like part of the furniture.”
He gestured angrily with the hand that held the cigarette. “I’ve had quite a few heavy decisions to make.”
“I can imagine, but—”
“But?”
Liz chewed nervously on her bottom lip and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve never hesitated before to speak your mind,” he mocked her. “Why start now?”
His mockery fanned that spark of anger into a flame, but somehow she managed to control her voice. “I love you, Grant. I don’t want to smother you, or embarrass you with my feelings, but I do wish you wouldn’t shut me out so often.”
“Shut you out?”
“Yes,” she said, her hands clutching the cupboard behind her so that he would not see them shaking. “From your thoughts, your hopes, and perhaps also your fears.”
“For heaven’s sake, Liz” he exploded savagely. “Do you expect me to run to you with every little thought that crosses my mind?”
“No, of course not,” she argued. “But you could share some of them with me-the important ones, at least.”
“But what the hell do you think I’m doing now?”
“You could have let me in on it while you were still considering this move,” she accused coldly.
“For God’s sake!” he shouted, raising himself to his full height and raking her from head to foot with narrowed, furious eyes. “Don’t tell me I’ve got myself a nagging woman!”
The use of the word “woman” instead of “wife” triggered off her anger to the extent that she seemed to see his face through a film of fury. “Damn you, Grant! I don’t just want to be the woman you take to bed with you at night. I want to be your wife in every sense of the word. I want to share the ups as well as the downs, the smooth as well as the rough, and I have every right to expect it.”
A chilling silence followed her outburst, then he asked in an ominously quiet voice, “Have you finished?”
”Yes,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Then get this straight!” He put his face so close to hers that she could see the pores in his skin. “When I asked you to marry me I told you quite clearly what I had to offer you, and you accepted my proposal on those terms. If you’re not happy with our marriage as it is, then you can damn well go for all I care!”
He stormed out into the night, slamming the door so hard behind him that her ears ached with the sound of it, but the ache in her ears was nothing compared to the stabbing chill of his parting words. It was true, of course. She had accepted his proposal for what it was worth, and now it must seem to him that she was rebelling against it. If she did not like it, then she could go, he had said, but was the truly how he felt, or had the simply lashed out in anger.
Liz began to shake, but the tears would not come. They simply lodged in her throat until, gasping for breath, she lowered herself into a chair. She regained her control with difficulty, but that did not stop her mind from torturing her. What if he had been serious? The station-wagon stood parked outside, and all she had to do was load her things into it, and leave. Was that what Grant wanted? No… yes … no! Oh, God, she didn’t know!
She picked up her sewing basket and sewed the buttons on to his shirt, but every few minutes she found herself glancing at the clock against the wall. He had been gone an hour. Where was he? What was he doing out there in the dark?
She switched on the kettle and made herself a cup of instant coffee, but she did so automatically while her mind flitted about outside, thinking of all the things that could possibly happen to Grant on such a dark night in the veld. She tortured herself with frightening visions until it felt as if she would go mad. She tried not to think while she curled her cold fingers around the mug and drank her coffee, but her mind refused to be stilled.
She eventually put away her sewing basket and glanced at the clock. Two hours! Grant had been gone two hours! It was late, and she was tired, but she knew that she would never sleep until she knew that he had returned safely.
Liz tried to ease away her tension and her fears in a hot, scented bath, but it was the sound of quick, heavy footsteps in the cottage that finally succeeded in chasing away some of her frightened thoughts. She stepped out of the bath, and was reaching for her towel when the bathroom door swung open.
Grant stood there, his hair awry, and his breathing a little uneven as she clasped the towel to her wet body and stared up at him with wide, anxious eyes. He looked pale beneath his tan, but she saw the muscles in his jaw relax, and she did not miss that flicker of relief in his eyes.
Without a word he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
The large towel was removed from her nerveless fingers, and very gently, as if she were a child, he rubbed her dry, then he took her cotton robe off the hook behind the door and held it for her to slip her arms into it.
“I was afraid for a moment that you might have gone,” he said, his eyes on her hands as she fastened the buttons down the front of her robe.
“I made you angry,” she said in a voice that was much steadier than her insides and, taking off her shower cap, she let her thick golden hair tumble down on to her slim shoulders. “I hoped that was the reason for the things you said.”
A muscle jerked in his cheek, their eyes met, and then she was in hi
s arms.
They held each other tightly without speaking. What else was there to say except “I love you” , but the words lodged in her aching throat, and she knew that Grant would never say them. He wanted her, he might even need her at times, but he would never love her.
“I’m glad you came this morning,” said Stacy when Liz dropped in for a cup of tea and a chat. From the drawer in the hall table she took out an airmail envelope and handed it to Liz. “It’s a letter from Pamela addressed to you.”
“Thanks,” Liz murmured absently, slipping the letter into her handbag.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I’ll read it later,” said Liz, following her sister into the kitchen, and seating herself at the kitchen table while Stacy made a pot of tea and complained about Rosalie’s fretfulness during the night. Liz drank her tea, and listened in silence, and they had discussed various subjects before she managed to voice the reason for her visit. “Grant and I are going to Johannesburg on Friday.”
Stacy looked shocked, but she recovered swiftly to ask, “Permanently, or for a visit?”
“Permanently.” Liz put down her cup and fiddled nervously with the teaspoon in her saucer. “Grant wants to see a colleague of his who he thinks might be able to help him regain full use of his hand.”
“Do you think there’s a possibility of that ever happening?”
“I’m confident that he’ll operate again,” Liz replied without hesitation, but Stacy remained a little sceptical.
“Can you imagine what it will do to him if he’s built up his hopes and finally discovers that the initial diagnosis was correct?”
Liz shrank inwardly from the implication in those words. “I don’t want to think about that.”
“You’ll have to think about it Liz,” Stacy persisted sensibly. “You’ll be there to witness his success, or his failure and, if it’s the latter, you’ll have to deal with it, and teach him how to live with it.”
House of Mirrors Page 8