by Laura Jordan
“Oh, you know,” she said smoothly. “The Miata type. Or maybe a Corvette.”
He laughed again, deeper this time. His laugh was so natural, so easy, so masculine. It literally rumbled from his chest. “How about a Dodge van?”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. This car belongs to the television station. Actually, when I’m at home, I drive a Dodge van. Nothing fancy. No fur-covered mattresses, no quadraphonic CD systems, no murals on the outside. But very functional for hauling all my equipment.”
“I can’t believe it,” Kathleen said honestly. Then, raising her knee to the seat and turning toward him slightly, she asked, “You live in St. Louis, don’t you?” The Harrisons had told her that much about him.
“Yes. Have you ever heard the term ‘O and O’?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, actually you wouldn’t unless you worked in the television industry. ‘O and O’ stands for owned and operated. And that applies to television stations that are actually owned by the networks. According to FCC regulations, each network can own five VHF television stations. UBC has one in St. Louis. Really it’s only an address for me. They send me anywhere they need me.”
“That’s intriguing. I’m afraid I don’t know very much about the television industry.”
“I’m afraid I don’t either,” he said, smiling. “All I know about is my camera and how to use it. I aspire to doing much more creative things than network news stories. I really consider my affiliation with them as an apprenticeship. One day, I’d like to have my own production company and produce commercials, industrial films, things like that. Unfortunately, a setup like that costs a lot of money.”
“Surely the network pays a valuable employee like you well.”
“Well, but not extravagantly. The glory guys are the ones in front of the cameras, not the ones behind them.” His index finger tapped the end of her nose. “Now it’s your turn. I know nothing about the ‘rag trade.’ ”
Kathleen laughed and launched into a brief outline of her work, but to her surprise, he was genuinely interested and asked intelligent questions until she found herself talking animatedly. “I attend several fashion markets a year, not only in Atlanta, but in Chicago and Dallas as well. I go to New York every few months.”
“That sounds glamorous,” he said, obviously impressed.
“Not so much so.” She laughed. “I must often placate the alterations seamstress when a garment proves unalterable. And there’s always a wealthy customer who must have a dress by the night of the country club dance. She places me at the mercy of a shipping clerk in a warehouse who has a heart of stone. Salesladies are constantly running out of goods that manufacturers swear are no longer available.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “Had enough?”
He laughed. “But you’ll be eager to return in the fall.”
Suddenly reminded that she had nothing to return to, she looked away quickly. “Yes,” she answered vaguely. She didn’t want to discuss her resignation from Mason’s or the reason for it.
Sensing her withdrawal, Erik shifted his attention away from the road and peered closely at her through slitted eyes.
Kathleen adroitly avoided pursuing this line of conversation by saying, “Slow down a little. You need to make a left-hand turn up here at the crossroads.”
* * * * *
The Crescent Hotel stood sentinel over the township of Eureka Springs. Looking very European with its gray brick walls, blue roof and red chimneys, it depicted the period in which it was built. Broad verandas on each floor ran the length of the building where guests could sit in rocking chairs and enjoy the mountainous panorama. The corners of the building were square and topped with pyramid-shaped roofs.
Erik parked the car and helped Kathleen out with a hand under her elbow. He was impressed with the old hotel, but Kathleen was slightly embarrassed that Edna had made so much of it to a man who had been all over the world. Nevertheless, his comments were appreciative.
The lobby had white Grecian columns connecting the Persian rug-scattered hardwood floor to the high molded ceiling above. An open white marble fireplace was free-standing in the room, and one could enjoy the fire from four sides. Of course, on this hot summer night, the logs were stacked, but no fire was burning. Instead, patrons sat on the Victorian furniture in air-conditioned comfort.
The dining room looked like a room out of The Unsinkable Molly Brown. The walls were covered with red and gold flocked paper. The oaken floors gleamed with the patina that only age and careful maintenance can produce. The tablecloths were also red, showing off the china, crystal and silver. One comer of the room was dominated by a grand piano, where a man in a black tuxedo was playing softly.
On their behalf, Edna had made the reservation. They were shown to their table by the maitre d’ who held Kathleen’s chair for her with an old-world flourish. He took their drink orders and then discreetly withdrew.
“What in the hell is a spritzer?” Erik asked.
“It’s white wine and club soda on the rocks with a twist of lemon.”
“Whatever happened to healthy, substantial drinks like scotch and water?” He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his fists as he teased her.
“I don’t like anything that tastes alcoholic. I like things that taste like punch or are very tart or made with ice cream.”
He grimaced. “What do you do when you need a good swift kick in the butt?”
“I take a vitamin pill.”
He laughed and saluted her with his highball glass, which had just arrived. After they had sipped their drinks, he said, “I’ve got to taste a spritzer. No one should go through life without having done that.”
He took the frosted wineglass out of her hand and deliberately turned it around to place his lips on the lipstick-smudged place hers had been. He watched her over the glass as he took a small drink. When he handed it back to her, he said softly, “Delicious.”
Kathleen’s stomach did a somersault, but she was unable to tear her eyes away from the power of his. He hadn’t been referring to the drink when he had made that one succinct description. He was reminding her that he had tasted her mouth thoroughly, knew it, recognized it and liked it.
She could have hugged the waiter when he returned to the table with the menus. “What will I have tonight?” She feigned interest in the bill of fare. Actually, she didn’t think she’d be able to eat a thing. Her heart seemed to have swollen in her chest and compressed her lungs until her breathing was little more than light panting.
“I already know,” Erik said, closing the menu decisively.
“What?” She laughed.
“Fried chicken. Only in the South can you get real fried chicken.”
“You should come to Atlanta sometime. I think it must be the fried chicken capital of the world.”
He watched her mouth as she spoke, and then raised his eyes to meet hers. “I will.” It was a promise, and again her heart did that erratic dance that she now knew from memory.
“What are you having?” he asked when the waiter came back with a pen poised over his tablet.
“The trout. Broiled, please. And I’d like some extra lemon wedges,” she said to the waiter.
After he left, Erik leaned across the table toward her once again. “Would you like another spritzer?”
“No, thank you. But order yourself another drink if you like.”
“No. I’m drunk enough as it is.” He reached for her hand, encircled her wrist with his strong fingers and brought it to his lips to press a fervent kiss against her pulse. “Mitsouko. Do you always smell so good?” His mouth mumbled the words against the back of her hand as his thumb stroked the sensitive palm in heart-melting rhythm. The question was rhetorical and needed no answer, so none was offered. “Tell me about you, Kathleen.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked breathlessly.
“Everything. Was it tough on you when you lost your parent
s?”
She hadn’t intended to, hadn’t even thought of it, but she reached out with her other hand and covered the masculine one that was holding hers. She stared at the clasped hands for a long while before she spoke.
“I wanted to die, too. I was angry. How could God do this to me? I had always been obedient, a good student, eaten all my vegetables, you know, the kind of things a kid thinks are exemplary.” She sighed. “I was spending the night with a friend because I had had a cold and Mother didn’t want me out in the boat. I didn’t even find out about the accident until the next morning, when my friend’s mother heard about it on the radio.”
Closing her eyes, she relived all the pain she had felt on that day. “I am almost twenty-six years old. I only lived with Mamma and Daddy half of my life, yet they are still so much a part of me,” she said softly. “Memories of them are more vivid than things that happened subsequent to their deaths.”
“You were put in an orphanage.”
“Yes.” She smiled gently. “I remember being angry at my parents’ friends, who said they were worried about me but wouldn’t ask me to live with them. They were all very kind. I realize that now. But then, I was bitter about the rotten deal I was getting out of life. I wasn’t too charitable toward anyone.”
“You were entitled to a little bitterness, I think. ” He raised her hand and kissed it quickly, then asked, “Where did you go to school?”
“At the orphanage. It was a church-supported institution— how I hate that word! They had classes through the ninth grade. Then I went to public high school. That helped prepare me for living ‘on the outside.’ ”
“And college?”
“I had good enough grades to be offered a scholarship by benefactors of the orphanage, but I also worked in a dress shop near the campus to subsidize the scholarship.”
He smiled knowingly. “You don’t fool me, Ms. Haley. You worked so it wouldn’t look like you were taking charity.”
“Perhaps that was part of it,” she conceded shyly.
“Go on.”
“You know the rest. Or virtually all of it. After I graduated, I worked as a salesgirl in retail stores, gradually being promoted until I applied for the position at Mason’s two years ago.” Hurriedly, Kathleen switched the subject away from the job she had so recently given up. “What about your family? By your name, I take it you are of Scandinavian descent.”
“Yes, my father was Danish. He was first-generation American. His parents came over from Denmark when he was an infant. My grandfather was a watchsmith. My grandmother never even learned English. All I remember about her is her white hair pulled back into a tight bun and her home-baked cookies, which were the best I’ve yet to taste.”
“Maybe that’s because you were young,” Kathleen suggested with a smile.
“Maybe.”
“Your parents? What did your father do?”
“He was a hard man, determined. He worked his way through college, served in the war, and then came home and married my mother. He worked for Boeing in Seattle, where I grew up. He was a big, brawny guy, with a fierce temper. But I’ve seen him weep over a sentimental movie.”
“You speak of him in the past tense,” she commented gently.
“Yes. He died ten years ago. Mother, who is as petite and soft and timid as Dad was boisterous, still lives in the Northwest.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of their food. Kathleen was surprised that she was able to eat, after all, and did unladylike justice to her plate. The dining room at the Crescent was reputed to combine good country cooking with elegant service. Erik complimented them on achieving that as he dunked yeast rolls into the rich natural gravy of his fried chicken, which he declared surpassed any other.
Kathleen declined his offer of dessert, but was persuaded to eat one of the remaining rolls dripping with rich, thick honey as they sipped their after-dinner coffee.
When Erik was presented with the bill, her suggestion that she pay for her half was met with a glowering look.
“But it was Edna’s idea that we come.”
“Ms. Haley, I’m all for equality between the sexes—to a point. Buying a lady her dinner is one of those points. I’ll pay the bill.”
She could tell by the strong set of his jaw and his firm tone of voice that the issue was closed.
“Where is the lounge with the dance floor?” Erik asked as they left the dining room and traversed the lobby.
“We don’t have to go there,” Kathleen protested quickly.
“Oh, yes, we do. Edna will want a full report, and I’m afraid I’d lose favor if I didn’t dance with you at least once.”
By the determined look on his face, Kathleen knew it was pointless to argue, so she said, “It’s downstairs.”
He ushered her down the broad staircase with the carved banister to the basement, where a quiet cocktail lounge had been hollowed out. It was an unsophisticated room, barely more than a tavern. Behind the bar, animated neon signs flashed the names of various beers. Few people were in the lounge on this weeknight, but there was a three-piece ensemble playing music in front of a tiny dance floor shrouded in darkness.
Unaffected by the small crowd and the fact that no one else was dancing, Erik took Kathleen’s hand and led her onto the floor, drawing her into the circle of his arms.
The group played slow ballads. They danced twice in the traditional way, though Erik’s arm around her back held her to him possessively.
On the third song, he raised her hands and placed them around his neck, putting both his arms around her waist. He dipped his head close to hers and whispered into her ear, “I like it better this way. It’s like making love to music.”
Kathleen’s breath was suspended for a moment when he drew her closer. His readiness to make love was apparent as he pressed against her. He nuzzled her hair with his nose, treating it to the sweet scent. His mouth brushed across her ear as he whispered her name. Then it came to rest on her lips, parted them and kissed her tenderly. “You feel so good against me. I love the way your body moves with mine. I love the way you look, and smell and taste.” His tongue made quick, darting forays into her mouth that made her cling to him in desperation, wanting more.
It was several long seconds before she realized the music had stopped and the trio was putting down its instruments to take a break. Kathleen pushed away from Erik shyly.
“You’d better get that hot little number home quick, buddy. Looks to me like she’s primed and ready.”
The stranger’s intrusive words abruptly brought them back to earth.
Five
Kathleen swiveled around toward the obnoxious, nasal voice and saw two young men sitting at one of the small tables. They were propped back in their chairs, their expressions stupidly insolent. Cowboy hats with feather hatbands were tilted back on their heads.
Her face flooded with hot color. Turning away quickly and not waiting for Erik, she raced for the door. The crash of furniture against the hardwood floor brought her to a jolting halt.
Acting with the instinct of a jungle cat, Erik pounced on the two young men who had spoken unwisely. One he caught under the chin with a right fist. The cowboy flew out of his chair under an impact like Thor’s hammer and landed unceremoniously on the floor in an undignified heap. The other young man had stood up in hopes of making a show of self-defense, but his belly was plowed into with an iron fist, and then, as he leaned over in agony, he, too, knew the rocketing pain of Erik’s punch to his jaw.
Bleary-eyed, they stared in fear up at Erik from their humiliating positions. “Have one on me to cool off a little, boys,” Erik said cheerfully. He flung a five-dollar bill onto the table.
Then, with the dignity of a monarch, he met Kathleen at the door and escorted her out of the silent room.
When they had mounted the staircase and were crossing the lobby toward the front door, she asked shakily, “Erik, are you all right?”
“Sure. Why shouldn’t I be? T
hey deserved to be knocked on their cans for what they said about you.” He smiled down at her and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “They’ll live. I promise. I didn’t hurt them near as much as I could have.”
That was what worried her. For an instant, when he had turned on the two young men, she had seen an expression on Erik’s face that caused a prickle of fear to chill her spine. His teeth were bared in a feral grimace and his hands were clenched into fists that hung loosely at his sides as he crouched in the menacing position.
He had spoken of his father’s fierce temper. Apparently, his Viking blood, which felt each emotion strongly, wasn’t immune to anger.
* * * * *
“Can you please point me in the right direction? The streets in this town are like a maze,” Erik said once they were in the truck and he was backing it out of the parking lot.
Was this affable man the same one who had attacked the two cowboys in the lounge only a few moments ago? Kathleen laughed nervously as she said, “Straight ahead for the next few blocks.”
“Straight? You’ve gotta be kidding!” Erik said as he took the first sharp curve.
Indeed, most of the streets in Eureka Springs were unique. Each wound around the hills, seemingly without destination but somehow managing eventually to converge on the wider and more uniform thoroughfares.
The narrow, twisting streets were lined with historic houses decorated with “gingerbread” trim, jeweled with dormer windows and flanked by beds of geraniums, petunias, periwinkles and marigolds. Most of the century-old houses had been fully restored and painted in gaily contrasting colors that made the neighborhoods look more like Disneyland than a small community in the Ozarks of Arkansas.
“Would you like to stop someplace else?” Erik asked when they reached the highway that led back to Mountain View.
“No. It’s been lovely to get away for a few hours, but the grind starts again tomorrow, and then, the day after, we’re taking a busload of the older kids to the Buffalo River for a day of tubing on the rapids.”