Chapter 9
On the following Sunday, shortly after Morgana had left for the airport and her flight back to L.A., Cassie was besieged by people seeking remedies and found herself busy all morning. She was glad for the diversion. With plenty to do, she had no time to worry about Morgana getting on that plane.
After her last visitor left, Cassie went in search of John. She found him lounging against the rock wall bordering her garden. Sharon, who had arrived earlier, perched on a tree trunk tuning the dulcimer.
"I've never heard Sharon play," John said with interest. He smiled at Cassie. "She's promised us a short one-woman show."
"Two women, if Cassie wants to harmonize," Sharon said. "Want to, Cassie?"
"Not today," Cassie said. She lowered herself to a cushion of moss beside John as Sharon began to play one of her own favorite tunes, infusing it with a liveliness that suited the song. When she finished, Sharon made a mock bow in their direction.
"What did I tell you?" said Cassie triumphantly with a sideways look at John. "Can Sharon sing?"
"Beautifully," said John, impressed. "I didn't think anyone but Cassie could coax such round, full notes out of a dulcimer. You're good, Sharon, really good."
"I'll never be as great as Cassie," said Sharon, looking shy. "Not in a million years."
"Keep at it and you'll be better," Cassie told her seriously.
"Do you think they'd take me on at the Juniper Inn, singing for tips?" The Juniper Inn was a seasonal restaurant on the highway toward Asheville.
"Drive over there and ask," Cassie suggested. The girl was becoming more discouraged about job prospects every day.
"How about tomorrow morning? The cook told me that the owner is usually around on Mondays to check the menus for the coming week."
"That sounds like a good idea," Cassie said, and she thought the job had possibilities for Sharon. The restaurant was far enough away that the Ott name wouldn't be a problem. Better yet, Sharon could use a professional name. On impulse, Cassie asked Sharon if she'd ever thought of it.
Sharon seemed surprised. "Why, no. Do you think it would be a good idea?" Sharon hugged the dulcimer to her chest, considering.
"Why not?" said Cassie. "What do you have to lose?"
"Nothing," agreed Sharon ruefully. "Nothing at all."
"Okay, then," Cassie said. "We'll christen you—oh, I don't know. What's your middle name?"
Sharon blushed furiously. "Oh, Cassie. It's weird."
"Come on, Sharon, it can't be that bad."
"Every time I tell anyone, I have to explain it," said Sharon, growing visibly more reluctant by the second.
"Out with it," demanded Cassie, grinning at her friend's discomfort.
"All right, but don't laugh." Sharon drew a deep breath. "My ma didn't go to the hospital to have me. She had me right at home, in our house. And on the bed was this quilt her ma had made her for a wedding present. The name of the quilt pattern was Rose o' Sharon. Ma thought that quilt was real pretty, and she kind of concentrated on it when she was having the pains. So when I was born she named me—"
"Rose o' Sharon Ott," chorused Cassie and John.
"Right. You see, I don't think that's going to help us pick out my stage name."
"But it's lovely," objected Cassie. "You could be known as Rose o' Sharon. No first name, no last name, just Rose o' Sharon. People would remember it, like they do with Madonna and Cher."
"Rose o' Sharon is kind of pretty. All right, so we've solved that problem. Next is, what song should I sing if the owner asks me to audition? I'll want to get it just right." Sharon looked anxious.
"The one you just sang would be perfect," John said.
"Great choice," agreed Cassie.
Sharon nodded. "It works for me, so that's the one. Cassie, I'll come over tomorrow morning around nine to borrow the car. Is that all right?"
"Sure. Say, how's Riley doing?"
"The chamomile helped. Thanks, Cassie."
"I'll send some more home with you."
John assured Sharon that she should feel free to use his telephone in her search for a job, and Cassie found another bag of chamomile for Sharon to take with her.
"I sure do appreciate all you two are doing for me," Sharon said. "I mean, going out of your way to help me and all." Her eyes shone bright with gratitude before she wheeled and started toward the road.
As Sharon disappeared around the curve, John took Cassie's hand and pulled her down on the porch steps beside him. "Do you really think Sharon has a chance for a job at the Juniper Inn?" John asked thoughtfully.
"I hope the manager is smart enough to know what he's got. Sharon is capable of big things if only someone gives her a chance," said Cassie. And then, because she was suddenly aware of how much time had passed, she asked John urgently, "What time is it?"
"It's seven o'clock. Why?"
"Morgana," she said in obvious agitation. "Her plane takes off from the Asheville airport at seven-thirty."
"Oh, Cassie. Must you worry?"
"Yes," she said helplessly.
"You and Morgana enjoyed your time together," said John, pressing the matter. "Please don't spoil it by obsessing over something you can't control."
Cassie didn't want John's calm reasoning, and she wasn't willing to give up her negative emotions. They'd become her comfort zone. He might not like it, but she didn't care. This was the way she was, and he'd have to accept it.
Before John could speak again, she jumped up and ran into the house. She didn't expect him to follow her, but he was close behind as she slammed through the door.
"I'm cooking hamburgers for supper," she said. "Do you want to stay?" She was barely hiding her exasperation.
"Sure," he said evenly, casually.
Cassie washed her hands at the sink, aware that John was watching her. It was all she could do to stop herself from telling him that she didn't like being judged by him or anyone else. Who was he to criticize? What did John Howard know about suffering? He'd never been through anything remotely similar.
John pulled over a chair and sat on it backwards, his arms draped over the back. If he starting whistling, she was going to lose it. But he didn't whistle. He only watched.
When she couldn't stand it any longer, she shot John a fleeting look over her shoulder. It was her undoing. She found it impossible to stay upset with him. John Howard was altogether too handsome, she thought; his looks did her in every time. His gaze that plunged to her very depths precisely at the moment when she didn't want to reveal what she was thinking. The size and shape of him, which brought to mind the feel of him, which made her go weak with sudden longing.
"Maybe you could set the table," she suggested, clattering the plates and glasses down from the cupboard, and in her hurry one of the plates slipped through her nervous fingers and hit the floor with a resounding crash.
"I'll clean up the debris first," John said dryly, bending over and picking up the pieces.
Cassie turned away and steadied herself, hanging on to the edge of the counter for dear life. Maybe John was right; maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. Planes took off and landed every day, and most of them stayed safe. Her stomach felt vaguely uncomfortable even though she was trying to paint a more positive picture of flying. Was it seven-thirty yet? That was the time of Morgana's flight. She closed her eyes, picturing the silver bird that would bear Morgana aloft, soaring up and up as it trailed lofty plumes of vapor in its wake. At the very thought of Morgana's being on that flight, a cold wave of nausea washed over her, and retching suddenly and violently, she leaned over the sink.
"There," said John efficiently, dumping the pieces of plate into the garbage can. "That should—" And then he realized something was wrong.
He was across the kitchen in two strides. His hands, so strong and sure, gripped her shoulders.
Cassie fought the churning of her stomach. The world tipped for a moment, washing away on a dizzy tide, slinging itself back into focus for a mom
ent, then catching her in the backwash.
"Here's a towel," John said. She washed out her mouth in the water from the faucet and dried her face. She was so embarrassed.
And then she was bound tight against John's broad chest, his hands stroking her head.
"I'm sorry," she said, her words muffled.
"Don't apologize," he said. He guided her to Gran's bed where she lay back against the pillows. She wouldn't blame John if he walked out the door and never came back. The last thing he needed in his life, probably, was a basket case like her.
His hands smoothed her hair, brushed the tears from her cheeks, grazed her lips. Ah, but his hands couldn't soothe the darkness in her soul, the place where she wasn't whole. She was engulfed by self-loathing. How, she thought hopelessly, can a good man like John Howard want me?
"Please leave me alone," she said. She flung her arm across her eyes. "I need time to pull myself together." Until Morgana's safely home, she thought.
John's hand fell to the coverlet, where it rested on embroidered bluebirds of happiness stitched by Cassie's grandmother. Was it possible for them to be happy together? Ever? His mind flashed to the many times they'd made love, her openness with him, her selflessness and simplicity, her gray eyes soft with caring or bright with laughter or glistening with emotion.
Because he loved Cassie Muldoon, he would fight for her and with her against this fear that made her unable to have a normal life. Cassie needed him. Plus he owed her and never forgot it.
His hand was gentle on her cheek. "Cassandra, you and I are going to tackle this fear of yours. You won't have to struggle through it alone anymore. I'm here, my darling, and we're going to win."
Startled, unbelieving, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her. Something fierce and unyielding stiffened his gaze, and she wondered, How can he care so much what happens to me? And what does he want of me? Can I measure up? I can't take another failure or I'll lose whatever peace I've gained. I wish he'd go away and leave me alone the way I was before he came, because I was getting to be all right then, wasn't I? Wasn't I?
But she didn't want John to leave, she never wanted to be without him, and this feeling was truer than her thoughts to the contrary. She opened her arms in silent acceptance, and he folded her close and pressed her against the lean length of him. Slowly she relaxed in his embrace, inhaling his familiar masculine scent and trusting him enough to slide wearily into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next morning Cassie woke up when she heard Tigger meowing outside. She struggled against the bedclothes, trying to separate herself from them with no luck at all. When she finally freed herself from the sheet wrapped around her legs, she became aware that someone else was letting Tigger in. She heard the sound of John's bare feet slapping against the wood floor.
Cassie sank back into a warm nest of pillows. John. Last night came back to her in a wave of emotion. The way he had taken care of her, gentled her and talked to her, the things he'd said.
"Hey there," he said cheerily. He stood in the doorway, his hands planted against the door jamb on either side. His hair fell endearingly over his forehead, and his eyes gleamed. He cocked his head. "Whenever you're all alone in that brass bed, I think you're being devoured by a family of overgrown tubas." He bounded across the floor in three leaps. "And I have to rescue you."
"Stop, you're tickling me," she gasped as his fingertips found the sensitive skin in the curve of her waist. She began to laugh in great whoops, unable to stop.
John rolled away and sat propped on one arm, smiling down at her. He rapped sharply on one huge flared bedpost. "Terrible tone," he commented.
Cassie stretched luxuriously. "What time is it now?"
"Seven-thirty." John's gaze softened. "Now that you're awake, I'd better remind you that Sharon is coming over before she goes to the Juniper Inn. Which means," he said, lying back on the pillows and pulling her over him, "that we could eat breakfast now or..." and the words were lost against her lips.
"I think I'll take the 'or,'" she managed to say. Slowly, a study in slow motion, he rolled her over so that she was on the bottom.
"I love you, Cassandra," he said. He couldn't wait any longer to tell her because if he were going to help Cassie conquer her fear, she deserved the confidence his love could give her.
Her answering smile was a glow brighter than the morning sunbeams rising along the far wall of the bedroom, brighter than the radiant faces of the black-eyed Susans beneath the bedroom window, brighter than the luminous sky on a cloudless day.
"I love you, too," she whispered.
If ever there was a moment when life and love merged to become one, a moment of timeless perfection that could not be any more meaningful, then this was it. John hoped that he could live up to his commitment to her, and he had no illusions about his task. Delivering Cassie whole from her phobias was different from conquering make-believe tubas. Somehow he had to heal her scars for her as, unknowingly, she had healed him.
Cassie arched against him until his weight rested upon her, and their movements built in familiar intensity until John felt the sun burst inside him, and when he opened his eyes it was to see if she had felt the sunburst, too.
But Cassie lay passively, her cheeks flushed and her eyes closed, and the tension in her shoulders cupped by his hands beneath her told him that it hadn't been the same for her.
Cassie would not truly be healed until she could give of herself that which she withheld out of her own sorrow and guilt. They would have to work on sunbursts. And, as she guided him into her once more, he lovingly began to do just that.
Chapter 10
"You know, John, I'm going to let Bertrand and Rupert go back to the woods soon. If you hadn't been gone all day on one of those photo shoots of yours, I would have asked you to take their pictures for me," said Cassie one night about a week later as she spread corn kernels in Gran's wire popcorn popper.
John hesitated. Cassie had always been casually incurious about his photographic work, probably because she was always so absorbed in her garden and with the steady stream of visitors seeking remedies, and besides, Cassie tended to blot out everything that took place off the mountain. He'd been taking pictures, sure, but it was amateur stuff. Now seemed like as good a time as any to tell her his true profession. But he couldn't tell her, not until the flying issue was resolved.
"My errands took longer than I expected" was all he said. He wished fervently that he could stop pretending.
Bertrand hobbled past and twitched his nose in the direction of the popcorn.
"Don't worry, Bertie, you'll get your share," Cassie said soothingly.
"Bertrand likes popcorn?"
"Loves it."
"Save some for me," was all John said. He turned on the radio he'd bought in town. He'd introduced it a few days ago to accustom Cassie to the idea that there was a real world out there. At first he'd switched on an easy-listening station when they were making love, and then he'd progressed to leaving the radio on during the hourly newscasts. Cassie had accepted it, and it had become natural for them to talk about current events and other topics.
Having a radio was a small step but a necessary one. Now, with his help, Cassie was beginning to perceive the world as a nonthreatening place. He had to get her down off this mountain somehow. That would be his next campaign.
"What radio station would you like?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter. Anything you want." Cassie, kneeling on the hearth, shook the wire popper. The radio played classic rock, something by Pink Floyd. He adjusted the volume low.
"Bring me that big earthenware bowl from the kitchen, will you, John?" Cassie spared a smile in his direction.
John found the bowl and brought it to her, admiring the way her hair gleamed so brightly in the fire's glow. These peaceful moments were, for him, equal in joy to the passion they shared in their lovemaking. Aside from the physical, however, there were dimensions to his love for her that he had never fou
nd with anyone else: their morning walks, when it was just the two of them in the wilderness, when communication came so easily and seemed so right; mealtimes, when her adoring face across from his seemed the closest thing to heaven; lying together in bed after the lights were out when they talked and talked, learning and loving more about each other every time.
Cassie heaped the popcorn in the bowl and set aside an unsalted pile of it on the hearthstones for Bertrand. Lazily she fell back on a stack of floor cushions, edging to one side so that John could join her.
"Delicious popcorn," he said, munching on a mouthful.
"Mmm," she replied, settling into the golden glow of another pleasant evening with John. The radio announcer came on with the news. The President was planning a trip to Asia, and an earthquake had been reported in Mexico. The next news would be in an hour on the hour. Then, a complete surprise: The sweet opening strains of one of Cassie's own songs began to play, and Cassie bolted upright at the high unmistakable soprano of her voice.
It was a love song she'd written for Kevin. It was sweet and tender and full of meaning. A gem of a love song, Kevin had told her.
It had been so long since she'd heard the words or even thought about them. Forever since she'd sung them, but in a flash of remembrance she recalled as if it were yesterday standing before the microphone in the glass booth at the recording studio. She'd sung the song to Kevin that day, meaning every word from the depths of her heart. She'd written it on their third wedding anniversary, and her emotional rendering had helped propel the song to the top of the charts for weeks.
She clapped her hands over her ears. "Turn it off!"
"Is something wrong?"
"I can't bear hearing that song."
Clearly shaken, John flicked the radio switch.
"Cassie, I'm sorry," he said. He'd known she'd eventually hear her own music, but he wished that the radio had played some other song she'd written, such as the one about children romping in the pinewoods or that funny little ditty, "Watermelon Smiles."
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