Stitch In Snow

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Hey, I’m winning,’ Dan protested.

  ‘Hmmm. I’m sleepy.’ With no more apology, I crept from the chair to the bed, and curled up. I do remember that he tugged the blanket down to cover my feet.

  It was hard to struggle out of the pit of sleep but I felt an obligation to do so. The mind roused more quickly than the body, however. My eyes declined the first commands to open. I was on my left side, bundled in a beautifully warm cocoon, my hands tucked under my chin, my fore-head against something warm. I took note of the assorted odors, clean shirt, aftershave, male.

  My eyes finally obeyed and there was a pool of light just beyond me. The warmth came from a male body.

  I groaned. I hate to be seen with a sleep-creased face: it makes me look so elderly.

  ‘Ah, the dead arose and was seen by many.’

  ‘Any is too much.’

  Dan chuckled and I kept my head down, hoping that he’d have the grace to turn away and let me dive to the bathroom unobserved.

  ‘Feel rested?’

  ‘I can’t move. Go away.’

  ‘Is that gratitude for my solicitous guardianship?’

  ‘Oh, have the natives been restless? Are we under attack from palefaces?’

  ‘None,’ and laughter rippled in his voice, ‘these past four hours or more.’

  Lord, I’d never get to sleep tonight.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Exactly . . .’ I could feel him moving as he consulted his watch, ‘ten twenty-two, to the sound of the tone.’ And he hummed.

  ‘Jaysus.’ I moved, but not very far: the blanket was strangling me. ‘What did you put on me? A strait jacket?’ I punched at the restraint.

  He helped me and as he loosened the blanket, looked me full in the face. I averted my head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing . . .’ I said it sharply because my vanity was bruised and it was all very stupid of me and I knew it.

  ‘What is the matter, Jenny?’ And damn him, he got his hand on my chin and jerked my face around, his eyes searching mine.

  And like a stupid fool I wanted to cry. The stupidity being why did it matter how he saw me. But it did. There’s that much of the romantic still left in me. Or was I fooling myself about that, too, and all I had left was my precious idiotic vanity?

  ‘Your face is all creased,’ he said, ‘like a sleepy child’s.’ There was no distaste in his voice and he rubbed at my left cheek as if to iron it smooth. There was also no flattery in his observation. He couldn’t have picked a neater way to devastate me. Which is why, when he bent to brush lips with me, the way one does a sleepy child, the contact was charged.

  ‘My God,’ he said, staring down at me with amazement and then he kissed me again, in no way how one kisses a sleepy child. His moustache was soft against my lips but a couple of the bristles pricked my nose so that I squirmed to get in a more comfortable position. His arms clamped down on me as if he thought I was trying to evade him and his kiss became more determined.

  I couldn’t recall a single kiss so emotionally charged and I cooperated wholeheartedly. Which seemed to encourage his efforts. And he knew how, hands and lips, and the pressure of his body against mine.

  I could have cried out in protest when he drew away. He gave me a little shake and my eyes opened involuntarily. His face was so close that I couldn’t distinguish his features, only the blur of the moustache, the darkness of his eyes, the silver of his hair outlined against the bedside light.

  ‘Shall we, Jenny?’ he asked softly.

  I’d been of half a mind to try and laugh off that kiss, a major feat, but ‘shall we’ defeated my intention.

  ‘Yes, please!’

  He laughed, low, and if it was not a smug laugh, it had a very self-satisfied ring to it. He began to kiss and caress me again in the most leisurely, expert fashion.

  ‘I’m trapped in the damned blanket,’ I said, getting my mouth free.

  He chuckled. ‘I know. I’ll free you in my own good time.’

  Which he did. And freed me of some other things, too. Like my dignity, my vanity, and a few unnecessary inhibitions. By the time he had finished with me — no, by the time we had satisfied each other — because this was, above all else, a mutual effort, we both drifted off to sleep, completely relaxed.

  I must have turned so that the bedside light was shining in my eyes for light woke me. I lay there, Dan’s head buried on my shoulder, several other appendages draped heavily on my right side. I moved and his hand gripped me possessively as he muttered in his sleep against my shoulder.

  I was hungry: I needed to go to the bathroom and the light would prevent me from going back to sleep but I couldn’t reach the switch with him all over me. I didn’t really want to move because it was so incredibly good to be sleeping next to a man — particularly one who did not snore. I tried to reason with my body. My stomach growled and the pressure on my bladder was something I couldn’t ignore much longer in comfort.

  I eased myself free of his legs, gently removed his arm and by depressing my shoulder into the pillow, managed to winkle out from under his head. I was sliding from the bed when his hand caught my arm.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I’d better or I will.’

  ‘Oh,’ was his sleepy groan and he flopped over.

  I sped to the bathroom. Then I looked at my face which wasn’t sleep-creased but very smug. I washed it in cold water to make it behave, brushed on new brows, rinsed my mouth.

  ‘Hey, don’t hog the place,’ he called cheerfully.

  Hmm. Yes. My robe was on the door and, let’s face it, at my age, things begin to sag a bit. I didn’t want the magic to go because the frog-princess still looked like a frog when the kissing stopped.

  Sometimes when you meet your partner after sex, there’s a bit of strain. He passed me on the way to the bathroom with a broad grin on his face and a quick caress.

  ‘Help yourself to the sandwiches but don’t eat ’em all,’ he said just as I spotted the room service table by the window.

  When had that materialized? Well, if there were to be frog princesses, there could also be djinns in the middle of storm-bound Denver.

  The covered dishes exposed enough sandwiches for four — roast beef and turkey, a tasteful array of salad greens with dressing on the side, butter and rolls, two generous portions of lemon meringue pie and coffee, still reasonably steamy in its vacuum container.

  I was eating with relish and speed when he joined me, dressed in shirt and trousers. Some men look sexier with an open shirt exposing their masculinely hairy chests and he was one of them.

  ‘When did you conjure all this?’ I asked with my mouth full.

  ‘When you corked off the first time.’

  ‘Good thinking! And thanks!’ I glanced at my watch. ‘One thirty? Whee. Very good thinking.’

  ‘Plan ahead!’ He was grinning broadly and the sparkle in his eyes was infuriating.

  ‘Plan ahead, huh?’ and I waved at the rumpled bed.

  ‘Well,’ and he scratched the back of his head, ‘it did occur to me last night . . .’

  ‘Ergo, all the brandy?’

  ‘Well?’ And his eyes mocked me with laughter. ‘Should I have pushed my luck?’

  It was a challenge and, because I have always prided myself on a disastrous honesty, I didn’t hesitate. ‘You could have. But I’m glad you didn’t.’ His hand, warm and strong, covered mine and his eyes were kinder, less wary. ‘This . . .’ and I inclined my head towards the bed’ . . . turned out rather . . .’

  ‘Rathers pecial. Thank you, Jenny.’

  We were both a trifle embarrassed by such mutual honesty and began to eat.

  ‘I don’t remember when I’ve been so ravenous,’ I said, tossing the napkin to the disarrayed table. We’d cleared it of all edibles.

  ‘It’s been a long time since your breakfast steak,’ he reminded me with a mildly lecherous arching of his eyebrows.

  ‘That’s very
true.’

  A sudden rattle against the curtained windows drew me to rise and look out. I shivered, staring at the stormy night.

  ‘I said it once too often.’

  ‘Said what?’ he asked, standing behind me and parting the curtain farther.

  ‘I said I wanted to see snow while I was in the States.’

  Puzzled, he looked down at me. ‘Aren’t you American?’

  ‘Yes, but I live in Ireland.’

  ‘Why?’ He was genuinely surprised.

  ‘Tax exemption.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did mention you’re a writer.’

  The wind dashed a slurry against the window and instinctively I yielded back. He caught my shoulders because I also stepped on his toes.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not a fit night for man, beast or machine.’

  ‘Will it blow itself out by tomorrow?’ I asked, sort of hoping it couldn’t although perhaps it would be better if we were released from the snow thrall.

  ‘I doubt it.’ He preferred that it continue. He wrapped both arms around me and pressed me back against him, kissing the side of my neck, just where I happen to be very sensitive. ‘This is a real three-day howler.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I grew up in Colorado. I know that note in the wind.’

  His hands dropped to where I was also sensitive.

  ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning and all’s well. Shall we?’ The last two words came out in a husky, compelling invitation, reinforced by an especially clever kiss. I nodded.

  While the storm continued, so would the spell, so why not?

  5

  WHEN I WOKE the next morning, I was on my left side. The room service table was gone, but curtains pulled back. It was still blowing a fearful gale. Someone was whistling in the next room.

  In the next room! I sat upright, pulling the sheet up to my bare breasts. The communicating doors were ajar.

  ‘Why, you lousy finkface!’

  ‘The dead arose?’ He leaned around the door, a broad grin breaking through the lather on his face.

  ‘How long have those doors been unlocked?’

  The grin broadened, showing his white teeth. ‘Since we got here.’

  I remembered the bellboy’s door busy-ness.

  ‘Ohhhhh!’

  ‘Well, plan ahead,’ he said with a cheerful shrug. ‘You don’t really want to report it to the management, do you? I’ve only tried to preserve your reputation. All the room service came to my door.’

  I made a rude noise.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Thought you’d approve my chivalry.’ He made me a bow and, considering the fact that his towel parted across his thighs, that he had a lathered razor in one hand and the aerosol can in the other, it was a noble attempt. I had to laugh.

  ‘Look, let’s swim before that family invades our pool again.’ He rotated his shoulders. ‘I need to loosen up.’

  If he’d asked me, I’d’ve been glad to vouch for his suppleness after his antics last night.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he said, waggling the razor at me as if my thought had been that obvious. ‘I’d better finish this nonsense but I won’t be long. Hey, and you’d better put on the latch in case the chamber maid checks the doors and ruins our cover.’

  I got up, washed, made-up which was foolish since it would all come off swimming, pulled on the bathing suit and my robe, and threw the big bathtowel over my shoulder.

  He was just emerging from his room as I came out. He slipped his hand under my elbow and we marched in step to the elevator, irreverently chanting ‘we’re off to see the wizard’ under our breaths.

  The pool was all ours again: the lifeguard waved to us as if pleased to have some company, then he went back to his cross-word puzzle. We did an easy fifteen laps and then floated about until we heard the unmistakable noise of childish invasion.

  ‘You know what,’ he said as with mutual understanding, we got out of the water, ‘I feel very hungry and we’re in time for lunch today.’

  ‘Hey, what about my breakfast steak?’ I asked petulantly.

  ‘No complaints. You’re getting steak for lunch.’

  ‘In that case . . .’

  ‘Tell you what — let’s give ’em all a break. We’ll dine downstairs.’

  ‘Are they up to us?’

  ‘Let’s give ’em a try.’ He glanced at his watch, which he’d just strapped back on. ‘Look, I’ve got to make a few phone calls. I’ll meet you at the western room in about an hour? Okay?’

  ‘Fine!’

  ‘That’ll give you time for a few rows of knitting. I’ve been keeping you from it.’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘That’s only pick-up work.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You ungentleman, you. You picked me up, and you know it! You . . . you . . . plan-ahead artiste!’

  ‘An hour, then? Okay, Jenny?’

  We unlocked our respective corridor doors and discreetly parted company.

  The maid had been in and the room was all neat and far too impersonal, wiping out the pleasant memories of the previous night . . . and early morning. My unfinished letter to Tim was neatly centered on the desk. Evidently the hotel staff really did dust in this place. In other rooms I’d occupied briefly over the past three weeks, my things were always scrupulously left where I had put them, dust, glass-rings notwithstanding.

  The red blinker on my phone was patiently flashing which meant a message. Who knew where I was? The airlines did. The message was merely to confirm what any halfwit would have guessed: all flights were grounded. I asked the operator if she’d heard a recent weather report. Her careful reply was that there was no change anticipated in the next 24 hours. She was so sorry.

  ‘I’m not,’ I told her. ‘This is the best rest I’ve had in weeks.’

  Her tone thawed, as if she were rather relieved not to be dumped on with more complaints.

  I toweled dry my hair: I’d need a set before Portland but I’d have time for that, maybe after tomorrow’s swim . . . if there was one tomorrow. I completed the note to Tim, telling him about being snow-bound and blaming myself for the overdose of the fluffy white stuff. I gave him the place of the Los Angeles engagement which had only been confirmed to me in St. Louis, and reconfirmed that the Dallas and Tulsa lecture dates were unchanged. I sealed the letter and saw that I had time before meeting Dan. I laughed as I stuck the airmail stamp on Tim’s letter because it was likely to reach him faster by dogsled. Ho-hum for the disadvantages of modern conveniences.

  I posted the letter in the lobby box, wondering briefly if the bizzard had deflected the noble mailmen from their rounds, and then wandered towards the western room. My path took me past the boutique which announced a sale. On ski togs. Well, it was March and I had a few moments, so I went and browsed. Some of the jackets would be great protection against the chill damp of an Irish winter. The green one was not only in my size but in my budget at a third off.

  ‘There’s 40% off on some of these, miss,’ said the salesgirl helpfully. ‘Just slip it on.’

  I did and the jacket not only fit but the green did nice things to my hair and figure. Some greens look all wrong against my mildewed locks.

  ‘How about matching pants?’

  ‘I’m not a skier.’

  ‘Were you grounded, too?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But I’m rather enjoying it.’

  ‘You’re one of the few,’ she said with a grimace of stretched patience.

  ‘Sometimes people have to be forced to rest and relax: they lose the habit of taking things easy.’

  ‘You’re so right.’ Her agreement was heartfelt.

  I spotted a gorgeous sweater in almost the same tone green, but lighter, with white designs. My size and 40% off. I couldn’t resist it. I was getting so bored with my travel wardrobe. And the selection in the States is much better than it is in Ireland. I told her so and she evinced a more than cursory interest that I lived in Ireland: her great grandfather had b
een born in Ireland but she couldn’t remember where. Her idle conversation led me to buy not only the sweater and jacket but dual layer ski underwear, a heavy pair of socks and some calf-height furry mukluk type boots: guaranteed waterproof, ‘considering that it rains more in Ireland than it snows.’

  She was rummaging in the small service part of the shop for a plastic shopping sack when Dan came in.

  ‘Bought the place out yet?’

  ‘Some good bargains.’

  He had to pass the rack of ski jackets to reach me at the counter and, absently examined a sales ticket, stopping altogether to pull the jacket out of the group. It was a match to the one I’d bought.

  ‘Mine to yours, and it’s a White Stag. You’re right about the bargain,’ he said, brandishing it. He reached to his hip. ‘Damn! Left my credit cards in my briefcase. Look, Jen, you go on in to the restaurant and grab us a table. The place is filling up fast. I’ll be right back.’

  He was gone just as the girl returned with my package. It was a bit more unwieldy than I’d thought.

  ‘I can have the bellboy take it up to your room, if you’d like.’

  ‘Would you? It’s a bit much to stick under a lunch table. My name is Jane Lovell and my room is 903.’

  ‘Sure thing, Miz Lovell. It’ll be there when you’ve finished lunch. Have a good day . . . if you can!’

  ‘I can and will!’

  Dan had been right about the restaurant being crowded. There was only one small table that I could see and the maitre d’ was rushing about on the far side. I could hear other voices in the short corridor from the main lobby to the restaurant so I simply sat down at the two seater. Before I could tell the waiter who poured my water that there’d be two, he’d handed me one menu and disappeared. I was reading the description of the Grill column when I was conscious of someone standing in front of the table.

  ‘Miss, we’re extremely busy today, would you mind sharing with this gentleman?’

  I was about to refuse when I looked up and saw that the maitre d’ had escorted a soberfaced Dan to the table. I glanced around suspiciously as if to confirm the condition and then graciously inclined my head in permission.

  ‘You bitch,’ said Dan sotto voce, screening his face from the next table with his menu.