The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  Peace, peace, Mirelle muttered under her breath. She could do with some of that, but if she immured herself in a hermit’s cell, would she get as much done as she did now?

  The beautiful paean, ‘Il est doux’ from Herodiade was next and, as the melody lifted, Mirelle found her eyes returning to Jamie. ‘He is gentle, he is kind,’ the aria said and Mirelle applied the adjectives to Jamie and found them suitable. ‘I was suffering and alone, and my heart was calmed when I heard his voice. Oh, Prophet, so beloved, can I live without thee?’

  That’s enough of that, Mirelle told herself sternly. This concert is an unqualified disaster. I should have stayed home with the children, where I belong.

  Nonsense, said the sane observer in her mind. Tragedy is the catharsis of the soul. You’ve been denying your past and until you face up to it, it will distort the future.

  She had tried to submerge her background, wanting to eradicate anything that she owed to Barthan-More and those English years, in her allegiance to her new country, and her love for Mary Murphy. And then, when her father’s totally unexpected bequest had alienated the Martins, she had doubled her energies to camouflage her identity, to deny her parentage, and the talents that were her genetic legacy. But moulding herself in the pattern which she thought would please the Martins had not been successful. She’d become a shadow of a woman, and a shadow wife to Steve. Had she chosen Steve as a husband because he represented all she felt she’d missed? A happy home-coming father and a loving husband? Candidly Mirelle doubted that: hoped she had reason to doubt it or the last fifteen years had been a complete lie and she was crippling her children as subtly as she had been crippled in her childhood in the Barthan-More nursery.

  Lucy, hand to her wayward hair, feet flying in an effort to stay in the same place, Lucy of the statue was superimposed on the other distressing images. Lucy who didn’t apologise for her poetry or her housekeeping or her mistakes but kept on running, somewhere, anywhere so long as it was ahead. Lucy who had tried to pry open Mirelle’s clamshell, mend the hurt and encourage her talent.

  And Mirelle thought of Sylvia, bitter because she didn’t have Mirelle’s ability to sculpt. Sculpting, Mirelle thought sardonically, was a ready-made out, for sculpture is never very popular. If she had filled a studio with her industry, she wouldn’t sell very much anyhow. Only she sold as many of the creche figures and the Dirty Dicks as she could produce.

  The applause snapped her out of those reflections and she found herself clapping violently just as her neighbors ceased. She slid down in her seat, so intensely embarrassed that she was separated completely from reflections.

  Fortunately the final portion of the program was made up of totally unfamiliar contemporary American art songs, devoid of any connotations with the past.

  Madame Nealy was called back for two encores during which Mirelle gathered her shattered composure. Jamie, respectfully bowing the soprano through the curtains, looked directly at her as the house-lights came on. A jerk of his head indicated that she should come backstage.

  Rebelliously she waited as the audience cleared from the hall. She did not want Jamie’s company. He was too perceptive. She dreaded his sly probes. But there wasn’t a train until three am. Damn Sylvia! She would be forced to go backstage and beg a ride from James Howell.

  A bored usherette gave her directions and she found the green room crowded with elegantly dressed well-wishers. She hung on the fringe, knowing that she would simply have to wait, nervously wishing herself anywhere but in a crowd in her present state of mind.

  She was pushed forward by a gaggle of newcomers and inadvertently found herself in line to congratulate Madame Nealy. She was doing so, trying not to sound perfunctory, when Jamie intervened.

  ‘This is Mary LeBoyne’s daughter, Mirelle Martin, Madame,’ he said with cheerful helpfulness.

  Madame Nealy was more commanding on stage than off, Mirelle thought. And right now the woman looked exhausted.

  ‘That was a demanding program,’ Mirelle said, smiling, ‘but you made it sound so effortless, so buoyant.’

  ‘It’s far easier to sing for an appreciative audience,’ the soprano replied kindly. ‘I had the pleasure of hearing your mother sing at the Albert Hall before the war. Such a lovely voice. Such a beautiful artist and a very gracious woman.’

  ‘I take after my father,’ Mirelle said laughingly in answer to the question in Madame’s eyes, and moved on to be grabbed by Jamie.

  ‘No chaperone?’

  ‘Sylvia didn’t come. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Need a ride home?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said automatically. He looked at her a moment, his expression grave. ‘Go sit down in a corner. You look as if you’d sung every note in the program.’

  ‘I feel as if I had.’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Mirelle regretted them. Just the sort of thing that Jamie would pick up on the drive home. When only a few people remained, Madame Nealy came up to Mirelle and invited her to join them at supper.

  ‘Madame,’ Jamie said as Mirelle was fumbling for a plausible excuse, ‘I rose from a sickbed to play and my doctor told me that I had to return to it immediately.’

  Madame looked from Mirelle to Jamie, eyebrows slightly raised.

  ‘’S’truth,’ Jamie swore, raising his right hand. He did, indeed, look tired.

  ‘Yes, we’re none of us as young as we once were, able to party into the early hours,’ Madame said with a smile. ‘I can’t thank you enough anyhow, Jim, for tonight.’ She turned to Mirelle. ‘I always feel that I can just forget about everything but interpreting my music when Jim plays for me. He anticipates every retard, every nuance.’

  She kissed him warmly on both cheeks and then turned back to her guests. Quickly Jamie motioned to Mirelle. He gathered up his topcoat and hat, and headed her towards the door before anyone could stop them with further importunities.

  ‘That’s over,’ he sighed as they stepped into the cold night.

  Mirelle couldn’t agree more. His hand gripped her arm, guiding her towards his car. She could feel herself violently shivering as the wind whipped about them. Jamie unlocked his car, threw in his briefcase and settled her. He said nothing as he deftly maneuvered the big Thunderbird down the narrow streets, swinging at last onto the Schulkill Expressway.

  ‘There’s a dirty dive a ways from here with the best steaks in town. I’m always ravenous after a concert,’ he said genially. ‘and I can’t abide little snacks and champagne cup. I want meat, red meat.’

  ‘Do waitresses drip blood on you as they serve?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘You’re lucky if that’s all they drip when they serve.’

  Mirelle searched desperately for some way to continue the light conversation, anything to cover her growing unease. The tension in the car was palpable and yet she couldn’t think of a way to tell Jamie what had upset her. She glanced nervously at him, but he was watching the road, both hands on the steering wheel. At first she thought it was a trick of the overhead lights, but then she realised that his hands were trembling.

  ‘Playing a concert is exhausting,’ he said, noticing her intake of breath.

  ‘You shouldn’t have played such a demanding concert so soon after the pneumonia,’ she said, semi-scolding.

  ‘Oh, then you did find my playing adequate?’

  ‘Adequate?’ She echoed the adjective in dismay. ‘You play magnificently.’

  ‘It’s nice to hear you say so.’

  She caught her breath sharply at the unexpected cut, and found that she had to bite her lip to keep back the tears. He was justified, she knew. She’d been exhibiting an appalling self-centeredness. But she didn’t know how to redeem herself in his eyes.

  Then Howell brought the car to a sudden stop. Mirelle saw that they had pulled off the Expressway onto a suburban street. He flicked off the lights, turned round to her purposefully.

  �
��All right, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Matter?’ The word came out as a blubber.

  ‘Yes, matter. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want you to see me at my professional best, but I certainly didn’t expect to be received with a dull thud. The least you could do was be courteous.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that . . .’ And she buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Mirelle! Mirelle darling.’ She felt herself pulled into his arms. His hands, warm and no longer trembling, were gentle and comforting. He held her close to him, her face on the soft camel-hair of his overcoat.

  ‘The concert was like a nightmare for me, Jamie. It was Mother. Every song was one she’d sung . . . it was like old ghosts rising up to haunt me. I remembered hundreds of details about her that I hadn’t thought of in years. And you played so beautifully. It wasn’t your fault. I’ve just been all upset this week and everything added to it. It wasn’t Madame’s fault that she has the same timbre in her voice as Mother. It wasn’t yours. It’s just me. I’m being self-centered and childish. And unmannerly and you wanted to give me a nice treat. And now I’ve spoiled the evening for you as well.’

  She looked up, trying to stop crying. He mopped the tears from her face with his handkerchief, his expression tender and concerned. Abruptly, she stopped crying. For the first time, the inner James Howell was visible to her. As she looked, their eyes met and he began to smile. Holding her face with his free hand, he lowered his head to kiss her, very slowly, very carefully, very thoroughly. Nor could she have gathered the strength of will to resist. His kiss, so expert, so lover-like, was an anodyne to her torn emotions: like a benediction, she thought and the music of the Herodiade aria sang through her.

  ‘Il est doux, il est bon,’ she whispered as he raised his head.

  He let out a burst of laughter, hugging her tightly to him in surprise.

  ‘I am no prophet,’ he chuckled, looking down at her with a broad grin which faded as quickly as it came. ‘And I’m no saint,’ he added almost angrily.

  This time he kissed her with no tenderness at all, his lips hard and bruising as his caresses awakened a passionate response which she was unable to control. He released her abruptly, almost flinging her to the other side of the front seat. Wrenching himself around, he gripped the wheel with both hands.

  ‘Have you a little idea of how you affect me, Mirelle?’ he asked hoarsely.

  She sat, unable to speak, as he started the car and spun it onto the road. He drove with skilful speed, as silent as she, and Mirelle struggled to assess the impact of his declaration.

  She paid no attention to the twists and turns of the road; instead she watched his hands on the wheel, the hands which had fascinated her for so long. Again she felt their strong grip on her ribs, her arms, her neck, like invisible burns. It had actually not occurred to her that more than friendship existed between them. She was certain that she had never encouraged anything more. How amazing that he had developed a tendresse for her. None of this shattering evening would have happened, she thought bitterly, if Sylvia had been along. Damn Sylvia! She had needed a chaperone. Oh, God, how she needed one!

  Jamie braked, flicked off the lights and pocketed the key in one swift movement before Mirelle realised that they were in a garage. His garage.

  ‘I want you, Mirelle. Christ, how I want you,’ he said softly, roughly, leaning towards her, his face a fierce shadow. His body pressed hers into the seat leather, his hands quick and expert, his lips searching and finding her sensitive places. He guided her out of the car and into the cold dark house. Thoroughly aroused by his seeking hands, she found herself undressing in his room as, somewhere in the dark, he cursed the folderol of dress clothes. Then his warm smooth skin was against hers and they were beside each other in the bed.

  ‘What say you, my silence?’ he asked in a whisper at her ear, his long body heavy against her as his restless expert fingers excited her.

  ‘I need you, Jamie. Just now I need you very much.’

  ‘Thank God!’

  Afterwards, lying in a lovely lassitude, Mirelle could not be sure if Jamie slept. Turning her head cautiously, she saw that, on the contrary, he was watching her intently. He lay on his side, barely touching her body, one hand propping up his head. As she turned, he tucked the blanket close about her, then let his hand rest lightly on her belly.

  ‘The piano’s not the only thing you play well,’ she said.

  He chuckled softly, pulling her against him. She thought he sounded relieved, and, in the candid expansiveness of loving’s aftermath, she asked him if he was.

  ‘Yes, Mirelle, I am.’ He kissed her softly.

  ‘Why?’

  He looked down at her steadily. Her eyes were used to the darkness now and she met his gaze.

  ‘I’ve taken a rascally advantage of your distress, my dear . . .’

  ‘No, Jamie. I needed loving . . . your kind of loving . . . desperately.’

  He cocked his head slightly, his expression quizzical as he waited for her to continue. She ran her forefinger down the line of his face. He caught her hand and bit the finger. ‘No, Mirelle, no sculptor’s pensive tracing now, please. This is between James Howell, man, and Mirelle LeBoyne, woman.’

  ‘Yes, that’s who it’s between, isn’t it?’

  He buried his face in her neck, kissing the line of her throat and she knew she had said the right thing, at last, in Jamie’s presence. And she also knew why she’d phrased her answer that way.

  So she pressed against him, inching her body closer to his, felt his legs overlap hers, his hips angling against her. He was strong, so strong and so the restraint with which he used her was all the more surprising. The difference between his and Steve’s lovemaking was incredible yet she followed his lead as if they’d been lovers for a long time. Their bodies seemed to match, to fit, and he knew exactly how to draw out the tension before their climax to the precise and critical point of complete release. This second time she was unable to resist the need for sleep.

  She woke, though, startled and immediately aware of the unfamiliar surroundings. The illuminated dial on his bureau alarm read 3:10. She ought to be getting home but the thought of moving from his arms – his head pillowed against her shoulder – was unbearable. She could indulge herself this once. The children would all be safely asleep. No one need know where she was or how long she’d been gone. Even the late late train from Philadelphia didn’t get in to Wilmington until close to four.

  She counted carefully. Nor would she get pregnant as a result. The reassurance amused her and the giggle got as far as her chest, which was far enough to rouse Jamie.

  ‘And what amuses you, my love?’ he asked, as flippant as ever.

  ‘I won’t get pregnant.’

  ‘That’s a good girl. Oh, you mean, unlike your mother?’ He propped his head up, unwillingly, she thought, for he kept the other arm draped over her, his hand on her breast.

  ‘Mother did not have the advantages of modern science.’

  ‘She was quite a woman for all of that.’

  ‘Yes, indeed she was.’

  He gave her a long hard look. ‘You’ve forgiven her?’

  ‘I guess I have, though I didn’t know that I had to.’

  He stroked her face, his fingers idly dropping to her throat, her breast again. ‘And?’

  She caught his hand, held it against her breast, feeling his fingers cupping the soft flesh, gently, possessively.

  ‘Right now, I could even forgive my mother-in-law for her transgressions.’

  He laughed aloud, a vastly amused whoop of laughter and rocked her into his arms, until her body was athwart his, her forehead pressing against his neck, his hands playing with her hair and caressing her back.

  He was a marvelous lover, she thought, aware that love-making need not stop with the climax but could be, as Jamie proved, deliciously prolonged to ease the return to separate awareness. She did
not want to leave this bed, disturb this mood . . .

  ‘I’ve got to get you home, Mirelle,’ Jamie murmured with a groan of regret, and then began to kiss her face avidly. ‘But, God, how I hate to let you go.’

  ‘I hate to leave.’

  He held her from him a little so that he could see her face.

  ‘Do you?’

  She caught her breath, half afraid of what he might say next. ‘Yes, I do.’ She had to be honest with Jamie. ‘But I also have to go.’

  ‘I know you do, my silence.’ He was gentle again. No, not gentle, responsive. He understood what she meant. ‘Promise me one thing, Mirelle?’

  ‘What?’

  He grinned because she’d jerked her chin up defensively. He kissed her there. ‘Don’t regret this evening. No, be quiet.’ His arm tightened to reinforce his order. ‘I damn well took deliberate advantage of your emotional state, but I’ve been trying to get you into my bed for some time. I’m not sorry I have. However, in the cold clear light of tomorrow, back in lower Suburbia, you may view the romantic nonsense of being swept into my bed as tawdry. I don’t want that, Mirelle, not for you, and not for the way I feel about you. Lie still! You’re a decent woman, Mirelle. You did nothing to lead me on so don’t have that on your conscience tomorrow. And you’re honest. At least you have been tonight in my arms. Don’t turn plastic tomorrow. Or ever.’

  Mirelle ran her free hand up into his hair to pull his head down so she could kiss him deeply. ‘Thank you, Jamie.’ She couldn’t find any other words but he held her tightly, so perhaps what she couldn’t say was expressed properly.

  Then, as if only a violent movement would suffice, Jamie threw back the covers and rose from the bed, his long frame silhouetted briefly in the moonlight. She rose, too, shivering in the chilly room, and they dressed in an easy silence.

  21

  HOWELL TOOK HER home, whipping through the deserted streets with deft speed.

  ‘I’ve got make-up lessons tomorrow, or rather today, and a TV recital on Sunday. May I come leer at you on Monday?’

  ‘If you’re sure you can fit it in your overcrowded schedule,’ said Mirelle, grinning at him.