Taming Natasha

by Nora Roberts

“Uh-huh. I wonder if her daddy’s going to come as Prince Charming.”

  “He is not Prince Charming.”

  “The Big Bad Wolf?” On a laugh, Annie held up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry. It’s just such a kick to see you unnerved.”

  “I’m not unnerved.” That was a big lie, Natasha admitted while she packed up some of her contributions to the party. “You know, you’re welcome to come.”

  “And I appreciate it. I’d rather stay home and guard my house from preadolescent felons. And don’t worry,” she added before Natasha could speak again. “I’ll lock up.”

  “All right. Maybe I’ll just—” Natasha broke off as the door jingled open. Another customer, she thought, would give her a little more time. When she spotted Terry, there was no way of saying who was more surprised. “Hello.”

  He swallowed over the huge lump in his throat and tried to look beyond her costume. “Tash?”

  “Yes.” Hoping he’d forgiven her by now, she smiled and held out a hand. He’d changed his seat in class, and every time she had tried to approach him, he’d darted off. Now he stood trapped, embarrassed and uncertain. He touched her outstretched hand, then stuck his own into his pocket.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “No?” She tilted her head. “This is my shop.” She wondered if it would strike him that she had been right when she’d said how little he knew her, and her voice softened. “I own it.”

  “You own it?” He looked around, unable to hide the impression it made on him. “Wow. That’s something.”

  “Thank you. Did you come to buy something or just to look?”

  Instantly he colored. It was one thing to go into a store, and another to go into one where the owner was a woman he’d professed to love. “I just…ah…”

  “Something for Halloween?” she prompted. “They have parties at the college.”

  “Yeah, well, I kind of thought I might slip into a couple. I guess it’s silly really, but…”

  “Halloween is very serious business here at The Fun House,” Natasha told him solemnly. As she spoke, another scream ripped from the speakers. “You see?”

  Embarrassed that he’d jumped, Terry managed a weak smile. “Yeah. Well, I was thinking, maybe a mask or something. You know.” His big, bony hands waved in space, then retreated to his pockets.

  “Would you like to be scary or funny?”

  “I don’t, ah, I haven’t thought about it.”

  Understanding, Natasha resisted the urge to pat his cheek. “You might get some ideas when you look at what we have left. Annie, this is my friend, Terry Maynard. He’s a violinist.”

  “Hi.” Annie watched his glasses slide down his nose after his nervous nod of greeting and thought him adorable. “We’re running low, but we’ve still got some pretty good stuff. Why don’t you come over and take a look? I’ll help you pick one out.”

  “I have to run.” Natasha began gathering up her two shopping bags, hoping that the visit had put them back on more solid ground. “Have a good time at your party, Terry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Annie, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Right. Don’t bob for too many apples.” Pushing her pointed hat out of her eyes again, Annie grinned at Terry. “So, you’re a violinist.”

  “Yeah.” He gave Natasha’s retreating back one last look. When the door closed behind her he felt a pang, but only a small one. “I’m taking some graduate classes at the college.”

  “Great. Hey, can you play ‘Turkey in the Straw’?”

  Outside Natasha debated running home to get her car. The cool, clear air changed her mind. The trees had turned. The patchwork glory of a week before, with its scarlets and vivid oranges and yellows, had blended into a dull russet. Dry, curling leaves spun from the branches to crowd against the curbs and scatter on the sidewalks. They crackled under her feet as she began the short walk.

  The hardiest flowers remained, adding a spicy scent so different from the heavy fragrances of summer. Cooler, cleaner, crisper, Natasha thought as she drew it in.

  She turned off the main street to where hedges and big trees shielded the houses. Jack-o’-lanterns sat on stoops and porches, grinning as they waited to be lighted at dusk. Here and there effigies in flannel shirts and torn jeans hung from denuded branches. Witches and ghosts stuffed with straw sat on steps, waiting to scare and delight the wandering trick-or-treaters.

  If anyone had asked her why she had chosen a small town in which to settle, this would have been one of her answers. People here took the time—the time to carve a pumpkin, the time to take a bundle of old clothes and fashion it into a headless horseman. Tonight, before the moon rose, children could race along the streets, dressed as fairies or goblins. Their goody bags would swell with store-bought candy and homemade cookies, while adults pretended not to recognize the miniature hoboes, clowns and demons. The only thing the children would have to fear was make-believe.

  Her child would have been seven.

  Natasha paused for a moment, pressing a hand to her stomach until the grief and the memory could be blocked. How many times had she told herself the past was past? And how many times would that past sneak up and slice at her?

  True, it came less often now, but still so sharply and always unexpectedly. Days could go by, even months, then it surfaced, crashing over her, leaving her a little dazed, a little tender, like a woman who had walked into a wall.

  A car engine was gunned. A horn blasted. “Hey, Tash.”

  She blinked and managed to lift a hand in passing salute, though she couldn’t identify the driver, who continued on his way.

  This was now, she told herself, blinking to focus again on the swirl of leaves. This was here. There was never any going back. Years before she had convinced herself that the only direction was forward. Deliberately she took a long, deep breath, relieved when she felt her system level. Tonight wasn’t the time for sorrows. She had promised another child a party, and she intended to deliver.

  She had to smile when she started up the steps of Spence’s home. He had already been working, she noted. Two enormous jack-o’-lanterns flanked the porch. Like Comedy and Tragedy, one grinned and the other scowled. Across the railing a white sheet had been shaped and spread so that the ghost it became seemed to be in full flight. Cardboard bats with red eyes swooped down from the eaves. In an old rocker beside the door sat a hideous monster who held his laughing head in his hand. On the door was a full-size cutout of a witch stirring a steaming cauldron.

  Natasha knocked under the hag’s warty nose. She was laughing when Spence opened the door. “Trick or treat,” she said.

  He couldn’t speak at all. For a moment he thought he was imagining things, had to be. The music-box gypsy was standing before him, gold dripping from her ears and her wrists. Her wild mane of hair was banded by a sapphire scarf that flowed almost to her waist with the corkscrew curls. More gold hung around her neck, thick, ornate chains that only accented her slenderness. The red dress was snug, scooped at the bodice and full in the skirt, with richly colored scarfs tied at the waist.

  Her eyes were huge and dark, made mysterious by some womanly art. Her lips were full and red, turned up now as she spun in a saucy circle. It took him only seconds to see it all, down to the hints of black lace at the hem. He felt as though he’d been standing in the doorway for hours.

  “I have a crystal ball,” she told him, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small, clear orb. “If you cross my palm with silver, I’ll gaze into it for you.”

  “My God,” he managed. “You’re beautiful.”

  She only laughed and stepped inside. “Illusions. Tonight is meant for them.” With a quick glance around, she slipped the crystal back into her pocket. But the image of the gypsy and the mystery remained. “Where’s Freddie?”

  His hand had gone damp on the knob. “She’s…” It took a moment for his brain to kick back into gear. “She’s at JoBeth’s. I wanted to put t
hings together when she wasn’t around.”

  “A good idea.” She studied his gray sweats and dusty sneakers. “Is this your costume?”

  “No. I’ve been hanging cobwebs.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Smiling, she held up her bags. “I have some tricks and I have some treats. Which would you like first?”

  “You have to ask?” he said quietly, then hooking an arm around her waist, brought her up hard against himself. She threw her head back, words of anger and defiance in her eyes and on the tip of her tongue. Then his mouth found hers. The bags slipped out of her hands. Freed, her fingers dived into his hair.

  This wasn’t what she wanted. But it was what she needed. Without hesitation her lips parted, inviting intimacy. She heard his quiet moan of pleasure merge with her own. It seemed right, somehow it seemed perfectly right to be holding him like this, just inside his front door, with the scents of fall flowers and fresh polish in the air, and the sharp-edged breeze of autumn rushing over them.

  It was right. He could taste and feel the rightness with her body pressed against his own, her lips warm and agile. No illusion this. No fantasy was she, despite the colorful scarfs and glittering gold. She was real, she was here, and she was his. Before the night was over, he would prove it to both of them.

  “I hear violins,” he murmured as he trailed his lips down her throat.

  “Spence.” She could only hear her heartbeat, like thunder in her head. Struggling for sanity, she pushed away. “You make me do things I tell myself I won’t.” After a deep breath she gave him a steady look. “I came to help you with Freddie’s party.”

  “And I appreciate it.” Quietly he closed the door. “Just like I appreciate the way you look, the way you taste, the way you feel.”

  She shouldn’t have been so aroused by only a look. Couldn’t be, not when the look told her that whatever the crystal in her pocket promised, he already knew their destiny. “This is a very inappropriate time.”

  He loved the way her voice could take on that regal tone, czarina to peasant. “Then we’ll find a better one.”

  Exasperated, she hefted the bags again. “I’ll help you hang your cobwebs, if you promise to be Freddie’s father—and only Freddie’s father while we do.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t see any other way he’d survive an evening with twenty costumed first-graders. And the party, he thought, wouldn’t last forever. “We’ll be pals for the duration.”

  She liked the sound of it. Choosing a bag, she reached inside. She held up a rubber mask of a bruised, bloodied and scarred face. Competently she slipped it over Spence’s head. “There. You look wonderful.”

  He adjusted it until he could see her through both eyeholes, and had a foolish and irresistible urge to look at himself in the hall mirror. Behind the mask he grinned. “I’ll suffocate.”

  “Not for a couple of hours yet.” She handed him the second bag. “Come on. It takes time to build a haunted house.”

  It took them two hours to transform Spence’s elegantly decorated living room into a spooky dungeon, fit for rats and screams of torture. Black and orange crepe paper hung on the walls and ceiling. Angel-hair cobwebs draped the corners. A mummy, arms folded across its chest leaned in a corner. A black-caped witch hung in the air, suspended on her broom. Thirsty and waiting for dusk, an evil-eyed Dracula lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce.

  “You don’t think it’s too scary?” Spence asked as he hung up a Pin-the-Nose-on-the-Pumpkin game. “They’re first-graders.”

  Natasha flicked a finger over a rubber spider that hung by a thread and sent him spinning. “Very mild. My brothers made a haunted house once. They blindfolded Rachel and me to take us through. Mikhail put my hand in a bowl of grapes and told me it was eyes.”

  “Now that’s disgusting,” Spence decided.

  “Yes.” It delighted her to remember it. “Then there was this spaghetti—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted. “I get the idea.”

  She laughed, adjusting her earring. “In any case, I had a wonderful time and have always wished I’d thought of it first. The children tonight would be very disappointed if we didn’t have some monsters waiting for them. After they’ve been spooked, which they desperately want to be, you turn on the lights, so they see it’s all pretend.”

  “Too bad we’re out of grapes.”

  “It’s all right. When Freddie’s older, I’ll show you how to make a bloodied severed hand out of a rubber glove.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “What about food?”

  “Vera’s been a Trojan.” With his mask on top of his head, Spence stood back to study the whole room. It felt good, really good to look at the results, and to know that he and Natasha had produced them together. “She’s made everything from deviled eggs to witch’s brew punch. You know what would have been great? A fog machine.”

  “That’s the spirit.” His grin made her laugh and long to kiss him. “Next year.”

  He liked the sound of that, he realized. Next year, and the year after. A little dazed at the speed with which his thoughts were racing, he only studied her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Everything’s just fine.”

  “I have the prizes here.” Wanting to rest her legs, Natasha sat on the arm of a chair beside a lounging ghoul. “For the games and costumes.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I told you I wanted to. This is my favorite.” She pulled out a skull, then flicking a switch, set it on the floor where it skimmed along, disemboded, its empty eyes blinking.

  “Your favorite.” Tongue in cheek, Spence picked it up where it vibrated in his hand.

  “Yes. Very gruesome.” She tilted her head. “Say ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’”

  He only laughed and switched it off. Then he pulled down his mask. “‘O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt.’” She was chuckling when he came over and lifted her to her feet. “Give us a kiss.”

  “No,” she decided after a moment. “You’re ugly.”

  “Okay.” Obligingly he pushed the mask up again. “How about it?”

  “Much worse.” Solemnly she slid the mask down again.

  “Very funny.”

  “No, but it seemed necessary.” Linking her arm with his, she studied the room. “I think you’ll have a hit.”

  “We’ll have a hit,” he corrected. “You know Freddie’s crazy about you.”

  “Yes.” Natasha gave him an easy smile. “It’s mutual.”

  They heard the front door slam and a shout. “Speaking of Freddie.”

  Children arrived first in trickles, then in a flood. When the clock struck six, the room was full of ballerinas and pirates, monsters and superheroes. The haunted house brought gasps and shrieks and shudders. No one was brave enough to make the tour alone, though many made it twice, then a third time. Occasionally a stalwart soul was courageous enough to poke a finger into the mummy or touch the vampire’s cape.

  When the lights were switched on there were moans of disappointment and a few relieved sighs. Freddie, a life-size Raggedy Ann, tore open her belated birthday presents with abandon.

  “You’re a very good father,” Natasha murmured.

  “Thanks.” He linked his fingers with hers, no longer questioning why it should be so right for them to stand together and watch over his daughter’s party. “Why?”

  “Because you haven’t once retreated for aspirin, and you hardly winced when Mikey spilled punch on your rug.”

  “That’s because I have to save my strength for when Vera sees it.” Spence dodged, in time to avoid collision with a fairy princess being chased by a goblin. There were squeals from every corner of the room, punctuated by the crashing and moaning of the novelty record on the stereo. “As for the aspirin… How long can they keep this up?”

  “Oh, a lot longer than we can.”

  “You’re such a comfort.”

  “We’ll have them
play games now. You’ll be surprised how quickly two hours can pass.”

  She was right. By the time the numbered noses had all been stuck in the vicinity of the pumpkin head, when musical chairs was only a fond memory, after the costume parade and judging, when the last apple bobbed alone and the final clothespin had clunked into a mason jar, parents began to trail in to gather up their reluctant Frankensteins and ghoulies. But the fun wasn’t over.

  In groups and clutches, trick-or-treaters canvassed the neighborhood for candy bars and caramel apples. The wind-rushed night and crackling leaves were things they would remember long after the last chocolate drop had been consumed.

  It was nearly ten before Spence managed to tuck an exhausted and thrilled Freddie into bed. “It was the best birthday I ever had,” she told him. “I’m glad I got the chicken pox.”

  Spence rubbed a finger over a smeared orange freckle the cold cream had missed. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I’m glad you had fun.”

  “Can I have—?”

  “No.” He kissed her nose. “If you eat one more piece of candy you’ll blow up.”

  She giggled, and because she was too tired to try any strategy, snuggled into her pillow. Memories were already swirling in her head. “Next year I want to be a gypsy like Tash. Okay?”

  “Sure. Go to sleep now. I’m going to take Natasha home, but Vera’s here.”

  “Are you going to marry Tash soon, so she can stay with us?”

  Spence opened his mouth, then closed it again as Freddie yawned hugely. “Where do you get these ideas?” he muttered.

  “How long does it take to get a baby sister?” she asked as she drifted off.

  Spence rubbed a hand over his face, grateful that she had fallen asleep and saved him from answering.

  Downstairs he found Natasha cleaning up the worst of the mess. She flicked back her hair as he came in. “When it looks as bad as this, you know you’ve had a successful party.” Something in his expression had her narrowing her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. No, it’s Freddie.”

  “She has a tummy ache,” Natasha said, instantly sympathetic.