Against All Odds (Arabesque)

by Gwynne Forster

  Adam had replied, “You can’t describe Ilona—she has to be experienced. But not to worry, she’ll be good company.”

  He rang the bell and waited, wondering what kind of curve he’d get from Melissa after his audacious taunt and thinly veiled promise of earlier in the day.

  My God, he told himself when she opened the door, she can still take my breath away. The ball is in my court, she seemed to say when she stepped up to him, ran her arms up his chest, grasped the back of his head, and kissed him.

  “Hi. You’re right on time.”

  “Hi.” He looked down at her feet, getting a grip on his senses after her surprise assault. “You’re very tall tonight. How high are those heels?”

  “Three inches. Gives me an advantage, doesn’t it?”

  “Depends. I thought Wayne would like to meet Ilona.” Melissa looked over Adam’s shoulder at his brother.

  “Oops. I didn’t see you. Come in.”

  Adam watched Wayne kiss Melissa on the cheek and suppressed a flicker of annoyance. He had no need for jealousy and wanted to kick himself for feeling it. They walked into the living room, and Ilona stood as they entered. Adam enjoyed the smile that lit her countenance: here was a female who took pride in her womanhood. He introduced her to his brother.

  “Now I know I’m moving down here,” she joshed.

  Adam suggested a restaurant in Baltimore. “Want to drive, Wayne?”

  Wayne laughed. “Do I have a choice?” He nudged Ilona. “They want to make out in the backseat. What do you think?”

  She grasped his arm. “Wayne, darling, never get in the way of lovers. It’s not sporting.”

  * * *

  Adam positioned himself in the right corner of the backseat, knotted his fingers through Melissa’s and urged her closer. “This car is bigger than the Jaguar,” he said of Wayne’s car. “You’ve put three feet of space between us. What’s the matter? Scared you’ll have to back up that greeting you gave me this evening?” He urged her all the way into his arms and held her close.

  “I’m on to you, sweetheart. You’re full of pranks when I’m not around and you can get away with them.” He let a finger trail from her cheek down to the cleavage that her dress exposed.

  “How sassy do you feel right now?” he teased. She didn’t answer, but to his surprise urged his face down to hers with the tips of her fingers and parted her lips. Caught off guard, he had to do battle with the unsteadiness that he knew she sensed in him as his blood coursed wildly through his body. Her lips moved beneath his, seeking, demanding that he lose his self-control and, however fleetingly, belong to someone other than himself. With effort, he eased the kiss and moved her away from him.

  “Are you staking a claim?” he whispered, trying to come to terms with the depths to which she had embedded herself in him.

  Her calm response that she didn’t know what he meant didn’t fool him. She trembled against the arm that he slung around her shoulder, and he wondered for the nth time if his uncle’s fate would be his own.

  * * *

  Melissa watched Ilona slip off her gold earrings, unfasten their matching bracelet, lay them in her jewelry box and lock it. She didn’t take chances. Melissa wondered what role chance had played in her relationship with Adam. Had Ilona not chosen that weekend to visit, and if she hadn’t admonished her to be more assertive with Adam, would she know that her kiss alone could make him tremble?

  “You should have sent me to the movies,” Ilona said as if aware that Melissa’s thoughts rested on Adam.

  “Didn’t you have a good time?”

  “What a question! Darling, if a vooman couldn’t enjoy herself in the company of those two men, she should see a psychiatrist. You can get Adam, if you don’t make any mistakes with him. But that’s easier said than done. He’s a tough one.”

  Melissa bade Ilona good night and went to her own room. She moved about absentmindedly, her thoughts on Adam’s reaction each time she’d kissed him without warning. She undressed and slipped into bed. Ilona’s words bruised her mind: “He’s a tough one.” Yes, Melissa mused, he is that. He had been hers when she’d kissed him unexpectedly, but only for moments before he reasserted his self-control. He’d kissed her good night at her door, looked at her solemnly, and had spoken in an unmistakably serious voice.

  “I assume Cooper has already left for Texas. If he hasn’t, give him a reason to do that.” Then he’d walked off without waiting for her answer. “He doesn’t like the word ‘no,’” Jason Court had once said. Well, she thought, frustrated at his continued refusal to declare himself though he could tell her to cut ties with another man, he’s going to hear it if he doesn’t take the same chance on me that he’s demanding I take with him.

  * * *

  Adam read his private investigator’s report a second time. Nothing in Melissa’s behavior the previous Friday night nor when they spoke during the weekend had prepared him for what his eyes saw. He rose from his chair, paused and sat down, not trusting himself to enter her office. He picked up his private phone and dialed her number.

  “Melissa, what have you done?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.” His breathless tone betrayed his emotions, and he paused in an effort to control his voice. “You’ve risked everything in order to protect me from personal damage, threats, and accusations that I didn’t even know about. Why did you do it, Melissa. I have to know.” His breath trapped in his throat while he awaited her answer.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Nothing remains a secret for long in this town—you know that. Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t have a choice, Adam. I acted in the interest of decency. There’ve been too many lies, too much misunderstanding and suffering because of this feud, and I won’t contribute to it. I want it laid to rest.” Her disappointing words hurt him.

  “You’re asking me to believe you risked relationships with your family, everything you’ve worked for, your business for such an impersonal reason? Tell me the truth, Melissa. You’ve lain in my arms and told me you love me. Can’t you trust me enough to level with me now? The truth, Melissa. I need to hear it.”

  “And my needs, Adam. Does it matter what I need?” He pushed back his chair when he detected a hint of tears in her voice, hung up, and raced down the hall and up the stairs. He strode past her secretary, opened her door, and closed it behind him. She sat with elbows on her desk, holding her bowed face in her hands. Without breaking his stride, he knelt beside her chair and cradled her in his arms.

  “I care for you. I feel for you what I’ve never felt for anyone else, but I can’t name it.”

  Her arms tightened around him, and as though exhausted by a traumatic experience she rasped out the words: “I couldn’t let him destroy you. I couldn’t let anybody do that.”

  He hooked his foot under the platform of her chair, dragged it away from the desk, and sat with her in his lap. His heart swelled and his breath quickened. How had he ever doubted that he could trust her? She would give up everything for him.

  “I care,” he repeated, stroking her back, tangling his fingers in her dense curls, and spreading soft kisses over her face. “I care, sweetheart.” Love and contentment flowed through him and with eyes closed, he rocked her, cherished her. For the first time in his adult life, he knew total vulnerability to a woman and, at the moment, he didn’t care.

  * * *

  Later that evening Melissa sat in her living room addressing Christmas cards, a chore that she always tried to finish by the fifth of the month. Her house seemed empty without Ilona. She reflected on her friend’s philosophy that a great love made the pangs of birth and death worth experiencing. Ilona had known such a love with her husband, but had lost him to Hungary’s political madness of the time and had since refused to settle for less. She flipped through the stack of cards looking for one suitable for Bill Henry. She couldn’t understand her affection for the man, having spoken with him only thr
ee times, but she suspected that his love for her mother and hers for Adam bound them. She found one, addressed it, and put away her writing.

  She tried to control the happiness she felt, to subdue it so that if Adam walked out of her life, she wouldn’t have a painful letdown. Adam hadn’t committed himself, but she’d felt his love, sensed the change in him, and had known that he cherished her. She knew their differences wouldn’t be resolved until Adam had satisfied himself that the person sabotaging his factory had been apprehended. But she had hope now that he’d give them a chance.

  She crawled into bed, turned out the light, and the telephone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “I called to tell you good night. Sleep well.”

  “Adam,” she mumbled. “Good night, honey.” He hung up, and she fell asleep and dreamed that he kissed her in a field of early spring lavender.

  * * *

  Around noon the next day Adam lifted the receiver, swung his alligator-shod size twelves up on his desk, crossed them at the ankle, and cleared his throat. “Are you sure?” he asked Wayne.

  “The announcement didn’t come by mail, but by Federal Express. Emily Grant wants the world to know that she and Rafer Grant now live under separate roofs and that she has filed for a divorce. What do you think we should do with this?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Print it.”

  Adam welcomed Wayne’s presence at dinner that evening, grateful that he’d driven in from Baltimore to ease the strain. Both expected their mother to explode with rage at Wayne’s decision to print the announcement in the family paper.

  “What else is going on behind my back,” she asked them, then turned to Adam. “Doesn’t this have something to do with you and Melissa Grant? The whole community talks of nothing but the two of you.”

  “Mother, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the community’s reaction to my friendship with Melissa doesn’t concern me. Besides, this had nothing to do with her.”

  “Of course it does,” she stormed.

  “Hear me out, Mother. It seems that Timothy Coston was shot, and Rafer has decided that only a Hayes or a Roundtree would have done it. He gave me the credit. But I haven’t seen a newspaper account of it. It hasn’t been reported to the police, and I can’t get any details. I didn’t do it, but he intends to indict me. I expect he hopes such a suit will distract attention from his wife’s divorce suit.”

  Mary Roundtree’s lips quivered in anger. “If he dares to charge you, I’ll keep him in court until he doesn’t have a cent. I don’t suppose I have to remind you of my advice that Melissa Grant is poison. Now that you’ve found out for yourself, I hope you’ll leave her alone. When we finish with them, they’ll know who we are.”

  Adam left the table and walked from one end of the dining room to the other in a move that Wayne and his mother recognized as one intended to cool his temper. Oblivious to their silence, he paced the floor, embattled with an inner turbulence not unlike the Atlantic in the clutch of an angry storm. He stopped at the head of the table, the place vacant since his father’s death, and took a seat. He was head of the family, and it was time his mother accorded him that respect.

  He looked into his mother’s eyes. “Melissa Grant risked her relationship with her family, her clients, and her business to stand up for me and deny that I had any part in the deeds with which Rafer wants to charge me. If any of you thinks that I won’t stand up for her, you don’t know me.”

  “But what if she’s engineered that situation at Leather and Hides and went to your defense as a ruse to cover it up,” Mary asked.

  He leaned forward. “Mother, that woman loves me as surely as any woman ever loved a man. I told you once that I didn’t want to hear another word against her, and I don’t. She’s important to me. I will make my move after I find out who is trashing Leather and Hides.”

  “Emily is behind this,” he heard his mother say. “She’s still chasing B-H after all these years.”

  “Emily Grant is a respectable woman. She may have thought of B-H for the past thirty years, but she hasn’t chased him.”

  “How do you know her well enough to defend her?” Wayne asked.

  Adam sipped the last of his cold coffee and stood. “Mrs. Grant has volunteered four hours each day, five days a week, at The Refuge for the last month and a half. That’s how I know her.” He excused himself, put his leather jacket over his sweater, threw a long cashmere scarf around his neck, and set out for Bill Henry’s house.

  * * *

  “What brings you here tonight, Adam?” B-H relaxed in his rocker and inhaled deeply. Adam had long enjoyed his uncle’s habit of roasting sweet potatoes and peanuts in the hearth while he sat before the blazing flames.

  “I take it you haven’t spoken with Wayne today,” he said, preparing him for the conversation’s potentially explosive nature.

  “Can’t say that I have. What’s up?”

  Adam looked directly into Bill Henry’s eyes. “Emily Grant and Rafer have separated, and she’s officially announced that she has filed for divorce.” Something akin to pain settled around Adam’s heart when his uncle jerked forward as though blown to the position by a cannon.

  “Don’t lie to me, Adam.”

  “You still want her?” His uncle looked steadily at him, not blinking an eye until his expression assumed a far-off, lost look.

  “Oh, yes. I want her. I doubt that even death could put an end to it. Just let me know when the decree is final. There isn’t a Grant or a Roundtree alive whom I’ll allow to get in my way this time, and that includes Emily.” Adam sought to lower his uncle’s expectations.

  “You think she’d still—”

  Bill Henry interrupted. “I don’t think. I know. At times I’ve actually felt sorry for poor Rafer. A morsel of bread is worse than having none at all. Emily Morris loves me—she has never loved anyone else, and she never will.”

  Adam shook his head in wonder. “All these years. It must have been difficult for you.”

  Bill Henry picked up the poker, knocked a few peanuts away from the coals, and fanned them. “It hasn’t been easy, Adam—but I had solace in the knowledge that she loved me, that no matter what appearances might suggest, it was me that she loved.”

  “You’re sure of yourself.” Adam stroked his chin with his right thumb and index finger.

  “And if you want Melissa, you should be, too. You’d better bind her to you. She’s a fine woman, and I’d hate to see you lose her.” Adam didn’t ask B-H why he was so certain he wanted Melissa, because he wouldn’t discuss her with anyone, not even his beloved uncle.

  He held out his hand for the peanuts he knew his uncle had pushed aside to cool for him and which he’d nibble on the way home.

  “I’ll let you know when the decree is final, B-H, and I hope things work out for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Adam forgot the nuts as he walked home in the pitch darkness. His thoughts centered on his uncle and Emily Morris. A love that strong could bring a man to his knees, even flat on his face. Could he withstand what B-H had gone through if Melissa sided with her family, or worse, if she turned her back when he told her what he knew he had to reveal—a secret he’d kept from her far too long. His steps slowed, and unfamiliar tentacles of alarm made him shiver: suppose he couldn’t get along without her. Then what?

  * * *

  At noon the next day Wayne walked into Adam’s office and handed him a copy of The Maryland Journal, the family newspaper. The society columnist’s phone had rung constantly that morning, he told Adam, and Rafer had called disclaiming the pending divorce and threatening suit. He sat down and faced Adam, his demeanor more solemn than was normally his bent.

  “Adam, do you think it’s possible that your affair with Melissa might have opened Pandora’s box?”

  Hot anger lit Adam’s eyes, and his quelling look wasn’t one that his brother had witnessed before. His lips thinned as he spoke with frosty softness. “I am not having an affair wi
th Melissa, but if I were, it would be my business and hers and not a matter for discussion.”

  Wayne’s careless shrug didn’t mislead Adam. He sensed his brother’s worry and annoyance at the turn of events, as he watched him hunch his shoulders and walk out of the office. Adam leaned heavily back in his chair, himself displeased. He had never spoken so sharply to his brother, and he feared it was only the beginning. What would his passion for Melissa cost him?

  * * *

  Adam remained in his office until six thirty that evening in order to have the privacy he needed. Never before had the folly of mixing business with pleasure been clearer. He had to choose between two things dear to him: his family’s best interest and his relationship with Melissa. He thought of her warmth, the way she molded herself to him whenever he put his arms around her. Hell! He lifted the receiver and dialed her office number.

  “Hello.”

  “What are you doing here so late?” he asked. And before she could answer, he whispered, “I’d like to see you, Melissa. Tonight. Now. Will you have dinner with me?”

  Her immediate reply warmed his heart. “Could we go to that little place where we went that first time?”

  “Yes. I’ll pick you up in a couple of minutes.” When he reached her office, he found her standing outside the locked door. For the last few hours he’d thought of nothing but the feel of her warm and soft in his arms, sweet and loving. Easing the torment he felt over that angry exchange with his brother, and calming his apprehension about their relationship. He’d needed to hold her.

  “What’s this?” he asked, his frustration barely suppressed.

  “I was going to meet you.” She stood on tiptoe for his kiss. He kept it light—he had to, or they’d be a spectacle for whoever passed them.

  He drove past the Taney house on South Benz Street, and Melissa seemed to spit in its direction, mystifying him.

  “It’s a small pleasure I allow myself whenever I pass here,” she explained. “Now that we have school integration, I wonder whether our children still learn that, as chief justice of the Supreme Court, old Taney in the Dred Scott Case of 1857 upheld the tenet that slaves and their descendents were not citizens of this country and couldn’t sue in Federal courts, and that congress couldn’t forbid slavery in the United States or its territories. I refuse to forgive even his memory. Pursing my lips as if to spit at the place isn’t very ladylike, but it’s oh so satisfying.”