When she awakened, she’d probably insist on going home; she’d mentioned having to be at work early the following morning. He wanted to keep her with him as long as possible.
Loving her had been everything he’d dreamed. Passionate and uninhibited, she’d responded to his every touch, however limited his injuries had kept him.
These moments after sex were special because of the euphoria they brought. Every worry eased; every muscle relaxed. For these few moments, he didn’t feel alone, and the weight of the future seemed lighter.
He thought about their next date. There was a stage performance of Les Misérables coming. He’d find out when her days off fell and get tickets. So far he hadn’t really taken her anywhere special; the things they’d done had been very ordinary. Still, he couldn’t remember when he’d had such fun just being with a woman. Most of the women he’d dated before his injury had been high-maintenance, expecting to be wined and dined and entertained in a manner now impossible for him.
Portia, on the other hand, seemed content with the limited scenarios.
More than content. She’d seemed pleased just to be with him. Gratification stole over him. She was delightful to be with.
He thought about her strange ability to see things invisible to the rest of the world. There was no question in his mind that she could do exactly what she claimed; all the proof he’d needed was that moment in the ER when she’d looked into his eyes and assured him he had no spinal damage.
And she’d told him that for now, at least, there was no trace of Huntington’s. If only he could trust her instincts completely.
He felt her stir, and relished her short silky hair against his cheek, the regular thrumming of her heart against his chest. If things were different, if no sword of Damocles was hanging over his head, she was a woman he could come to love.
The thought flickered across his mind, and as quickly as it had appeared, he squashed it. The kind of long-lasting love men and women shared wasn’t for him. He only had to remember what love like that had done to his mother…how old she’d grown, how fragile and sad, as they waited for his father to die.
He’d vowed long ago that he wouldn’t put any woman through such an ordeal, and he hadn’t changed his mind.
For this one small moment, though, he could love Portia, as long as he kept in mind that it was temporary, that the time would come when he’d have to end it.
But not yet, he assured himself. Not yet. They were only at the beginning. He didn’t have to think of endings yet. He ran a hand lightly down her spine, enjoying the march of vertebrae, the dip of her waist, the delicate roundness of her buttocks.
And he felt himself growing hard again, wanting her with a ferocity that surprised him. Her body was open to him, and if he moved just a little, he’d slide into her heat.
CHAPTER TEN
HE QUICKLY TOOK CARE of the condom situation, and was already making love to her when she awoke. She lifted her head and he kissed her, his tongue signaling urgency.
But this time the journey was longer. He stopped her frenzied movements with a firm hand on her buttocks, forcing her to slow down, mercilessly building the suspense, leading her higher and higher with him, until the tension and anticipation were all but unbearable.
When the ending came, she heard herself calling, felt herself falling, knew his strong arms were holding her safe even as she burst apart and re-formed, sated. His cry echoed hers, and she couldn’t have told where his body ended and hers began.
This time she rolled off him. “We’re gonna reinjure your hip, and explaining how it happened isn’t something I want to get into with any of my colleagues,” she panted.
“Y’know, I think we’re getting better at this. It just takes lots of practice.” His tone was thoughtful, and she giggled. Then she glanced at the bedside clock and gave a yelp. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll never make it up in the morning.”
“Aren’t you hungry? I am.” He retrieved a pair of soft cotton drawstring pants from under the pillow and pulled them on. “I’ll make us some grilled cheese sandwiches. With dill pickles. And I’ve got some frozen fries. What d’ya say?”
She should go, she knew it. But she was hungry.
“Okay. Shall I use that bathroom I saw down the hall?” She guessed that the ensuite would be more convenient for him to use with his chair.
“Meet you in five.”
It was more like fifteen by the time Portia had showered and got her clothes on.
Nelson was already in the kitchen, an electric frying pan plugged in. He’d set it on a chair so he could reach it easily, and he was buttering slices of bread on an overturned cookie sheet on his lap.
He handed her the block of cheese and a grater.
“Grate this. I’ll chop up some onion and slice the tomatoes. I’ll have you know these aren’t your everyday grilled sandwiches. These are cordon bleu.”
Within minutes, they had the sandwiches assembled. He plopped butter in the pan, and soon the smell of melting cheese and frying bread filled the kitchen with a mouthwatering aroma.
“You’ve been misleading me. You can make things from scratch.” Portia was leaning against the counter, munching on a garlicky dill from the jar he’d taken from the refrigerator. There was a feeling of cozy companionship in the room.
“Sorry to disappoint, but grilled cheese is my entire repertoire. I learned to make them out of desperation when I OD’d on Chinese takeout one time. How about you, Portia? You cook?”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Not anywhere near. Think basic, so basic it’s probably not even called cooking. Boiled macaroni, say, with a tin of tomatoes and some frozen peas dumped in, or stir-fry.” She tipped her head to the side and considered. “Actually, I do make good stir-fry. I’ll do one for you some day soon.”
“I’d like that.” He flipped the sandwiches. “There’s cola in the fridge. You have to drink cola with grilled cheese. It says so in my French cookbook.”
“Right, boss.” She got them each a bottle, and by that time the sandwiches were ready. He slid the fries out of the oven, brown and crisp. They ate at the round kitchen table, with paper towels for napkins.
“See, the service in this place goes downhill fast,” he said. “We start out with linen and silver, and here we are only a few hours later with all the trappings of a soup kitchen.”
“Looks like now that I’ve given you my body, you’ve stopped trying to impress me,” Portia sighed. “I might have known I’d get no respect in the morning.”
Instead of laughing as she’d expected he would, Nelson laid his sandwich down and reached across the table to take her hand in his and gaze into her eyes.
“I don’t want to impress you, Portia. I want to surprise and delight you. I want to hear you laugh. I want to make love to you every way there is and in a few ways I intend to invent. I want to spend time with you. Talk. Do things like this. I want to share whatever’s going on in your life.” He gestured at the sandwiches and lowered his voice. “Tonight’s been special for me. I hope you feel the same way.”
She blamed exhaustion for the tears that suddenly burned at the back of her eyes. She didn’t want him to see them, so she took another bite of her sandwich and searched for words to lighten the atmosphere, but the naked honesty in his voice and in his expression made it impossible. She settled for the truth.
“I feel exactly the same way, but now I really do have to go home. Some of us have to work in the morning.”
“Finish your sandwich. I’ll call a cab.” He dialed, and when the buzzer sounded downstairs, announcing the taxi’s arrival, he drew her gently down to his level and kissed her.
“Sleep well, my darling.”
She loved how he said darling. “I shall, although it’ll be awfully short.” Portia hurried out the door.
When the cab pulled up at her house and she tried to pay, the driver shook his head. “It’s taken care of. Mr. Gregory has an account with us.”
Nelso
n was a chivalrous, thoughtful man. She liked that about him, as well as a dozen other things, like his thoroughness in bed and the intensity he brought to making love. She really liked that.
Be careful, Bailey. He’s a rich playboy, and chances are he’s fickle.
Well, she’d been known to be fickle herself, she mused as she ran up the walk and unlocked her front door. Inside the house, the light was blinking on her answering machine. She smiled and pressed the button, half expecting it to be Nelson bidding her a final good-night.
“It’s your sister, Juliet Bailey,” her sister’s loud, plaintive voice announced. “Where are you, Portia? I really need to talk to you, okay? It’s urgent. So call me back right away when you get home, okay?”
Damn. She’d phone Juliet first thing in the morning. She’d planned to find time this week to have another talk with her, but she hadn’t. As she stripped off her clothes and tumbled into bed, niggling apprehension about Juliet vied with vivid memories of making love with Nelson, but exhaustion soon overcame thought, and she fell asleep.
Portia overslept Friday morning, leaving her barely enough minutes for a fast shower before she raced off to work. The day was frantic; two major pileups on the 401 and an explosion in a paint factory meant that there was no time to use the bathroom, much less call Juliet, who’d left two messages with Jimmy during the day.
By the time her shift ended, Portia had forgotten she even had a sister. She felt the way she used to as an intern after back-to-back double shifts: thick-headed, irritable, headachy and drained of every concern except finding the nearest horizontal surface and sleeping as long as possible.
She staggered out of Emerg, climbed into her car and drove home. It was only when she saw the blinking light on the answering machine that she remembered Juliet.
With a groan, she dialed her sister’s number.
“Where have you been?” Juliet was angry. “I called and called. I even used your cell phone. You always tell me I can get you anytime on your cell, but a lady kept saying this customer is not available, and she wouldn’t answer me when I talked.”
Portia needed aspirin. “I’m so sorry, Jules. It was crazy at work. I guess I had my phone turned off. Now, tell me what’s wrong, okay?”
But Juliet refused. “I need to look at you to talk right, and besides it’s private,” she insisted petulantly. “Vicki’s right across the hall. She can hear me.”
“So shut your door.” Portia sighed, knowing what was coming.
“Mrs. Cousins says it’s rude to shut the door in somebody’s face, and Vicky’s face is right there. She likes to listen to me talk on the phone. Portia, please come and pick me up and we can go and have doughnuts at Dunkin Donuts, okay? We can talk over a doughnut. Okay, Portia?”
Assessing over the phone whether there was a real emergency in Juliet’s life, or how serious it might be, was impossible. The very last thing Portia wanted to do was drive across town and eat doughnuts. She’d had a chocolate bar for lunch and a handful of candies at some point during the afternoon. She was sugared out. She thought of a hot bath and bed.
Then she thought of how terrible she’d feel if Juliet did have an emergency.
“Okay, Jules, I’ll be there in twenty minutes, but we’re not having doughnuts. We’ll go for a sub. I’m hungry.”
I’m hungry—we’re all going to eat. I’m tired—we’re all going to bed early. Those were Lydia’s lines. My God, was she turning into her mother?
“Okay, Portia, but I don’t want them to put those hot things on my sub. Remember those hot green things I hate? Tell the man absolutely not to put them on. Okay, Portia? ’Cause I really hate them. Okay?”
“Yeah. Whatever. Okay, no green things. See you in twenty minutes.”
Portia took time to scrub her face, hoping the cold rinse would wake her up, wondering if she could collapse into bed any time soon. She pulled on tights and a long sweater, and she was on her way out the door when she noticed the answering machine blinking again. She pressed the button.
“Hello, my fair lady.” Nelson’s deep voice was a little hesitant. “It’s three in the afternoon and I’ve been thinking of you all day. I know you must be beat, and you need to go to bed early tonight, but I wanted to tell you—” He hesitated, and she heard him swear under his breath when the words wouldn’t come. “Hell, I just wanted to tell you that I wish you were here with me right now. And that I meant what I said. If you ever need a sympathetic ear to bounce things off of, mine is available anytime.”
Portia told herself it was exhaustion that brought a lump to her throat….
Juliet was waiting on the steps of the group home when Portia drove up, and she could see by her sister’s aura that she was agitated. Red flags of worry and anger and dark streaks of fear encircled her. She trotted down the sidewalk and wrenched open the passenger door before Portia could even shut off the motor, then tumbled inside in a clumsy flurry of arms and legs.
“Hi, Jules. Fasten your seat belt,” Portia reminded her.
Juliet did, and then burst into tears.
“Hey, what is it, honey? What’s wrong?” Portia had been about to pull into traffic, but now she turned the ignition off.
“Stuart’s mother and father are sending him away to live with his sister in Seattle,” Juliet wailed. “And his sister doesn’t even want him. She doesn’t like him, Stuart says. But his parents won’t listen and he’s going next week and now I’ll never get to see him again and it’s because his mother doesn’t like me and my heart is hurting bad. And I called him just now because his mother is at bingo and I told him we’d meet him at the sub shop. He’s gonna sneak out past his father. And you have to do something. Please, Portia.”
Portia leaned over and put her aching forehead on the steering wheel. Dealing with Juliet was enough without having to contend with Stuart, as well.
She remembered Nelson’s offer of a sympathetic ear, and for one desperate moment, she considered calling him and asking him to meet them at the sub shop. She abandoned it immediately.
Stuart was obsessed with cars, and once he laid eyes on the limo and found out Nelson was a race car driver, he’d be so distracted there wouldn’t be a hope in Hades of getting him to discuss problems, much less solutions.
There was nothing for it except to forge ahead alone. She started the car and drove blearily to the sub shop.
Stuart was already there, standing off to one side of the entrance, rocking from one foot to the other. He, too, was surrounded by colors that trumpeted his troubled emotions to Portia.
“There’s Stuart. Hi, Stuart.” Juliet bolted from the car, and the two threw their arms around each other and embraced as if they hadn’t just spent the day working together.
“Hi, Dr. Portia.” Stuart’s round, florid face didn’t have its usual beaming smile. Portia saw silver tear tracks on his cheeks as she returned the ferocious hug he gave her.
Inside, they finally got through the painfully slow process of ordering. Stuart had trouble coming to decisions, so it took forever for him to make up his mind about what he wanted. Juliet repeated her instructions about no hot peppers four times, Portia relayed her own order so quickly she had to go back over it, and through it all the patient young boy behind the counter, gangly and riddled with acne, smiled and nodded, doing his best to serve his customers.
In a booth at last, Portia unwrapped her sandwich and took a huge hungry bite.
Ordinarily, food was a major issue with both Juliet and Stuart, but tonight they simply sat close together, with their sandwiches still wrapped. They clung to each other’s hands and looked at Portia as if she were the last hope they had in the world. But she was too hungry to get into their problems just yet. She washed her mouthful of veggie sub down with a swig of tea and took another bite.
“My mother will be mad at me when she finds I sneaked out,” Stuart finally said in a worried tone. “I don’t think I shoulda sneaked out, Juliet.” He started to get up. “Maybe I should jus
t go home now, before she gets back.”
“But we need to talk, Stuart. You know we need to talk. Sit down.” Juliet tugged his shirt, and he subsided into the booth.
Portia sighed and abandoned her sandwich for the time being. “Okay, guys. Tell me what the problems are and we’ll see if we can find solutions, okay?”
Stuart: “My mother says I’m bad, she’s sending me away—”
Juliet: “Stuart and I are gonna get married—” Stuart: “I don’t wanna go away—”
Juliet: “He’s an adult. She can’t do that—” Their words and voices overlapped and Portia’s head hurt more than ever.
“Okay, slow down and talk to me one at a time. Stuart, you go first.”
But for several long moments, he couldn’t talk. His eyes welled up with tears and he swallowed repeatedly and rocked on the seat. His huge hands, nails bitten to the quick, closed into fists, then opened and closed again.
“Let me tell her,” Juliet interjected, but Portia stopped her.
“I need to have Stuart tell me how he feels,” she told her sister. “You’ll have your chance next. We have to take turns and be patient here, okay?”
Juliet subsided into a sulk.
“I gotta do what my mom says,” Stuart blurted. “She says, she says, it’s out of the question for me and Julie to get married. We’re not—not—”
“Capable. She says we’re not capable. But we are so,” Juliet said. “We could get an apartment of our own. We both have jobs. We are so capable.” She turned to Stuart. “I hate to say it, Stuart, but I don’t like your mother. And I hate to say it, but she doesn’t like me back. And I don’t care, either.”
Juliet’s voice had gotten louder and louder, and Portia realized that people in adjoining booths and at the counter were looking. She was aware of their curiosity—their fear, too. They weren’t sure what might happen next.
“I hate to say it, but your mother’s a bitch,” Juliet trumpeted.
“Hey, hey, let’s calm down a little,” Portia suggested. “Both of you take some deep breaths and together we’ll try to think of what’s best to do.” Which wasn’t going to be easy—her brain felt as if it had gone on vacation without her.
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