Ben mostly felt relieved. He had been afraid that Eric, finally aware that he could never regain his wife, would harm her. The man hated to lose. There was a dark rage in him usually relieved by his obsessive commitment to his work, but it might have found expression in violence if he had felt deeply humiliated by Rachael's rejection.
Ben kept a cellular phone in his car — a meticulously restored 1956 Thunderbird, white with blue interior — and he immediately called Rachael. She had her answering machine on, and she did not pick up the receiver when he identified himself.
At the traffic light at the corner of Seventeenth Street and Newport Avenue, he hesitated, then turned left instead of continuing on to his own house in Orange Park Acres. Rachael might not be home right now, but she would get there eventually, and she might need support. He headed for her place in Placentia.
The June sun dappled the Thunderbird's windshield and made bright rippling patterns when he passed through the inconstant shadows of overhanging trees. He switched off the news and put on a Glenn Miller tape. Speeding through the California sun, with “String of Pearls” filling the car, he found it hard to believe that anyone could die on such a golden day.
* * *
By his own system of personality classification, Benjamin Lee Shadway was primarily a past-focused man. He liked old movies better than new ones. De Niro, Streep, Gere, Field, Travolta, and Penn were of less interest to him than Bogart, Bacall, Gable, Lombard, Tracy, Hepburn, Cary Grant, William Powell, Myrna Loy. His favorite books were from the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, hard-boiled stuff by Chandler and Hammett and James M. Cain, and the early Nero Wolfe novels. His music of choice was from the swing era, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James, Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, the incomparable Benny Goodman.
For relaxation, he built working models of locomotives from kits, and he collected all kinds of railroad memorabilia. There are no hobbies so reeking with nostalgia or more suited to a past-focused person than those dealing with trains.
He was not focused entirely on the past. At twenty-four, he had obtained a real-estate license, and by the time he was thirty-one, he had established his own brokerage. Now, at thirty-seven, he had six offices with thirty agents working under him. Part of the reason for his success was that he treated his employees and customers with a concern and courtesy that were old-fashioned and enormously appealing in the fast-paced, brusque, and plastic world of the present.
Lately, in addition to his work, there was one other thing that could distract Ben from railroads, old movies, swing music, and his general preoccupation with the past, Rachael Leben. Titian-haired, green-eyed, long-limbed, full-bodied Rachael Leben.
She was somehow both the girl next door and one of those elegant beauties to be found in any 1930s movie about high society, a cross between Grace Kelly and Carole Lombard. She was sweet-tempered. She was amusing. She was smart. She was everything Ben Shadway had ever dreamed about, and what he wanted to do was get in a time machine with her, travel back to 1940, take a private compartment on the Superchief, and cross the country by rail, making love for three thousand miles in time with the gently rocking rhythm of the train.
She'd come to his real-estate agency for help in finding a house, but the house had not been the end of it. They had been seeing each other frequently for five months. At first he had been fascinated by her in the same way any man might be fascinated by any exceptionally attractive woman, intrigued by the thought of what her lips would taste like and of how her body would fit against his, thrilled by the texture of her skin, the sleekness of her legs, the curve of hip and breast. However, soon after he got to know her, he found her sharp mind and generous heart as appealing as her appearance. Her intensely sensuous appreciation for the world around her was wondrous to behold, she could find as much pleasure in a red sunset or in a graceful configuration of shadows as in a hundred-dollar, seven-course dinner at the county's finest restaurant. Ben's lust had quickly turned to infatuation. And sometime within the past two months — he could not pinpoint the date-infatuation had turned to love.
Ben was relatively confident that Rachael loved him, too. They had not yet quite reached the stage where they could forthrightly and comfortably declare the true depth of their feelings for each other. But he felt love in the tenderness of her touch and in the weight of her gaze when he caught her looking secretly at him.
In love, they had not yet made love. Although she was a present-focused woman with the enviable ability to wring every last drop of pleasure from the moment, that did not mean she was promiscuous. She didn't speak bluntly of her feelings, but he sensed that she wanted to progress in small, easy steps. A leisurely romance provided plenty of time for her to explore and savor each new strand of affection in the steadily strengthening bond that bound them to each other, and when at last they succumbed to desire and surrendered to complete intimacy, sex would be all the sweeter for the delay.
He was willing to give her as much time as she required. For one thing, day by day he felt their need growing, and he derived a special thrill from contemplating the tremendous power and intensity of the lovemaking when they finally unleashed their desire. And through her, he had come to realize that they would be cheating themselves out of the more innocent pleasures of the moment if they rushed headlong through the early stages of courtship to satisfy a libidinal urge.
Also, as a man with an affinity for better and more genteel ages, Ben was old-fashioned about these matters and preferred not to jump straight into bed for quick and easy gratification. Neither he nor Rachael was a virgin, but he found it emotionally and spiritually satisfying — and erotic as hell — to wait until the many threads linking them had been woven tightly together, leaving sex for the last strand in the bond.
* * *
He parked the Thunderbird in Rachael's driveway, beside her red 560 SL, which she had not bothered to put in the garage.
Thick bougainvillea, ablaze with thousands of red blossoms, grew up one wall of the bungalow and over part of the roof. With the help of a latticework frame, it formed a living green-and-scarlet canopy above the front stoop.
Ben stood in cool bougainvillea shadows, with the warm sun at his back, and rang the bell half a dozen times, growing concerned when Rachael took so long to respond.
Inside, music was playing. Suddenly, it was cut off.
When at last Rachael opened the door, she had the security chain in place, and she looked warily through the narrow gap. She smiled when she saw him, though it seemed as much a smile of nervous relief as of pleasure. “Oh, Benny, I'm so glad it's you.”
She slipped the brass chain and let him in. She was barefoot, wearing a tightly belted silky blue robe — and carrying a gun.
Disconcerted, he said, “What're you doing with that?”
“I didn't know who it might be,” she said, switching on the two safeties and putting the pistol on the small foyer table. Then, seeing his frown and realizing that her explanation was inadequate, she said, “Oh, I don't know. I guess I'm just… shaky.”
“I heard about Eric on the radio. Just minutes ago.”
She came into his arms. Her hair was partially damp. Her skin was sweet with the fragrance of jasmine, and her breath smelled of chocolate. He knew she must have been taking one of her long lazy soaks in the tub.
Holding her close, he felt her trembling. He said, “According to the radio, you were there.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
“It was horrible, Benny.” She clung to him. “I'll never forget the sound of the truck hitting him. Or the way he bounced and rolled along the pavement.” She shuddered.
“Easy,” he said, pressing his cheek against her damp hair. “You don't have to talk about it.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I've got to talk it out if I'm ever going to get it off my mind.”
He put a hand under her chin and tilted her lovely face up to him. He kissed her once, gently. Her mouth tasted of chocolate.
“Lock the door,” she said.
“It's okay,” he said, leading her out of the foyer.
She stopped and refused to move. “Lock the door,” she insisted.
Puzzled, he went back and locked it.
She took the pistol from the foyer and carried it with her. Something was wrong, something more than Eric's death, but Ben did not understand what it was.
The living room was shrouded in deep shadows, for she had drawn all the drapes. That was distinctly odd. Ordinarily she loved the sun and reveled in its warm caress with the languid pleasure of a cat sunning on a windowsill. Me had never seen the drapes drawn in this house until now.
“Leave them closed,” Rachael said when Ben started to unveil the windows.
She switched on a single lamp and sat in its amber glow, in the corner of a peach-colored sofa. The room was very modern, all in shades of peach and white with dark blue accents, polished bronze lamps, and a bronze-and-glass coffee table. In her blue robe she was in harmony with the decor.
She put the pistol on the table beside the lamp. Near to hand.
Ben retrieved her champagne and chocolate from the bathroom and brought them to her. In the kitchen, he got another cold split of champagne and a glass for himself.
When he joined her on the living-room sofa, she said, “It doesn't seem right. The champagne and chocolate, I mean. It looks as if I'm celebrating his death.”
“Considering what a bastard he was to you, perhaps a celebration would be justified.”
She shook her head adamantly. “No. Death is never a cause for celebration, Benny. No matter what the circumstances. Never.”
But she unconsciously ran her fingertips back and forth along the pale, pencil-thin, barely visible three-inch scar that followed the edge of her delicate jawline on the right side of her face. A year ago, in one of his nastier moods, Eric had thrown a glass of Scotch at her. It had missed, hitting the wall and shattering, but a sharp fragment had caught her on the rebound, slicing her cheek, requiring fifteen expertly sewn little stitches to avoid a prominent scar. That was the day she finally walked out on him. Eric would never hurt her again. She had to be relieved by his death even if only on a subconscious level.
Pausing now and then to sip champagne, she told Ben about this morning's meeting in the attorney's office and about the subsequent altercation on the sidewalk when Eric took her by the arm and seemed on the verge of violence. She recounted the accident and the hideous condition of the corpse in vivid detail, as if she had to put every terrible, bloody image into words in order to be free of it. She told him about making the funeral arrangements as well, and as she spoke, her shaky hands gradually grew steadier.
He sat close, turned sideways to face her, with one hand on her shoulder. Sometimes he moved his hand to gently massage her neck or to stroke her copper-brown hair.
“Thirty million dollars,” he said when she had finished, shaking his head at the irony of her getting everything when she had been willing to settle for so little.
“I don't really want it,” she said. “I've half a mind to give it away. A large part of it, anyway.”
“It's yours to do with as you wish,” he said. “But don't make any decisions now that you'd regret later.”
She looked down into the champagne glass that she held in both hands. Frowning worriedly, she said, “Of course, he'd be furious if I gave it away.”
“Who?”
“Eric,” she said softly.
Ben thought it odd that she should be concerned about Eric's disapproval. Obviously she was still shaken by events and not yet quite herself. “Give yourself time to adjust to the circumstances.”
She sighed and nodded. “What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes till seven.”
“I called a lot of people earlier this afternoon and told them what happened, let them know about the funeral. But there must be thirty or forty more to get in touch with. He had no close relatives — just a few cousins. And an aunt he loathed. Not many friends, either. He wasn't a man who cared much for friends, and he didn't have much talent for making them. But lots of business associates, you know. God, I'm not looking forward to the chore.”
“I have my cellular phone in the car,” Ben said. “I can help you call them. We'll get it done fast.”
She smiled vaguely. “And just how would that look the wife's boyfriend helping her contact the bereaved?”
“They don't have to know who I am. I'll just say I'm a friend of the family.”
“Since I'm all that's left of the family,” Rachael said, “I guess that wouldn't be a lie. You're my best friend in the world, Benny.”
“More than just a friend.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Much more, I hope”
“I hope,” she said.
She kissed him lightly and, for a moment, rested her head upon his shoulder.
* * *
They contacted all of Eric's friends and business associates by eight-thirty, at which time Rachael expressed surprise that she was hungry. “After a day like this and everything that I saw… isn't it sort of hard-boiled of me to have an appetite?”
“Not at all,” Ben said gently. “Life goes on, babe. The living have got to live. Fact is, I read somewhere that witnesses to sudden and violent death usually experience a sharp increase in all their appetites during the days and weeks that follow.”
“Proving to themselves that they're alive.”
“Trumpeting it.”
She said, “I can't offer much of a dinner, I'm afraid. I have the makings of a salad. And we could cook up a pot of rigatoni, open a jar of Ragu' sauce.
“A veritable feast fit for a king.”
She brought the pistol with her to the kitchen and put it down on the counter near the microwave oven.
She had closed the Levolor blinds. Tight. Ben liked the view from those rear windows — the lushly planted backyard with its azalea beds and leafy Indian laurels, the property wall that was completely covered by a riotously bright tangle of red and yellow bougainvillea — and he reached for the control rod to open the slats.
“Please don't,” she said. “I want… the privacy.”
“No one can see in from the yard. It's walled and gated.”
“Please.”
He left the blinds as she wanted them.
“What are you afraid of' Rachael?”
“Afraid? But I'm not.”
“The gun?”
“I told you — I didn't know who was at the door, and since it's been such an upsetting day..
“Now you know it was me at the door.”
“Yes.”
“And you don't need a gun to deal with me. Just the promise of another kiss or two will keep me in line.”
She smiled. “I guess I should put it back in the bedroom where it belongs. Does it make you nervous?”
“No. But I—”
“I'll put it away as soon as we've got dinner cooking,” she said, but there was a tone in her voice that made her statement seem less like a promise than a delaying tactic.
Intrigued and somewhat uneasy, he opted for diplomacy and said no more for the moment.
She put a big pot of water on the stove to boil while he emptied the jar of Ragú into a smaller pot. Together, they chopped lettuce, celery, tomatoes, onions, and black olives for the salad.
They talked as they worked, primarily about Italian food. Their conversation was not quite as fluid and natural as usual, perhaps because they were trying too hard to be lighthearted and to put all thoughts of death aside.
Rachael mostly kept her eyes on the vegetables as she prepared them, bringing her characteristically effortless concentration to the task, rendering each rib of celery into slices that were all precisely the same width, as if symmetry were a vital element in a successful salad and would enhance the taste.
Distra
cted by her beauty, Ben looked at her as much as at the culinary work before him. She was almost thirty, appeared to be twenty, yet had the elegance and poise of a grande dame who'd had a long lifetime in which to learn the angles and attitudes of perfect gracefulness. He never grew tired of looking at her. It wasn't just that she excited him. By some magic that he could not understand, the sight of her also relaxed him and made him feel that all was right with the world and that he, for the first time in his often lonely life, was a complete man with a hope of lasting happiness.
Impulsively he put down the knife with which he had been slicing a tomato, took the knife from her hand and set it aside, turned her toward him, pulled her against him, slipped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply. Now her soft mouth tasted of champagne instead of chocolate. She still smelled faintly of jasmine, though beneath that fragrance was her own clean and appealing scent. He moved his hands slowly down her back, tracing the concave arc to her bottom, feeling the firm and exquisitely sculpted contours of her body through the silky robe. She was wearing nothing underneath. His warm hands grew hot — then much hotter — as the heat of her was transmitted through the material to his own flesh.
She clung to him for a moment with what seemed like desperation, as if she were shipwrecked and he were a raft in a tossing sea. Her body was stiff. Her hands clutched tensely, fingers digging into him. Then, after a moment, she relaxed against him, and her hands began to move over his back and shoulders and upper arms, testing and kneading his muscles. Her mouth opened wider, and their kiss became hungrier. Her breathing quickened.
He could feel her full breasts pressing against his chest. As if with a will and intention of their own, his hands moved more urgently in exploration of her.
The phone rang.
Ben remembered at once that they had forgotten to put it on the answering machine again when they had finished contacting people with the news of Eric's death and funeral, and in confirmation it rang again, stridently.
“Damn,” Rachael said, pulling back from him.
“I'll get it.”
“Probably another reporter.”
Shadowfires Page 3