Forever Instinct, The

by Delinsky, Barbara

  “Perhaps boredom is too strong a word,” she explained cautiously. “Frustration is probably more accurate. I grew frustrated with the kind of life we were leading – running all over creation during the off-season from one fund raiser to the next, one party to the next, one publicity gimmick to the next. During the season it was worse. Because, despite what Peter had promised, I was alone. I didn’t go on the road with him – I was too distracting, he said. But he insisted I be at the airport to meet him when the team returned, that I be in attendance at press conferences and on his arm for the inevitable pictures. I was the epitome of the loving wife whose only purpose on earth was to welcome her husband home with open arms.

  “All the while I was wondering what had happened to the man who had once upon a time stolen quiet moments for us. There were very few quiet moments after we were married. Even when we were home alone Peter’s mind was on the next game, the next endorsement, the next awards presentation, the next interview. He swore he loved me, but in truth he loved himself. My presence in his life was much like that of his shiny black Ferrari. He loved that too. It was part of his image.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” she responded, the hurt still in her voice. “Tell me something, Patrick. You say you’ve sworn off everything to do with football. Why?”

  “Because I’ve outgrown the sport.”

  “The sport? Or the life-style that goes along with it?”

  He thought for a minute, his dark brow creasing. “Both, I guess.”

  “But why?”

  “I hurt my knee.”

  “Beyond that. You were always one to avoid the media. Why?”

  “Because the media twisted things. It created pictures that weren’t terribly accurate. It was shallow–”

  “Right! That was my life in a nutshell. Shallow. Shopping expeditions to buy a dress to wear one night. Cocktail parties with the same boring people over and over again. A pretty house. A plastic smile for the press.” Her voice lost its edge then, growing low, sad. “There were too many times when I’d sit at home alone in that pretty house wearing pretty clothes… and no smile at all. It was an empty existence, Pat. At least for me it was.”

  “What about a family? Didn’t you want children?”

  “Very much. Not Peter.”

  “That’s strange. I would have thought two kids, a station wagon and a dog would add to the image.”

  “That was what I thought. But he said that kids would be too restrictive. That we wouldn’t be able to go out as much. That we’d be tied down. I think,” she stated slowly, “that he couldn’t bear the thought of sharing my attention. And I don’t say that out of arrogance. That was the only conclusion I could reach after months and months of soul-searching.”

  “Was that when you decided to divorce him?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t consider it just grounds for divorce. I rationalized that there had to be another solution to my dilemma.”

  “Which was?”

  “Work.” She snorted. “Peter didn’t agree. He was against the idea from the start. I’m sure that jealousy was a factor there too. A child. A job. Same difference. Peter simply said that his wife didn’t work. Wouldn’t be good for the image.”

  Patrick pondered her words before directing the next. “Then what did bring about the divorce?”

  His gentle voice had a calming effect, the same effect, Jordanna realized, that it had had on her from the start of her dissertation. She’d never talked with another person about her marriage as she did now, yet the words flowed freely.

  “It was everything. Snowballing. Things came to a head at a party one night. The team was there, along with the usual hangers-on. I overheard two guys talking about Peter and me. How devoted I was. Remarkable, they said, given Peter’s, uh, other interests.”

  “Other women?”

  Jordanna shivered. When Patrick opened his coat in an offer of warmth, she wavered.

  “I won’t do anything,” he assured her softly. “Just help you warm up.”

  At that moment, Jordanna needed his comfort as well as his warmth. Slowly she slid sideways to rest against him.

  “I wondered if it was drugs, at first,” she went on meekly. “Or alcohol. Or even some kind of sexual perversion. Anything… but another woman.”

  “Was there one?”

  “Not one. Many. One-night stands across the country. Oh, he was careful. Nothing ever made the papers. He swore it was all meaningless, that I was the one he loved.”

  “He told you about it?”

  “Sure. He was arrogant enough to think it wouldn’t matter. That was when I realized he’d bought it all. He saw himself as the king. And the king could do no wrong.” Her chin dropped. When Patrick pressed her head to his chest she didn’t protest. “It hurt, Pat. You can’t imagine how it hurt.”

  “I know, angel,” he crooned softly. His arm tightened on her shoulder. “I know.”

  “I tried after that, but it didn’t work. My self-image was crushed. I’d had the illusion that our love was all that mattered. But suddenly I couldn’t bear sitting in the stands cheering the bastard on. I had no patience for his parties, even less for his teammates who condoned everything he did, probably lived that way themselves. And the nights alone, well, they were nightmares. I was sure that the world knew everything and was laughing at me. It was paranoid, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Even Peter’s declaration of love didn’t help. I came to the realization that we defined the word in very different ways. I also came to the realization that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. That was when I moved out. It was a move of self-preservation, the survival instinct at work.”

  “You certainly did survive,” Patrick murmured, squeezing her shoulder in encouragement. “Look at what you’ve done.”

  With a shake of her head, she released her hold on the past. “I do have that. Willow Enterprises has given me my life. I don’t know what I would have done without it.”

  “You might have met a nice, ordinary man and fallen in love again.”

  “No. Not again. I’m not sure I could trust love the second time around.”

  “Then you’ve given up the idea of having a family?”

  “The business is my family. I’ve got wonderful people working with me, and each time we launch another product it’s like giving birth to a child.”

  “Not as warm. Not as loving. Or lasting.”

  “We can’t have it all,” she whispered sadly, then caught herself. “The business is a constant challenge. It doesn’t give me time to dwell on what might have been.”

  “And in the future? What then? What happens when you’re older and more tired and want to settle back and enjoy life with the resources you’ve earned for yourself?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Alone?”

  “If that’s how it turns out. As long as I have my self-respect, I can live with myself.” She wanted to sound positive but somehow the words didn’t come out that way. As her thoughts tripped into the future, she felt a strange hollowness. Unconsciously, she nestled closer to Patrick.

  “Come on. Let’s go back to camp. You must be tired.”

  Strangely, she was. Having poured out so much, she felt drained. Relieved, but drained.

  With a nod, she let Patrick help her up and said nothing when his arm remained around her for the walk back through the woods. They reached the shelter to find the men all sleeping. A soft snoring persisted.

  “God, I wish he’d shut up,” Jordanna murmured under her breath.

  “Don’t know which one it is or I’d give him a shove.”

  “How are we going to sleep?”

  “I’ve got one way.” Without further word, he worked in the dark to draw the two empty sleeping bags onto the floor and fasten them together. Jordanna watched, knowing what he was doing, reluctant to object if for no other reason than for fear of shattering the warm bond that momentarily existed between them. He’d listened to her st
ory with compassion; that had meant a lot to her. He had to see things from the other side, yet he hadn’t sat in judgment. He hadn’t proclaimed her the ungrateful bitch Peter had. She felt unbelievably close to Patrick at that moment.

  Removing her outer clothes without the slightest hesitation, she slid into the haven Patrick offered. She knew he wouldn’t try to make love to her. She knew he was no more in the mood for it than she was. Rather, as she snuggled contentedly against his strong frame, she sensed that he needed her warmth just as she needed his. It was a very private, very personal, very mutual giving. There was nothing one-sided about it.

  She didn’t hear the snoring from the other side of the shelter. She didn’t hear the lonely cry of the wind. All she heard was the steady beat of Patrick’s heart. Then, wrapped tightly in his arms, she fell asleep.

  WHEN JORDANNA AWAKENED the next morning, she was alone with the memory of Patrick’s warm body sheltering her through the night. He was long gone, already dressed and at work on breakfast. The other men were just rising.

  Her cheeks flushed lightly at the thought of what might have happened had she and Patrick been caught nestled together in their sleeping bag for two. Even now she could hear the razzing. They’d never have heard the end of it.

  But they hadn’t been caught. Patrick had made sure of that. As the men one by one tugged their clothes from the line, she stole a glance toward the stove. He was on his haunches, immersed in his work. His faded jeans hugged his legs; his plaid wool jacket celebrated the sinewed strength beneath. With his dark hair licking his collar and his large hands deftly manipulating the pot, he looked like a logger, a trapper, a mountain man at ease with himself and the world.

  She was envious. And stirred. That the simple sight of him should arouse her was unfair. But it was fact. Had she not been so tired last night, she might have had quite a time falling asleep. He’d been tired too. But if it hadn’t been so? Would he have been… using her?

  Stifling a shiver, she quickly dressed and escaped to the stream to wash. When she returned, breakfast was ready. Momentarily apprehensive at meeting Patrick’s gaze, she took longer than necessary in stowing her gear. But she couldn’t stall forever. With a deep breath for courage, she headed toward the stove.

  She might have been one of the men. Patrick gave her no more than a passing glance as he handed her a cup of coffee. Just as well, she reasoned, accepting the brew and a man-sized helping of hot cereal, which she proceeded to down. She was hungry, and the day ahead would be rugged hiking all the way, Patrick said.

  It proved to be so. The trek was tough, if breath-takingly beautiful. Skirting the bog outlying No-Ketchum Pond, they followed the forest trail for a stretch before descending into Perkins Notch. From there they began to climb on a leaf-strewn path, encountering more evergreens as the air thinned. After another descent, they rose again, this time toward Carter Dome, whose summit offered a view of the Wildcat Range and, beyond, the majesty of Mount Washington. It was here that they paused for lunch.

  The sun shone brightly. Despite the altitude, the air was surprisingly warm. “Typical New England weather,” Patrick explained in rationalizing the contrast from yesterday’s storm.

  Jordanna was warm in more ways than one. With the morning’s hike behind them and a rest period in the works, her mind was free to wander. And wander it did. Though she avoided Patrick’s gaze, he was there before her in remembered flashes. A hand on her cheek. Lips teasing her nipple through her thermal shirt. The heat of his hair-roughened chest against her breasts.

  “That’s it!” Larry cried. “Perfect!”

  Stunned out of her reverie, she only belatedly became aware that he’d been taking pictures of her. Her cheeks burned. Scowling, she held a hand up to ward him off. “God, Larry! That’s disgusting! Creeping up on a person that way!”

  “I didn’t creep up. I’ve been walking around taking pictures of everyone for the past ten minutes. You were preoccupied. You and Pat. You should have seen his expression.”

  Her lips thinned. “Before, or after?”

  “Both. Brooding before. Furious after… like you.” With a grin, he raised the camera again. “Hey, that’s great.” And snapped, then lowered the black devil. “You’re a woman of many faces, Jordanna. Glowing one minute, glowering the next. I should have thought of this sooner.” He lifted the camera once more.

  This time, Jordanna bolted up and around, right into Patrick. Hands on her shoulders, he steadied her. “Easy, angel,” he whispered. “He’s just teasing.”

  “I don’t like having my picture taken,” she gritted.

  “Neither do I, but if you resist, he’s apt to want to do it all the more. You’re so cool and unflappable most of the time. I think the men would love to see you unsettled.”

  “Hey, smile, you guys!” Larry called from the side.

  Patrick squeezed Jordanna’s elbow. In unison, they turned their heads toward the camera’s eye. And smiled.

  The instant she heard the click, Jordanna’s smile vanished. “Was that settled enough?” she murmured for Patrick’s ears alone.

  “It’ll do. See, he’s lost interest.”

  Sure enough, Larry had turned back to the others, all of whom had followed the impromptu photo session, Jordanna now realized, with gusto. Moaning softly, she sat down on the ground again. She was aware of Patrick watching her, wavering, finally returning to his own lunch some distance away, and she wondered why he’d come over in the first place. But of course he’d come to save her from making a fool of herself. Chivalrous.

  And why had she been about to make a fool of herself? Because, she realized, Larry had interrupted a pretty heavy daydream. She’d been annoyed and embarrassed. She’d felt utterly exposed. Dangerous man, this white knight of hers. Spawning dangerous thoughts. Very dangerous.

  Spearing the single sardine left in her tin, she swallowed it whole.

  THE AFTERNOON’S HIKE was as rugged as the morning’s had been. Jordanna pushed herself to her limit, ridding herself of unwanted nervous energy. They scaled Mount Hight, then began the torturous climb downward. Her calves ached; her thighs pulsed. Beneath the weight of her pack, her shoulders clamored for relief.

  And she began to wonder just why she was submitting to such torture. She’d been a fool to come. One look at Patrick Monday morning and she should have turned and headed straight back to New York. No, on second thought, she should have found the nearest inn and hibernated for the week. She’d needed the rest, the break from routine. But this?

  Jordanna wasn’t the only one to feel the strain. Rest breaks seemed to come more frequently now, prompted for the most part by the men’s cries. Once or twice she sensed that Patrick called a halt for her benefit, but if that was the case he made no point of it. Rather, at times, he seemed more like a harsh taskmaster, driving his team on, ever on. She clung to this image. It was a far safer one than that of the eminently virile outdoorsman. Which he was, decidedly. Maddeningly.

  The scenery was some diversion. They hiked through forests that had miraculously escaped the logger’s ax. Spruce grew tall. Mossy carpets bordered the path. The sun painted dappled patterns on the woodland floor, skittering through graceful birch limbs.

  It was late afternoon when they reached Spruce Brook, where they’d be camping for the night. Grateful as she’d never been, Jordanna dropped her pack, then sank to the ground herself. The men had done the same, she noted with some relief.

  With a will of their own, her eyes sought Patrick. He, too, was lowering his pack, his back to her. She started to look away, but was held by something in the way he moved. Oh, yes, he seemed as tall and strong as ever. But something marred the fluidity of his movement. She stared, puzzled when he bent to ease the pack to the ground. There was something about the way he straightened, about the way he flexed his back. When he raised a hand to his shoulder, she understood.

  An instinct to comfort made her start to rise but she caught herself when he suddenly turned, collided with
her gaze and froze. Hand still on his shoulder, he stared hard at her. His message was clear: I’m fine; it’s nothing; forget you saw this. Then slowly he lowered his hand, turned away and knelt to open his pack.

  Jordanna had no choice but to settle back on the ground again. She wondered how long his shoulder had been bothering him and sensed that his driving them on had been as much for his own benefit as for that of the group he led. Football heroes did that. Injured or not, they played. Pain was part and parcel of the game.

  With a quiet snort of disgust, she lay back against her pack, knees bent, and concentrated on healing herself. If Patrick Clayes wanted to martyr himself, let him, she reasoned. Strange, but he hadn’t allowed any of them that luxury through the week.

  The week. With a jolt of awareness, she realized that the week was nearly done. It was Thursday. Tonight would be their last night in the wilds. Tomorrow they’d complete the circle and head for home. She wondered where the days had gone and felt a twinge of guilt at the begrudging thoughts she’d harbored earlier. Aches and all, it had been a good week. As exhausted as she was now, it was a healthy exhaustion. She hadn’t felt as untethered in years.

  Turning her head against its makeshift pillow, she peered through her lashes at Patrick Clayes. She wouldn’t see him… after tomorrow. That was for the best, she knew, yet she couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit sorry. He excited her. His presence had added something very special to the trip. Pleasure. Anticipation. The same things she felt on entering the office each morning, yet different. Ve-ry different.

  “You’re looking sad. No. Melancholy.”

  She twisted her head to find John squatting beside her. Trying not to blush, she managed a crooked smile. “I’m just tired.”

  “That wasn’t exhaustion I saw,” he chided, arching a brow. His gaze shifted to Patrick, then returned. He kept his voice low. “You like him, don’t you.”

  It wasn’t a question. Jordanna cautioned herself not to overreact. “Of course. Don’t you?”

  “Not in the same way. I like him because he’s personable and intelligent, because he’s a good leader. You, well, you see things I don’t. I’m a man. You’re a woman.”