by Barbara Daly
"I think we could manage it," she whispered. "If we're careful to keep it therapeutic, not make too much of it."
She felt his closeness and turned back to him. The kiss he'd undoubtedly meant for her cheek took her full on the mouth. His lips were hot on hers, the light brush of his caress searing like a branding iron.
"I want you to enjoy it, too." The words hovered over her lips. His breath was sweet and warm. "It wouldn't be fair if you didn't. This is a mutual thing."
"Oh, let's not worry about…"
He put a hand on each side of her head, threading his fingers through her hair. "Shh," he said. "Didn't say I was worried."
Into the silence Hope said, "When?"
"The sooner the better." The edge of laughter under his mock-desperation soothed her a little.
"We're going to be out late tonight." She hesitated. "Max's parties never end." Things to do! I have things to do before… "But tomorrow maybe? I'd rather you came here. I'd feel more comfortable, I think."
He nodded. "Thank you. You are a kind, kind person."
Unbelievably, he looked at his watch. "We're going to be later than that polite ten minutes. Are you ready?"
So that's how it was going to be. Therapeutic sex—the concept didn't give him a shred of trepidation.
In self-defense, she looked at her watch, too. "Mind if I make a quick phone call before we leave?"
"Go right ahead. I'm going to write down the name of this wine. I might want to order a case."
She felt like slamming the bedroom door on his words. When she'd closed it behind her, softly, of course, she gritted her teeth and snatched up the phone. It was only fitting that she'd get the answering machine. With an eye on the door, she hissed her message into it.
"Maybelle, I need you immediately. You've got to do the bedroom tomorrow. I don't care if it is Saturday. This is an emergency." As an afterthought, she added, "This is Hope. Call me first thing in the morning."
And now she had to get through an evening? With all these things on her mind, she had to put up a good front and go to a party?
Yes, that was exactly what she had to do. Her spine a column of steel, she marched out into the living room wearing her warmest evening coat—the paisley one with the fake fur lining—and her best and most professional smile.
She found Sam on the sofa, looking as though he'd collapsed there, but of course he got right up and put his overcoat back on, and soon everything was back to normal, as though they hadn't had the most bizarre conversation ever held between two otherwise conservative human beings.
* * *
He'd done it. He didn't know how, but he'd done it.
The whole evening had felt different. Knowing that tomorrow night Hope's silken body would slide against his, that he would bury himself and his frustrations and his anxieties in her, sent a dart of tension through every word, every glance, every touch. When her hand crept around his elbow, he could feel the heat through all the layers of fabric that went into a penguin suit. Tonight, when she stood close to him, her breast brushed his arm and he took it as a promise, not an accident.
He hadn't dared to kiss her good-night. It would only have made the next twenty-four hours seem longer. She hadn't been far from his mind since their first meeting, and now, at long last, she was going to be his.
Sam shook his head, laughed a little at himself. Not Hope herself, sex with Hope, that's all that was on his mind. Not even "sex with Hope." Just sex. Pure carnal lust, about to be satisfied.
His inner smile faded. Wasn't that all he was thinking about?
Once again he was plagued by multisensory images—Hope laughing, her full, sexy mouth twisting in a teasing grimace, Hope's curtain of copper hair moving while she charmed a colleague of his or hers with her conversation, Hope's slim, energetic body beneath her simple, elegant clothes, a body bursting to get out, the body that would lie beside his tomorrow night, and under his, and on top of his…
This was Hope he was thinking about, not merely sex. Sam had a sudden feeling he was in deep trouble. He groaned.
"Don't complain to me about the traffic, buddy," the cab driver snarled. "It's Friday night, knowwhatImean? It's the holidays. Hell, it's Nyork. So chill. I'm doin' the best I can. You guys, always in a hurry, always kvetching…"
* * *
"You said first thing. This is first thing."
Hope winced, held the receiver away from her vibrating ear and squinted at her watch. "I didn't mean six in the morning."
"Good thing I woke you up." Maybelle sounded cheery enough to earn Hope's hatred. "We've got work to do, hon. How long do we have to get the Ch'i flowing in your bedroom."
She didn't need any help with flowing. Pipe was her life. All she wanted was a more attractive bedroom. "Until seven tonight."
Maybelle's screech deafened her, but it also thoroughly awakened her. "Well, pull yourself together, sugah, and look for me to be there around nine."
"Why so long?" Hope had an uncontrollable desire to pipe some water onto the woman.
"Because I've gotta call folks, load stuff up. Well, 'bye, hon. Now you have some coffee and I mean real coffee before I get there because I can't do a thang for your life if your mood don't improve."
"I don't need any help with my life. I need help with my bed—"
But Maybelle had hung up.
Snarling softly, Hope got up from the sofa and began to fold her bedding. She didn't want Maybelle to know she'd been sleeping on the sofa. She didn't want Maybelle to know why she couldn't sleep on the sofa tonight. Well, she might sleep there, later on, after … after…
Coffee. Definitely. Lots of it.
* * *
"We're here to move the bed."
The speaker was the most beautiful man Hope had ever had the pleasure of welcoming into her home on a frosty December Saturday, with the exception of his companion, who was marginally more beautiful. She couldn't feel the chemistry the way she did with Sam, but another woman would. They were virtually irresistible. And she was a woman with two unmarried sisters. She had to make a point of getting these guys' cards before they left.
But her matchmaking instinct would have to wait. "What do you mean, move the bed? Where's Maybelle?"
"She's guarding the truck until we get back." Adonis One smiled at her, revealing stunning white teeth. Then the two of them marched into her bedroom and flung off leather jackets to reveal black tank tops accessorized by salon tans and bulging muscles.
Hope scurried after them. "But how do you know where to, I mean, what's the purpose of moving the…"
Adonis Two whipped a screwdriver out of the tool kit he wore on his belt and began to dismantle her bed frame, which was a fetching white wrought iron fantasy. "So feminine," the furniture salesman had said. Adonis One deftly ripped open the long box he'd been carrying under one massive arm and produced a plain steel frame, which he set up directly in front of the louvered doors that hid her bathroom and closet.
"We can't put the bed over there," Hope babbled as Adonis One finished up and sauntered into the living room. "How will I get to the bathroom? Somersault backward?"
"Ready to help with this?" Adonis Two called out.
He gripped one side of the box spring and mattress, while Adonis One reappeared to man the other side. Without visible effort they lifted the entire assemblage and started across the room with it.
"Uh-oh, Dickie, dust bunnies," Two said, looking over Dickie's shoulder.
"We'll get 'em later," Dickie said reassuringly.
As the bed settled into place on the frame, Hope heard an unfamiliar ringing sound. Dickie detached a phone from his studded leather belt. "Going fine, yes, ma'am," he said. "Be down in a minute."
"Is that Maybelle?"
Dickie nodded. Hope snatched the phone from his hand.
"What's happening here?" she quavered. "They've messed up my whole bedroom—" her eyes widened "—and where are they going with my bed?"
She began to chase Dickie
and friend, the phone at her ear, but they were too fast for her.
"I was mighty lucky to get them boys on such short notice," Maybelle said. "Aren't they cute? Did you ever in your life see buns any better'n they've got?"
"They have very nice buns, yes," Hope snapped. The door of the next apartment opened. Her neighbor looked out and scowled at her as he scooped up his newspaper. She hadn't realized she was out in the hall yelling about men's buns. She darted back inside and slammed the door. "Now tell them to get those buns back here in my bed. I mean with my bed."
"Oh, hon, you don't want that bed," Maybelle said with sudden authority. "I'll explain it all to you someday when we've got the time for it. 'Bye."
Hope didn't have long to simmer. Maybelle, in pressed light blue jeans and a sparkling white shirt under a cloud-like white down coat, bustled in with Dickie. Between them they carried a large crate.
"Don't worry," Maybelle said breezily, although Hope hadn't offered any help, "it's not heavy."
When the two of them vanished into the bedroom together and began to make ripping noises, Hope backed quietly toward her big square glass coffee table, lowered herself to perch on it for a healing moment and sat down hard on the floor.
"Where is my coffee table?" she yelled, scrambling back onto her feet.
The ripping noises ceased. "It's…" Dickie began.
"I see it." The top was resting against the wall with the square marble base beside it. "What is it doing there?"
"Dickie's going to take it down to the truck in a while," Maybelle said.
"But why?"
She heard murmurs from the bedroom, and then Maybelle appeared in the doorway. "Hon," she began predictably, "we gotta get rid of your sharp edges."
"Maybelle," Hope said, struggling for patience. "You're here to work on my bedroom, not my personality."
Maybelle's eyes, bluebonnet blue and alive with energy, opened wide. "Oh, you're not the one with the sharp edges. You're sweet as pie. It's your furniture's got the sharp edges."
She cast a nervous glance behind her into the bedroom. "Look, sugarpie, we don't got time for a tewtoryul in feng shui, but all it is, really, is fixing up what's in your home so you feel comfortable living there. Now you got other things to worry about before your gentleman friend gets here tonight. You put your mind on feedin' him and lookin' purty. I'll handle the rest."
"How do you know I'm expecting a gentleman friend?" Hope was suddenly all too aware of her baggy gray sweatsuit, her hair up in a ponytail, her scruffy aerobic shoes—and her empty larder.
"I been around some," Maybelle said succinctly. An annoyed exclamation came from the bedroom. She scurried away. Hope flung her hands up in the air, grabbed her handbag and coat and left to go shopping.
On the way out of the building, she encountered two illegally parked vehicles, a pickup truck, powder-blue with blue checked curtains tied back at each window, and a massive Cadillac, also powder-blue. Adonis Two lounged gracefully against the Cadillac.
It was a toss-up as to which vehicle Maybelle drove.
* * *
Feeling dazed, Hope wandered among the soft chairs, kidney-shaped wood coffee table and squiggly side tables that seemed to fill her living room so comfortably. She had to admit it felt better. Warmer. More welcoming. A small round dining table with four upholstered chairs was another new addition. She felt serene enough to ignore the calculator in her head and the length of the strip of paper it was spitting out.
"Guess we're ready to show you what we did in here."
Hope moved reluctantly toward the bedroom to the rhythm of Maybelle's nonstop chatter. "Course, we had to get rid of that bed. Person could stick himself on all them iron vines. Besides, it squeaked. This frame? Industrial-strength. Won't squeak."
Hope paused, distracted by the notion of making beds squeak, then forced herself into the bedroom. "Oh, my," she said. "Oh, my goodness."
The bed was standing away from the closet and bathroom doors, but they'd attached a soft, padded thing behind it that surrounded it like arms, with round night tables tucked into the outer curves. It was covered in a faded flower print which matched the comforter. There were new linens, an ivy print in white and soft green. There were lamps on the night tables, tall, graceful ones with pink shades.
"It's so pretty," she murmured. "I guess I was expecting something … plainer."
"I wanted you to feel like you was in a flower garden," Maybelle said. Her strident voice was softer, too. "You seemed to like vines and flowers, so I gave you vines and flowers, friendlier ones."
There was a moment's silence before Hope said, "Where's the electricity coming from? For the lamps."
"Oh, for heaven's sake." Maybelle folded her arms across her thin chest and glared at Hope. "I'm not sure, but you may be hopeless, no pun intended. If you really have to know, Kevin ran the wire to over here under the bed."
"I'm sorry," Hope said, drooping. "I can't help being practical."
"Then let's get practical," Maybelle said. "Do you really want to lie in this bed—" she paused significantly "—with your family starin' at you from the dresser?"
Hope had a sudden image of herself in that leafy bower of a bed with Sam, the sweet faces of her parents looking at her, Faith and Charity sending her mischievous smiles. "No," she said decisively.
"Good. Candles'll be better." Maybelle whipped open a bag and placed a group of five candles, each a different color, on a tray on the dresser. "You two visit while I put another set in the living room."
She clicked out of the room. She was wearing white high-heeled boots, Hope noticed, to match her coat. Dickie stacked up the photographs, handed them to Hope and energetically dusted the top of the dresser with the cloth he'd hung over his muscled shoulder.
He stood back to admire his work. "We hung a wind chime in front of the heating duct in the kitchen, too. To help romanticize the place. That was my idea," he said, ducking his head modestly.
"I like wind chimes," Hope said. "Brass ones, anyway. They remind me of pipe." She glanced down at the photographs in her arms. "I just love this picture of my sisters," she said, and thrust it out to show him.
"Cute chicks," he said warmly.
"Aren't they?" She paused only briefly. "Dickie, are you and Kevin married?"
"Not yet," Dickie said "We'll get married when the law changes, though. I was all for moving to Vermont where you can have a civil ceremony, but Kevvie says we'd better hang around New York. He's sure we're going to break into show biz any day now."
"Oh," Hope said. "Then I guess you wouldn't be interested in… No, of course you wouldn't."
Maybelle swooped down on them and added a sixth candle, another deep, rosy red one, to the group. "You need more fire in your life," she said inscrutably. "Dickie, run out to the truck and get them bamboo flutes. We gotta do something about that beam up there." She turned to Hope. "Beams can make you feel like the world's weighing you down. Some flutes will lift the weight up, up and away."
"Get that old Ch'i flowing, so to speak," Hope murmured. She gazed thoughtfully at the beam above them. "Don't bother going back to the truck, Dickie. I've got just the thing."
When they'd left, Hope gazed for a moment at the bed. Tentatively she sat on it, then lay down on it, then let herself sink more deeply into it.
It felt like being in the arms of the jolly Green Giant.
* * *
Anticipacion had driven her body out of control. Just the buzz of the house phone, the doorman telling her he'd arrived, was enough to send a wave of heat coursing through her, to dry her mouth as the moisture fled toward those secret, hidden parts that wanted Sam, more of Sam, all of Sam. Her fantasies were no longer locked into her dreams; they'd tortured her every aching moment of the day.
She mustn't let him know what he did to her. It would end his trust in her as the perfect companion, the woman who had promised of her own free will that she would never ask anything of him emotionally.
Okay, so sh
e wouldn't ask. She'd beg.
Hope mentally knocked herself in the head with a hammer. She wasn't this nervous before the Number 12867 presentation. She wasn't this nervous when she gave the valedictory address at her college graduation. She was almost but not quite this nervous the time their parents had put Faith and her in charge of Charity while they worked on the income tax, and Charity had climbed up on the roof of the garage and announced that she was Peter Pan and intended to fly through their bedroom window. But that was a long time ago, and this was now.
The trick would be to act casual, behave as though what was about to occur this evening was as commonplace for her as it was for Sam. In short, to disguise her nervousness by seeming to be even calmer than usual, which was hard to do when you were quaking inside, when you felt hot and cold all over by turns, when the tinkling of the wind chimes, supposedly a soothing influence, came across like the clanging of cymbals.
"Ah-a-ah!" Hope said, her heels lifting off the floor at the next sound she heard. The buzzer. Sam had arrived.
"Send him up," she told the doorman.
She had just enough time to take a look at herself in the mirror. She'd decided to wear a black-velvet jumpsuit without much under it and flat velvet slippers. At-home casual, not provocative, but not nunlike either. No jewelry, a little makeup, maybe she should change into something that could be removed by increments, but there wasn't time to change, she had to go with it, because at that moment the doorbell chimed.
She gave the plate-glass windows one last look, thinking if it weren't so cold she might jump, then opened the door.
As usual, the sight of him took her breath away. His eyes shone crystalline blue above his casual white sweater, black slacks and a charcoal-gray overcoat. More than that, it was an unusual treat to find a man standing at her door with one arm wrapped around a gigantic bouquet of lush island flowers, man-eating flowers in a profusion of rosy-red and cream, and the other wrapped around a large white poinsettia.
"Aloha and Merry Christmas," he said. "Guess which one is from me."
She thought he sounded a little cool for a man who was keeping an appointment for a night of passionate sport. "I'd be afraid to guess." She slid the bouquet from his grasp, staggering under its weight. "They're so—different. And both quite lovely," she added quickly.