by Nancy Radke
Chantal was not much company, as she was upset about the Wolverines running back, who had been hit by a car and put out of the game for at least a year. He was lucky he hadn’t been killed. His replacement was good, but not likely to have the outstanding year the injured player had had. All Chantal could talk about was his condition, so Alison refrained from going there.
Tonight when Alison arrived home, she dumped her things just inside on a chair and walked out into the park while there was still light left, kicking her feet dejectedly through the golden layers of fallen maple leaves. She was missing Logan, very much. How badly had he been hurt? And how had it happened? So many questions left unanswered. If she had thought, she would have told him to call her more often. This waiting was making her restless and lonely.
She should call.
Maybe he had changed his mind and decided it was too far to come out here from wherever he came. This could be the start of a gradual slackening of interest on his part...yet somehow she couldn't accept that. Not after the kiss...and the rose. The latter she had kept alive for as many days as possible, cutting it's stem back, but eventually it was gone. The kiss lived on in memory, but even it was slowly fading.
As it grew dark she gathered some of the huge maple leaves to brighten her room, some of them large enough to make a place mat. In different shades of gold and red and green, they would be as effective as a bouquet for a couple of days, then would turn an ugly shade of brown as they dried out. She had left her apartment locked and had to use her key to get back inside, so was completely astonished upon walking into her bedroom to get an empty vase to see Logan, on his back on her bed, sprawled out sound asleep.
He looked exhausted, his face drawn from pain. He had removed his shoes and had his left leg elevated on a pillow. It must have been the one he injured. He was wearing a tailored suit in a steel blue-gray wool complete with white shirt and tie. It looked superb even while he lay asleep in it, the front of the coat unbuttoned.
Laying the maple leaves down on her dresser, she took a light blanket from her cupboard and covered him up carefully, a tear slipping out unbidden in sympathy. The injury made him look vulnerable, more approachable, tugging at her sympathy. He certainly did not look dangerous lying there asleep. He looked as if he had reached the comfort of home and had only then completely relaxed.
How long had he been here? Who had let him in? Perhaps the landlord...knowing she was somewhere around—her car was in its space—but she would just as soon he didn't do that.
Drawing an arm chair closer she sat down, completely content, her general unrest of the past few days gone now that Logan had come, and dozed off herself. She didn't intend to; she was enjoying just gazing at his firm mouth now relaxed in sleep, but she had had a very hard day and was mentally and physically drained.
"Alison. Wake up, honey. I come all this way to see you and then you let me sleep the time away." He was lifting her to her feet, covering her face with kisses while he talked, rapidly, showing a great need of her as he tried to do everything at once. "Sweetheart, you look lovely even while you're asleep."
As he did to her. She struggled awake, enjoying the pleasant sensation of his lips on hers, his arms holding her firmly. She felt so complete, entire now that he was with her, as if he had brought back into her life something that he had taken away last time. Maybe that was what had caused her unrest; she was missing a part of herself. Yet how could that be when she still didn't really know this man?
"You looked so tired," she explained.
"I was; but next time wake me,” he asserted. "I can sleep other times."
Next time...she smiled to herself at the implications of that phrase. "All right."
He pressed her against him, running his fingers slowly through her long auburn hair so that her nerve endings tingled pleasantly with the touch. "I missed you" he declared passionately. "A lot. I tried to fly out last week in spite of what the doctor said but the weather was bad...I couldn't take off. I didn't have enough time this week but came anyway. You taste good. You're like drink to a thirsty man. Please. Kiss me again."
She did, willingly, her mind thrilling to the sound of his deep richly-timbered voice.
"Did you miss me?" he asked.
Never one to evade the truth, she answered simply, "Yes," although she decided not to tell him the anguish she had been through. The depth of her need for him was something she didn't want him to know about until later. Much later. After she knew more about him and was better able to analyze her feelings.
It was enough of an answer. He squeezed her tightly before he realized what he was doing and eased off. She lifted her face, eagerly seeking another kiss.
"This is awful. I've got to go. I rented a car so I'd have more time, get here quicker, and look at us. Under the gun. Your lips...one last kiss. Walk me down." He released her long enough to pull on his shoes and tie them hastily.
She walked beside him, giving support as he limped to the car; he eased himself in, started the motor, sought and received one more kiss, then drove away. He was gone as abruptly as he had come.
But the aching desire that had slowly banked down during the past two weeks was torched into flame again, and she floated up the stairway and into her apartment. Feeling lost and lonely, Alison flung herself down upon the bed and discovered it still retained the warmth from his body; a poor substitute for the actual man, but a vivid reminder of where he'd been. Quick, while it remained—and before she had time to argue herself out of the unreasonableness of doing so—she jumped up, locked the door, turned out the lights, stripped and crawled in where he had been, absorbing his warmth into her own body.
"You're acting like a love-sick teen-ager," she told herself out loud, knowing she was not going to heed her own admonition, "not like a grown woman of twenty-eight." But since his warmth was all he had left behind, she clung to it as long as she could, savoring the memory of each touch, each word. So few...like diamonds, rare and valuable.
Such a fast visit. They'd spent longer when they'd talked on the phone and he'd told her he'd been hurt. But the sight, the touch, the feel of him, even though brief, was worth having him there. He'd kissed her here on her lips and here on her chin...and on the tip of her nose... both eyes, her neck...even the top of her head—and she wanted him back.
Remembering, she pressed her finger to her lips, recalling the firm yet gentle pressure of his mouth. If she'd encouraged him more, he could have easily devoured her. It was probably a good thing her natural reserve had held her back, enough so that her return kisses had retained a little hesitancy to them. She was acting idiotic enough now that he was gone.
And she'd forgotten to tell him to call more often. Even as she regretted that omission, she drifted off to sleep.
The next thing she knew, the phone was ringing. Its insistent noise woke her. She turned on the light. It was completely dark out and her mouth felt fuzzy from falling asleep without brushing her teeth.
No one ever called her in the dead of night and she shot out of bed, her heart raced madly in fear of an emergency.
7
"Hello?"
"Alison?"
"Logan? Is that you?" He always softened the first letter of her name like that, but she asked anyway. Her heart kept right on racing, but this time in pleasurable excitement even as she experienced a measure of relief that no one was in trouble.
"Uh huh. Did I wake you?" he asked as if the thought had just occurred to him.
She sank back into bed. "Yes." It came out blunter than she would have wished. It was too late to recall the word or the tone.
"I'm sorry, I should've thought. But I needed to talk to you so much...." His voice trailed off.
Poor guy. He was probably berating himself for calling so late. She didn't care when he called, actually, although late night calls tended to startle her. "That's all right. It was disappointing to see you so shortly." So he had felt as bereft as she. That was good.
"What time is
it there?"
She looked at her alarm. "It's midnight. Where are you?"
"Chicago. I lose track of the time zones."
"What are you doing in Chicago?" It must be around two in the morning there.
"I have to come here sometimes, on business. Could I maybe call more often than once a week...whenever I get the chance?"
"Of course." She was happy to negate that promise he made her. "That was just in case you turned out to be a pest. But long distance; it's sort of expensive isn't it?"
"Not half as much as a plane trip." He had a point there, but....
"Where were you before you came here?"
"New York. I stopped off in Seattle—"
"Stopped off?" She laughed fondly at his logic. She could have been forgiven for thinking he was a little crazy when she first met him, making statements like that. "Oh, Logan, where do you live?"
He laughed cheerfully. "Around." He was going to stay mysterious it seemed, but somehow it didn't matter so much to Alison anymore. Let him have his secrets. But she had no intention of letting him get away that easy, so pressed again.
"That's no place, you need some sort of residence."
"I move a lot." A weak statement; he didn't offer a better. A pause, then, "Uh...did you find my little present?"
A present? He'd left a present?
"No...where is it?" She struggled upright to a sitting position.
"On the kitchen counter. I thought for sure you'd find it." He sounded both disappointed and bewildered. It must have been in plain sight...but she hadn't entered the kitchen area.
"I went right to bed...um...I was tired." She wasn't going to tell him she had slipped in without anything on. That would really be asking for trouble. "Wait a sec and I'll get it."
She carried the phone out with her, the light from her bedroom shining out into the other room.
She spotted it immediately.
The package was unusually heavy, not little—about three feet by two—a box wrapped in plain brown paper. If she'd have looked around at all, she'd have seen it. No wonder he was bewildered when he asked her about it.
Fascinated, she opened up the sturdy cardboard box to reveal a metal sculpture of a woodland scene: an old mill with a clock face on its mill wheel. It was made of welded metals, black and burnished copper, delicate silver wires, gold and silver flowers and little droplets of solder. It was a magnificent piece of work, a work of art.
He called this a little gift?
"Logan, I just opened it; it's beautiful. Where did you get it? Or did you make it?" she continued, as that thought struck her next. He said he loved beautiful things...and that he was a welder. But this... this must have taken hundreds of hours to acquire the fine detailing required by the tiny figures such as the miller and his wife.
"My best work so far. I wanted you to have it."
"But it's...it's...." she stopped, speechless. No one had given her such a gift before; expensive, yes, but none with so much time and labor invested. And the cost! He would have been able to sell it for hundreds of dollars. "It's priceless, Logan. You can't possibly want to give—"
"None of that" He cut her off, insistent. "It's yours; I made it just for you. I'd plenty of time while I couldn't walk around." Then added, tentatively, "I take it you like it?"
"Like it? I'm overwhelmed But I've never accepted an expensive gift from a man before. I don't know how to react."
"Well, you can't give it back 'cause you don't know how to find me." He sounded both smug and amused, but Alison knew he was also pleased over her reaction to his present.
"Logan...thank you," she said sincerely. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever had." Words were so inadequate sometimes.
"It's also...sort of...my way of helping you keep me in your thoughts."
"That’s for sure," she declared.
He chuckled, his laugh deep and vibrant. "Take care, princess. Good night and pleasant dreams." She stammered a good night and he hung up.
Slowly Alison returned the phone to its cradle. For some reason she felt like sitting down and bawling.
Instead she put on her nightgown and robe and walked back out to the table to examine the clock again. It was a battery run quartz clock; he had already set it.
Such delicate work. She saw bits of color shining in the carpet of flowers and turned on the bright kitchen light, revealing tiny colored stones in blues, greens, and reds interspersed among the gold and silver. Miniature birds carrying bright red—ruby?—berries in their mouths flew skyward. And those couldn't be emeralds—could they—the stones set in the eyes of an owl? Surely it was just colored glass...no one would put precious stones in a clock.
Satisfied with this explanation, she examined again the intricate work, fascinated with his use of different metals, some polished highly, some bronzed, others gouged or beaten so that the roughness of bark, the smoothness of the water was reflected in the metal. The clock had an extra ring on the outside, like the rim of the wheel, that turned slowly with the passage of time.
About one a.m. she turned out the light and went to bed again although wide awake. The present still overwhelmed her.
What kind of man was he?
Logan had called Alison as soon as he landed in Chicago to refuel, too impatient to wait to see if she liked his gift. Her reaction was all he'd hoped for, and he hung up, the warm feeling of accomplishment sweeping aside his disappointment that their meeting had been so brief.
She loved the clock. Her words of thanks and praise were ample reward for the hours he'd spent while injured and unable to practice or play, painstakingly trying to give her something of himself, something he felt would show her how much he valued her friendship.
And at last—now he was free to call her, to talk to her, to get to know her better.
He went directly to his meeting with Judge Walters. It turned out to be lengthy and profitable, and it was late when he got home.
Jake's car was missing from the garage as Logan pulled in but he didn't give it a thought until he tried to unlock the door. The key wouldn't fit. Puzzled, he tried again, several times, but the key wouldn't even enter the lock.
Strange. Logan opened up his car door and looked at the key in the light. It was the right one. He took out the front door key and walked around to the front and tried that one. It went in easily, but would not open the door.
Was it the right house? A quick look around assured him he hadn't pulled up to the wrong address...this was his place. But the locks had been changed.
Jake. It had to be Jake and his practical jokes. He'd pulled them all, from tying opposite hotel doors together with a long rope so no one could get out until someone outside untied it, to dressing up the floor-waxing machine and turning it on in someone's room at night. Jake had even hidden Logan's plane just after Logan had bought it by hiring a truck to tow it to another part of the airport.
Jake had to be nearby, hiding somewhere...perhaps even inside the house. He'd want to see Logan trying to get in. Logan pushed the doorbell impatiently. Sometimes he felt like clobbering his friend although he knew that if he'd thought of it first, he'd have pulled it on Jake. Logan's mind had been on Alison so much lately, he hadn't had any fresh ideas.
How long was Jake going to make him stay out here?
It turned out to be an hour before Jake drove up from wherever he had hidden his car, asking Logan what he was doing sitting outside, and opening the door with a flourish.
"She must have liked your gift," Jake remarked. “You’re still smiling in spite of the one hour delay I just put you through. I hope Alison is worth it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
That clock had been a labor of love. Logan knew that Jake realized it.
Logan considered Jake one of the finest men he'd even known. After his wife divorced him, Jake had hit the bottle heavily in self-pity, destroying himself as surely as if he'd put a gun to his head—and Logan had pulled him out of it; smashing his liquor and calling him all kin
ds of a fool. Years later, the two Tennessee men had come together again when both were signed on by Green Bay, eight years after Jake's marriage had disintegrated.
Jake had been close to becoming an alcoholic; he still remained a cynic where women were concerned but he no longer blamed himself solely for his broken marriage. There had been many factors: a young wife who wouldn't leave her mother, a mother-in-law who interfered with their plans and who continually tore him down, and the physical and emotional pressures of professional football.
“You know Jake, your ex-wife couldn’t handle things. How can I find out if Alison can? There seems no way—”
“There is. Sort of. I learned the hard way.” Jake followed Logan into the kitchen. “You need to find out about her. Get her to talk. Find out about the important things like politics and religion. Some people don’t ask about those things and get a rude awakening.
“But especially, watch how she treats other people. Old folks. Her friends. Your friends. People who do some work for her, like a waitress. You.” He looked at Logan. “How does she treat you?”
“She Maced me.”
“She Maced you?”
“Yes.”
“Smart girl.” Jake started to laugh. “What did you do?”
“I startled her.”
“Well,” Jake said, “she certainly isn’t a push-over. Does she argue?”
“No. She was defending herself.”
“From what?”
“Me. She thought I was a killer.” Logan explained what had happened.
“You may have found a fighter. That’s good. She’ll need backbone to handle this life.”
“She’s that. And stubborn.”
“Good. You know,” Jake said, as he handed Logan a new house key, “I didn’t just change the locks for fun. There’s been more players injured and Coach Dobb suggested everyone replace the locks on their homes. Last week Marcus Osgood was knifed in the hand while he was asleep at home. Cut him enough to keep him on the sidelines for a month.”