by Nancy Radke
"My job doesn't require so very many hours, but there are a lot of other people involved so I have to work around them. To come see you, I need to have a big enough block of time to get away and get back. That's what causes me so much grief."
"Am I worth it?"
"You know you are."
“But you spend so much time flying back and forth.”
“It’s not all wasted. Now that Ken comes with me, I’m teaching him sign language.”
He held up his right hand, fingers spread, with the index and middle fingers crossed, the ring finger bent: a sign meaning, "I love you a lot."
“Now that’s a common sign. I bet Ken already knew it.”
"He did. But you missed the important thing," he complained.
She thought back over their conversation. She hadn't missed anything. Had she? "What?"
"I'll try again." Again his fingers formed the sign, "I love you." He wiggled them slowly in front of her eyes.
"Oh!" She tapped the knuckles of her right hand against her forehead as it hit her. "Dumb me." A pause. "Uh...I though you were just signing...I didn't realize—" She stopped, scratched her head, biting her lip in consternation. What did she say now?
"Shall we start over?" he offered, as again his fingers formed the initialized sign. "Or do I have to spell things out for you?"
He was telling her he loved her and she didn't know what to say. Did she love him? She didn't know if she should admit to her feelings or not. Her fingers flashed an answer, "I don't know." Then said, "I enjoy being with you, but—"
"But?" He was anxious, like a student awaiting the results of a test. Her answer meant a lot to him, yet she couldn't give him anything definite.
"Give me time."
He took her hands between his and cradled them gently, eyes focused intently on her features. "As long as you need; but promise me—"
"What?" He had stopped as though to phrase his words carefully.
"When you know, you'll tell me." Not if, but when. Logan was as overly self-confident in this as he was in other things.
"That's an easy promise; of course I will."
"Thanks." He kissed her fingertips one by one as he spoke, his eyes never leaving hers.
"But I'll have to be sure first," she warned him, feeling the surge of emotion aroused by the contact run up her fingers and through her body; the sensation heightened by the intimacy of the moment.
"That's fine," he stated, assuring her of his willingness to wait. "But when you're absolutely sure, my cautious Princess, you let me know."
"You don't mind, do you? I have to be certain." Slow and steady; that way she wouldn't risk a broken heart.
"No. Actually, thinking about it, I’m glad you don't give your love lightly. When you finally say you love me, I'll know it's true."
He did not release her; she didn't want him to. Hand in hand they turned to catch up with their friends, and Alison reflected on what he'd just said. It was true, she didn't give her friendship or her love lightly. She was not the kind to open up and let just anyone in.
Fast fingers and slow heart...that was her. She had to be sure. Falling in love with a stranger who remained a man of mystery had its dangers.
Ken and Chantal were standing in front of an early plane with its wooden frame and fabric cover. "Now can you imagine going up in that?" Chantal asked Logan as they joined them.
"No. But most of these early pilots learned to fly, then made their own planes and flew them. Compared to them, we're all cowards."
"I don't know," Alison said. "You could land these in a field or on a road; you wouldn't need a runway. And you could glide if your engine cut out. So they had their advantages."
Chantal touched the wooden frame. "And their disadvantages. Imagine flying cross-country in one of these."
"They were flown long distances, even when they weren't really ready for it. Remember the roads—or lack of them. Ground transportation was poor and still people traveled huge distances," Logan said.
"Yes. No wonder they flew. But making their own. It seems fantastic." For all of Chantal's words, Alison knew her friend would probably have been as game to try it as anyone back in those days. The comfort might not have been there, but the challenge was.
"There's a lot of people still making their own ultralights and flying them," Logan said. "And that experimental plane that flew around the world was home-built in a sense."
"Me, I'd take my chance in one of these old planes any day compared to traffic in Boston or New York," Ken added. "Also, back then, there weren't so many planes in the skies. That's the potential danger now."
"It looks like you're out-voted, Chantal," Alison kidded. "Are you ready to build your own?"
"Not yet. And look at that plane. Did it really fly?" Curious, they moved on to the next exhibit.
They shared moments together, then somehow the couples became separated again. Alison looked around to see Ken and Chantal disappearing into the projection room and started to follow.
"Leave them," Logan said, pulling her back to his side.
At her curious look, he added, "Ken wants to see her alone as much as I want some quiet time with you."
"Are you sure...about Ken?"
"You're not the only one who can read sign. Besides, I told him on the flight out, if he wanted to come with me, he was going to have to learn to vanish." He moved them through a door into a smaller room with pictures of early pilots. It was empty of visitors and apparently what Logan had been seeking, for he stopped, satisfied, and began to kiss her, his arms completely enveloping her so that she was enclosed in his being, wrapped tightly in his love. Yet as much as she wanted to meet him emotionally, mentally she held back.
"Logan, what if someone comes in?" she protested, when he released her.
"We'll take care of that...if it happens."
But the possibility of interruption made her nervous, and she was unable to respond wholeheartedly to him.
"Why must you be so tense?" he complained, as she wiggled away from his embrace again.
"I can't help it. I keep thinking someone's going to come through one of those doors and see us."
"Let them"
"But—"
"If I'd had to wait any longer to kiss you, I'd have gone crackers. I'm glad we made it through today; I won't be able to come next week."
She looked nervously over her shoulder as he pulled her closer and this time a man and young boy did enter the room and start reading the inscriptions under the photos.
Logan made an exasperated sound as she pulled away. "This wasn't a good idea. Let's go somewhere else. I want to make love to you—no, not that!" he added as she jerked away from him.
“Then what?”
"A poor choice of words," he said and went on to explain, "I just want to kiss you but this is so public and you freeze up in public. Where can we go?"
"I don't know. Chantal's apartment?"
"How far away is it?"
"It's in Ballard, about a half-hour's drive from here...depending upon traffic."
"Too far. I know, the plane. Come on." At first Alison thought he meant one of the exhibits, but quickly realized he meant his own airplane as he strode over to the next room and called Ken and Chantal out. "We're going back to the plane...too many interruptions here."
"Okay with me," said Ken, and at Chantal's assenting nod, "with both of us. You can have the plane, though. We'll stay in the car."
They were outside, running through the heavy downpour, into Chantal's roomy old car and headed for the airfield before Alison had time to consider how fast Ken had caught on and offered to stay in the car. Taking a quick glance into the back seat where Ken and Chantal had snuggled together unmindful of the two in front, Alison decided they probably preferred the arrangement also.
She turned her head as their lips met. Neither one of them seemed to mind that she had been watching. Had they even noticed? It embarrassed her slightly and she chided herself for the emotion. Act
ually, once she thought about it, she was happy for them. Their romance seemed to be avoiding the sharp curves and bumps hers had taken.
For the first time in her life she was hurrying with a man—as fast as he could legally take her—to a private, secluded spot, where he was going to...to love her...and her body suddenly swelled with a hope, an aching yearning for him, her mouth softening in anticipation. The anticipation stirred her emotions as deeply as if he had started kissing her already.
She was thrilled at the idea, terribly happy and a little frightened at the intensity of the new feeling that swept through her. Catching his glance, she knew that he hungered for her too, wanted her with a desire that couldn't be hidden.
This man, this stranger who had invaded her life and was threatening to steal her heart, this Logan...of whom she still knew next to nothing...except that he loved her; what would he do?
She scolded herself silently. He won't hurt you. Haven't you learned by now how much he loves you? How gentle and considerate he always is?
They arrived quickly, driving across the apron towards where the plane was parked. Her mind cautioned her not to become more emotionally involved while her body argued for Logan's touch—and won.
Still she hesitated, her breath coming rapidly between parted lips as he opened the door of the car, but he pulled her outside, leaving Chantal and Ken behind. They ran through the rain to reach the plane, he half-carrying her so that they raced as one—raced toward privacy, toward...what? Why had she agreed to this? What was she letting herself in for?
He opened the door to the plane, then turned and lifted her in as one does a precious possession, a rare gem, thoughtfully brushing the raindrops from her hair and removing her coat, throwing it impatiently over the seat and taking her to him with the complete assurance of one who wins; the confidence of continued success.
She should have known how it would be. At the first warm touch of his lips her hesitation fled and she gave herself up to his tender loving, freed from restraint in this private place, their mutual need igniting their meeting so that the gentle kisses turned desperate as they sought to fulfill the hunger starved by short meetings and long phone calls. She arched herself against him, this man Logan who said he loved her, this one who was rapidly calling forth her love for him.
He was tender and gentle even though when he held her his arms were like steel bands. He was being careful not to hold her too tightly or clasp her to him too hard; restraining himself even as his desire for her soared. She could read it in his eyes and in the hunger of his kiss. Now and then his clasp hurt, but when she flinched he immediately slackened his hold. She could cling and squeeze all she wanted too, but he had to take care not to bruise her.
It was what they had both wanted—a time to quit talking and start doing. Sweet nectar, ambrosia...the murmur and sighs of love. Logan told her between kisses, and then once more as they came up for air, that he loved her. There could be no mistaking how he felt.
And once again, when she could talk, she told him she needed time. Although it certainly felt like she was in love with him, she wasn't positively sure. Were emotions the sole criteria? Wasn't a certain amount of knowledge needed also? Shouldn't the mind, as well as the body, be able to give itself completely?
How did one know? Alison was torn with indecision. Only time would tell, but would her emotions allow her mind the time it required?
Then, too soon, Ken was banging on the outside of the door, reminding them that distance and duty were once again ready to separate them. Unbelievably, an hour had been spent taking in sight and sound and scent and touch. An hour of reaching out to each other on a more intimate plane than ever before.
She had often wondered if she could ever be comfortable with a man; giving herself to him—intimately. If she would ever desire a man to the point of losing her reserve. If she could ever be able to become involved to the point where the entirety of her consciousness was centered upon him and him alone. It had taken Logan to show her that she could; at least she could for him.
She had gone to him as pliant and as willing as a women deeply in love. Was she?
Alison jumped, shocked back to the surroundings by Ken's first knock, yet readily came back for Logan's murmured, "One more;" wanting, as he did, every second left them. Their last kiss was bittersweet, poignant with longing and good bye, desperately prolonging final contact.
If only she could have kept him here. But men had their jobs to do, a part of them they often kept separate from the women in their lives ...especially men like Logan and Ken.
"This is it, then, sweetheart," he said. "Time's up."
"Logan, must you go?" Her cry was anguished, pleading, and his reply equally so.
"Please, don't ask me that. Don't tear me in two. If I were free...of other commitments...I'd never leave you."
"I'm sorry. I know. It's just that—"
"Yeah. Isn't it?"
They straightened up quickly and opened the door to a rain-soaked Ken. He turned and waved to Chantal before coming inside and Alison met Logan's eyes with sorrowful farewell before going out into the storm. "Have a safe flight," she called.
"I'll phone when we arrive," he promised, and did so, five hours later, talking for only a short time before he hung up to catch some sleep before the next day.
The rest of the week drug by, each day seeming to exist only for the nightly phone calls. Alison continued to jog with Ross. He continued to ask her out and she continued to refuse him.
The next Monday evening, knowing that Logan and Ken weren't coming, Alison drove over to see Chantal. Misery loves company and she was sure that Chantal would be glad to have her. Instead, Chantal had the TV on, watching another football game as the players ran onto the field. Alison started to leave, but Chantal asked her to stay.
"We can talk. I can watch at the same time." It was still better than sitting home alone, waiting for the phone to ring, so Alison let herself be persuaded.
"I'll fix us a meal; or have you eaten?" Alison asked. She hadn't felt hungry all week and hadn't bothered with more than a sandwich today at lunch and a cold chicken leg after she'd gone home. She might as well eat here. Perhaps she'd have more of an appetite eating with Chantal.
"No, I had to work late. All the holiday decorating—it's that time again, you realize."
"They should wait until after Thanksgiving."
Chantal shrugged off the sarcasm. "Got to give the shoppers plenty of encouragement."
"I guess so. What'd you want?"
"Anything." Chantal didn't sound interested in food, either.
Alison searched through Chantal’s cupboards, considering different recipe combinations before she came up with what she wanted. She had the time to fix something nice, like blackened salmon and Caesar salad with a peach/yoghurt dessert. It took over an hour, but Chantal was watching more than chatting and it gave Alison something to do.
They each took a tray in by the TV set, as the game was close and Chantal's favorite team, the Boston Wolverines, were playing. Alison daydreamed, recalling as well as she could each word, each kiss of Logan's, while the game progressed and Chantal became more involved.
Suddenly Chantal, who was talking about the last play, interrupted herself to scream, "Alison. Look! It's him!"
"Huh? Who?" That snapped her briskly back from Logan's arms. She hadn't been particularly listening to Chantal earlier, but the high-pitched words penetrated immediately.
"Ken. Kenneth Earle!"
"Are you sure?" Alison asked, frowning in doubt at her friend who had banged her tray down hard beside herself on the floor. "Where?"
10
Chantal was squinting intently at the TV and pointed excitedly to the screen where tiny figures were piled up in a large, squirming heap on the muddy field. Arms and legs and helmets were somehow attached to bodies, and the process of disentangling had begun.
Alison glanced reluctantly at the screen, seeing the uniform figures en masse. "Where?"
"Oh, Chantal!" Alison shook her head hopelessly. Her friend was getting impossible. Chantal had been "spotting" Ken and Logan in every magazine, TV show, or newspaper picture that held any remote facial resemblance. She had first claimed they were TV actors, then stars of various sports, politicians, rich oil men and movie stars. "You can't tell what they look like with those helmets on."
The figures were separated now, leaving one still lying on the rain-soaked ground, motionless, his body covered with mud. From the sidelines the coach and trainers could be seen hurrying out to check on their injured player.
"What a bloodthirsty sport. I can't see what you like about it." Football. One team hurting the other.
Chantal refrained from answering. She had given up three years ago trying to get Alison interested in the game. The announcers were talking about the injured player, Jake Earle, and his picture—helmet-less—was shown briefly on the screen as he was half-carried off the field. "See," she said. "There's Ken. He's their wide receiver."
Alison glanced at the screen again, getting a second's look before the picture flashed off. With a lot of imagination, she just might make the well-groomed, smiling man she had seen a week ago Tuesday change into the grim-looking brute portrayed in the picture. But she wasn't going to try. He looked as mean as a grizzly bear.
"Why don't you give up? The name isn't even right."
"I tell you, it's him...and Josh Logan!" Chantal rarely squealed, but she was so excited her voice changed to a high pitch. "Oh, I'm right, I'm right, I know I'm right!"
She jumped over, grabbed Alison's tray, set it aside, and pushed her forcibly closer to the screen. "I'll show you. Look there. Logan. You can't say that name's wrong."
Chantal had a point so Alison allowed herself to be plunked down closer in front of the TV and dutifully watched as Chantal pointed out Logan. He was easy to keep track of since he wore number two on his back and the camera always seemed to be focused on him.