by Anne Weale
'All right,' she agreed, starting to pour out the coffee.
He fetched another bottle. The table had already been cleared and the dishes loaded in the machine. They were now alone till Emily returned, and she couldn't think of any reason to avoid spending the evening sitting with him. She had washed her hair the night before. She couldn't pretend to have a date because, if she had, why wasn't he coming to collect her? She could only hope that someone they knew might stop by and prevent James from resuming the conversation interrupted by his niece some hours earlier.
'Does Emily spend a lot of time with Dave?' he asked, filling their glasses.
'No more than with anyone else. Muffy is her closest friend here. They have endless chats about life.'
The seating arrangements inside the cottage consisted of two long sofas placed in a corner at right angles with a shared end table, and two armchairs forming a compact conversation area for six to eight people. Normally Summer occupied one sofa and Emily the other, both with their feet up on the squabs. Tonight she had purposely avoided sitting on a sofa in case James decided to join her there. She didn't know why he should, but she felt that he might. In fact she felt very uneasy altogether. She still hadn't worked out what he could possibly have meant by those strange remarks about marriage, and the rider that he hadn't been kidding.
'I flew down to see Cordelia Rathbone at Palm Beach last weekend,' he told her. 'I'd heard that she hadn't been well, but she denied it and she seemed as sprightly as ever. As you know, she's never been to Baile del Sol since you and Emily arrived there, and she's never suggested that I take Emily to see her. In fact, although I haven't mentioned this before, when I told her I'd taken charge of Emily, she said she wanted nothing more to do with any Lancasters.'
'That's rather a bigoted attitude, isn't it?' said Summer. 'She likes you. Why shouldn't she like Emily?'
'When I bought the house from Cordelia, she didn't know I had any connection with the man who gave her a bad time. That only emerged later on. Anyway, suddenly she's changed her mind. She's coming to New York soon—I suspect for a second opinion about her health—and she wants to meet Emily. She tells me, and she may be right, that after two decades out of fashion the débutante party is back. Girls are being introduced to society as they were way back in the 'Fifties, in white dresses with their fathers in white tie. What's your opinion? Do you think that kind of thing has any place in modern life?'
'I'm not sure. It might seem frivolous extravagance, but it must provide a lot of employment,' Summer said thoughtfully. 'The caterers, the florists, the bands, the dress shops, the hairdressers—all those people must benefit. As to whether Emily would enjoy being a deb, or hate it, I really don't know. But I foresee one problem,' she added.
'What's that?'
'I think by the time she's eighteen, perhaps even sooner, she's going to be a stunning girl. As an outstandingly lovely débutante, she might attract a lot of publicity and it might be found out who she really is. And once she was revealed as Lady Emily Lancaster, granddaughter of Lord Cranmere, it might blow your cover, so to speak.'
'That's where Cordelia comes in. She could present Emily. I shouldn't have to be involved. She feels that as Emily hasn't been to Miss Porter's or one of the other right schools, a débutante year would give her a chance to make friends with girls of the right sort. Cordelia, as you'll have gathered, is a tremendous snob.'
'Yes, but I thought you were a democrat; or, to be more precise, an autocrat with democratic views.'
'Above all, I'm a realist,' he answered. 'Emily isn't going to be happy married to anyone who can't keep her in the style she's used to. The right husband for her will probably be a brother of Cordelia's "right sort of girl".'
Summer said, 'Or a socially unprominent computer nerd like Dave, with whom she has much more in common than some of the Preppies around here.'
'Some hackers are Preppies, he said dryly. 'But at the moment it's not Emily's matrimonial prospects which concern me.' He smiled at her. 'Have you thought over what I said earlier about this being Leap Year?'
She drained the last of her coffee. 'It didn't make sense to me.'
'Okay, I'll put it more plainly. I want to marry and have children. I think you and I get along together pretty well. I'm suggesting you change your role slightly—from being Emily's mentor to being my wife,' he said casually.
She had sensed this was in his mind, but she hadn't been able to believe it. She reached for her wine and, amazingly, her hand was steady as she picked up the glass and drank.
'Without your loving me or my loving you,' she said flatly.
'You know my views on that score. We have better qualifications for living in harmony than that. We've known each other for over two years. We have no foolish illusions that either of us is perfect. You know my faults. I know yours. As far as your career as a designer is concerned, I'm in a position to relieve you of all the domestic burdens which would interfere with your work. Those are the practical considerations. Looking at the other aspects, I see no reason to suppose that we shouldn't enjoy making love together. Do you have any doubts about that?'
'I—I've never considered it.'
'Think back to the times I've kissed you.'
'They're a long time ago. I don't really remember what I felt,' she said untruthfully.
'That's easily remedied.'
He made a movement towards her.
She jerked back, saying sharply, 'No!'
If it had been his intention—and undoubtedly it had—to draw her out of her chair and on to the sofa beside him, her recoil changed his mind.
He gave a slight shrug. 'Don't panic. I realise you may need time to get used to the idea. You can have time. It's taken me quite a while to make sure we have the makings of a workable marriage. I don't expect you to accept that premise without equally long and careful thought.'
She said stiffly, 'What does Oz think about it? I'm sure you haven't arrived at this life-changing decision without consulting your computer.'
Her sarcasm only amused him. 'A computer can't think,' he said mildly. 'You should know that by now.'
'If medical computers can make diagnoses, I'm amazed you can't programme Oz to select a wife. I feel sure you have. But I'm puzzled as to why my rating should be higher than the rest of the short list.' She hesitated, then added recklessly, 'In what way am I superior to your close friend Ms Fox, for instance?'
His mobile dark brows drew together in a sudden frown. She could see that she had annoyed him and it pleased her that, for once, she had managed to break through his guard.
He said curtly, 'Loretta and I split up some time ago—for the reason I was talking about earlier when we were discussing living together with Emily. Loretta and I didn't live together but, as you're obviously aware, we had a physical relationship. It suited us both for a time, and it ended by mutual consent because we'd grown bored with each other. But if you're afraid that I'd be an unfaithful husband, you needn't be. I've never been a stud, and illicit affairs aren't my style.'
It was her turn to shrug. 'I believe you, but it doesn't concern me what your habits are in that respect. I don't have to think it over. I can tell you right now that I'd never marry anyone for the reasons which you've put forward. I don't want a "workable marriage". I'd rather stay a single career-girl and hope that one day I'll be asked to marry someone because he loves me and can't live without me.'
She jumped up from her chair. 'Excuse me: I'm going for a walk.'
One of the nice things about Nantucket was that, unlike Manhattan, it was a safe place for people to wander about alone after dark. No menacing figure was likely to emerge from the tree-shadowed lanes which offered short-cuts between many of the main streets.
Not that she was in a mood for ambling. She stepped out briskly, feeling she needed exercise to work off the irritation induced by James's crazy proposal.
What a strange, unemotional, cold-hearted man he was to imagine that she or any woman, except possib
ly an outright gold-digger, would be willing to marry him on those terms.
Poor Emily if, having outgrown her calf-love for Skip, she fell in love with a young man who didn't meet with her uncle's approval, or that of the snobbish Mrs Rathbone. Between them, they would make her life hell. Yet Mrs Rathbone's first marriage should have proved to her the unwisdom of marrying a man who was eligible but not lovable.
Had Summer had any money on her, she would have gone somewhere for coffee or a drink, and stayed away from the cottage till Emily's return defused the tense atmosphere which would make it embarrassing to be there alone with him.
But as she had left The Fo'c'sle without even a dollar in her pocket, and she didn't want to go on walking round town for another hour, she had no choice but to go back and hope that, during her absence, James had also gone out.
Seeing, from some distance away, that the place was in darkness, she gave a sigh of relief, but her relaxation was short-lived. When she reached the end of the cat-walk she saw a tall figure sitting on the railings surrounding the deck with his back against an upright.
She couldn't walk past him and go inside the cottage without saying something—but what?
James solved the problem by turning to face her. 'Hello. Enjoy your walk?'
His tone was as affable as if her outspoken rejection of his proposal had never happened.
'Yes, thank you. I'm going to make some more coffee. Would you care for some?' she asked politely.
'Good idea. By the way, how's the designing going? What have you been working on since you've been here?' he asked, following her inside.
When she told him, he wanted to see her sketches and with some reluctance, for she felt his interest was assumed, she brought them for his inspection.
'I haven't had a satisfactory idea for the pearls which you gave me after your trip to Japan,' she said. 'Perhaps if Emily does make her début, I can use them on an evening bag for her, or even design one of her dresses.'
'For the time being don't mention that to her. We'll see how she gets on with Cordelia. If they don't take to each other, the idea will fall through.'
'Wouldn't being a deb conflict with your plan to send her to college?'
'Apparently not. Most of the current crop of debs are either freshmen or sophomores. According to Cordelia, the revival of the début doesn't mean a rebirth of the social butterflies of her era. The contemporary deb has brains as well as breeding, and she wants a career as well as a husband.'
On the safe topic of Emily's future, she had become less conscious of the awkwardness of turning down one's employer, even when no feelings were involved. Now the word husband rekindled her discomfiture.
He said shrewdly, 'Don't look so worried. Nothing has changed. There's no need for you to feel uncomfortable.'
'I—I may have been rude to you... certainly ungracious,' she said, flushing. 'It was so very unexpected. I expressed myself too forcefully. I'm sorry.'
'Don't apologise for speaking your mind.'
His tawny gaze shifted to her mouth. She knew he was going to kiss her and this time she didn't recoil but stood still, hypnotised by the glinting smile in his eyes and the curling movement of his lips as they drew back from his white teeth. The certainty that, in a moment, she would feel those firm lips on her own made her insides clench with excitement. But she showed no visible reaction as he put his hands on her waist and drew her towards him.
She had discarded her sweater while she was fetching her sketches. His palms were warm through the thin Madras cotton of her pink and blue Ralph Lauren shirt. He slid his hands higher up her sides, making her sharply aware of their closeness to her breasts. In spite of her unisex clothes—the boyish plaid shirt and pale blue jeans—she had never been more conscious of her femininity and of the soft contours of her body compared with the hard planes of his.
Their bodies were not in contact when he bent to kiss her. But soon they were breast to chest, hip to hip and thigh to thigh, as they had been in the pool in Florida. Only this time she wasn't naked and she wouldn't have cared if she had been. Nothing mattered but being in his arms, clasped to his tall, strong body, her hands clutching his broad shoulders, her lips soft and yielding under the pressure of his.
This time he wasn't as gentle as he had been in New York. For a few mad moments, she thought he might pick her up and carry her to his bedroom. If he had, she wouldn't have resisted. Love and longing blazed up inside her and reached a flashpoint, consuming all her normal controls and leaving nothing but an aching need to respond to the urgent desire which she knew had flared up in him. She could feel his body's reaction to holding her and kissing her.
Once she would have struggled to break free, but tonight she had reached a pitch when her starved senses clamoured for fulfilment. The physical proof that he wanted her ignited a wild exultation. She flung one arm round his neck while her other hand travelled higher, delving into his dense dark hair and feeling the shape of his skull.
He lifted his head and said thickly, 'Now do you doubt that we should enjoy making love?'
Without waiting for her to answer, he tilted her head back and began kissing her neck, making her gasp and shudder as he found a place behind her ear where the heat and pressure of his mouth was almost unbearably pleasurable.
But that delicious sensation was abruptly terminated when the sound of footsteps on the cat-walk and the murmur of voices reminded them they were not alone at the cottage.
With a smothered exclamation of annoyance James straightened and slackened his hold on her. For three or four seconds they stared at each other, both with heightened colour and fever-bright eyes.
Then, knowing that in a few moments Emily and Dave would breeze in, she broke free from James's already loosened embrace and fled to the privacy of the bathroom.
At first light, after a restless night, Summer went for another walk. When she returned, James was doing press-ups on the deck. The sight of his muscular torso immediately reanimated the feelings she had been striving to suppress.
Annoyed with herself, she gave him a frigid good morning as he sprang lightly on to his feet.
'Wait a minute.' As she would have entered the cottage, he caught her by the wrist, forcing her to halt. 'Emily isn't up yet—which gives us a chance to finish our conversation.'
'I don't think there's anything more to say. What happened last night didn't prove anything... or change anything. I—I'd prefer to forget it,' she said stiffly.
He lifted an eyebrow. 'Can you?'
The answer to that was—No, never. Not if I live to a hundred.
While she was searching for a false answer, he said, 'Okay, we don't have to discuss it now if you don't want to. But I believe you'll change your mind eventually. Take your time... think it over carefully. It makes a lot of sense, Summer.'
He released her and reached for the sweat-shirt which was hanging over the rail. As he pulled it over his head, she had a last glimpse of the smooth brown chest and taut midriff which she longed to be able to touch.
'I'll go and fix breakfast,' she murmured, turning away.
In the kitchen she busied herself with the routine of making coffee, chopping up fruit and spooning out thick creamy yogurt. But her mind wasn't on the tasks which occupied her hands. She was thinking about his final words. They repeated in her head like a record replaying the same groove over and over.
It makes a lot of sense, Summer... a lot of sense... a lot of sense.
Perhaps it did make sense—to him. But how, loving him as she did, could she ever be satisfied with a marriage which, on his side, was purely practical? James himself had told her she had a romantic temperament, and he had been right.
She needed to be told she was loved with words as well as caresses... to be looked at with eyes which held adoration as well as desire.
In a way, his extraordinary proposal reminded her of a tempting dessert—lemon meringue pie or chocolate cake topped with frosting and sprinkled with nuts—offered to a fat
person. The slogan to remember in that situation was: A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.
This was a parallel situation. The temptation to experience his love-making was almost irresistible. She wanted to sleep with him even more than she had once craved fattening junk foods. But if she succumbed to her longing, she knew the price of her pleasure would be the pain of knowing that sooner or later he would tire of her. Without love—the durable fire—how could it be otherwise? All other flames burnt out.
Later that morning the mailman brought a letter from Raoul.
My dear Summer,
I miss you.
On the twentieth of this month I'm giving a party at Old Lyme. I hope you'll be able to come. I can't ask Emily to come with you because there is only one small guest bedroom at the cottage. My room will be occupied by Andrew and Nancy Sinclair, two close friends whom I see too seldom since they moved to Canada. I shall sleep in my workroom.
Could you come to New York on Friday and travel down to the cottage with me, returning on Monday morning? I'm sure you can be spared for one weekend. I'd like you to see the cottage and meet my friends. My sister will be at the party. She wants to thank you in person for the bracelet you made her.
Do come. It's too long since we talked. Raoul.
She was alone when the letter arrived. James, who also had a bicycle on Nantucket, had gone with Emily to Siasconset, a village at the other end of the island always called 'Sconset' by anyone who knew Nantucket. They had taken a box lunch with them and were planning to be out all day. Summer could have gone with them, but she wanted to do some work, and she thought it a good thing for them to spend time together without her tagging along.
Raoul's letter pleased her. She had missed him, too. He was such a comfortable person, and she was never on edge with him. It was typical of his considerate nature that he made it clear they wouldn't be alone at the cottage, and to foresee that it would be difficult for her to reach Old Lyme except by the method he suggested.