As they lay upon Mark’s bed, Jane could not resist her desire and did not wish to. She unbuttoned Mark’s shirt as he leaned over her, so full of his own desire and need. She helped him out of his shirt, and they gratefully entered the timeless world of love’s passion. They had no thoughts other than to complete each other, to join in the ageless dance, moving as if to music written only for them. In that moment, Jane trusted Mark completely. Whatever her inner turmoil had been or would be, she lost herself in Mark’s love. There were no voices in her head, no intrusions from her mother, Sr. Lucille, nor the indictments of past relationships. She trusted Mark, herself, and their bodies’ wisdom, so deeply connected to her very soul.
She felt the steadiness of Mark’s arms, his gaze penetrating to her innermost being, and heard the tender ache in his calling of her name. She had the unaccountable desire to burst into tears, to laugh, to scream, to gasp, to tell him that she loved him — but she didn’t. All of her feelings and desires funneled into the crescendo of a single sigh, “Mark,” that trembled out of her. It had been so long since she’d been made love to and had never been brought so satisfactorily and powerfully to conclusion. Afterward, Mark cradled her body in the curve of his own, his arms holding her to him. It was all so impossibly good that Jane wished they could be frozen in this perfect moment.
Until her anxiety began to resurface. “So much for going slow!” she thought. She didn’t know whether she loved Mark, or was just infatuated with him. She only knew that she was getting deeper in with him, and that if it didn’t work out, it was going to hurt like hell. She needed to get away so that she could think herself strong again. She didn’t want to lie in his arms feeling vulnerable, and she had a lesson coming anyway.
As she began to move, Mark instinctively held her more tightly.
“Mark,” Jane faltered, “I’m so sorry, but I have to get back to the barn. I only blocked two hours for Phoebe.”
“Oh, Jane, don’t go. Whatever it is, it’ll keep. Stay with me.”
“I wish I could. But I have a lesson coming, and it’s too late to cancel. Believe me, I’d love nothing better than to linger here with you. But, I can’t.”
She turned toward him, kissed him lightly, and said, “Thank you, Mark. That was wonderful. It truly was. But I have to go.”
He protested, but she was out of his bed quickly, throwing her clothes on. She left the costume where it had fallen, almost manic in her need to get away. He jumped out of bed as well, saying, “Jane, don’t go. Can’t you call Mac? Couldn’t he give the lesson?”
“I’m sorry, Mark, it’s my job. I couldn’t impose on Mac on such short notice. He never gives lessons. But it was lovely being with you. Thanks again.”
Chapter Seventeen
Well that was stupid, stupid, stupid! She castigated herself as she walked back to the barn, her knees still knocking. Thank you? Is that all I could say? She threw her flannel shirt over her tee to break the wind, and pressed her baseball cap into place. There was no time to change into britches. She fought back tears and rubbed the mists from her eyes. It was a strangely beautiful afternoon, with strong, cool winds sending dark clouds flying past, and frequent instances of sunshine warmly drenching the farm. The air had the scent of oncoming rain, but it was impossible to tell. It might all just blow over.
Jane found herself in a pickle. Never had she connected so fiercely before. Never had she had such a physical explosion. She tripped over a clump of grass on the lawn and almost went sprawling, but managed to right herself at the last moment. Jane had an epiphany: for her, attraction meant desire, and desire sought satisfaction, and satisfaction craved attachment, and attachment unimpeded became love, and love evaporated. For the stronger her love and desire were, the more she feared risking herself, and it was her fear, always, that drove wedges in her relationships. “And that is who you are,” she thought to herself, “it isn’t fair to Mark, so get hold of yourself, my girl.” Why had it been so difficult for her to simply say “no.” It was too soon. Was it too soon? Well, it’s too late now, she thought.
It was her old fear striking out at her, her father’s death, her Catholic guilt, her mother’s worry that she’d come home pregnant — or worse, acquire what her mother quaintly called, “a reputation.” She could hear her mother now, “who buys the cow when the milk is free.” That was the extent of their mother-daughter talks about sex. It was as if they were in some kind of dumbass, sixties girl band, chorusing about loose behavior and a girl’s rep, mooning about whether the guy would respect her in the morning. It was all such nonsense. Whatever her inner conflict, it was hers alone, and she needed to ditch it, once and for all. Timing is everything in comedy, she laughed to herself.
She went into the barn and pulled out Ransom’s tack. She decided to groom him in his stall. She heard the tractor in the distance with relief, glad that she wouldn’t have to face anyone just now. If she hadn’t had a lesson coming, she would have stayed with Mark. Should she have called Mac and asked him to take the lesson? Even though Mac never gave lessons, she knew he could easily have stood in for her. He was the far better horseman, for one thing. Of course she should have called Mac. But she’d just panicked. She was too emotional and too afraid to show herself. She despised being thought ridiculous and weak, especially when she was. And she realized that she would sooner push Mark away than allow herself to be vulnerable. Once again, she was shoving her feelings down alone, rather than taking a goddamn risk and talking to Mark.
It would take time for her mind and heart to fade down to something manageable. She led Ransom out to the ring to wait for Mrs. Nelson. She almost tripped again. The grassy field had grown long these past weeks, pushing against the sky and sun to be felt, to be heard. How odd it always seemed that the tender shoots of grass loved the cold weather and the wet. How amazing that the grass survived everything but the heat of the sun. Jane was like the grass, delicate in form, but hearty in her nature, stronger than the oak, resilient. She could easily withstand harsh climates, but wilted in the warmth of the sun as if in a hothouse. But she did not want to wilt in the sun. She wanted to revel in it. She needed the sun’s strength and warmth.
She thought about her job and that she had single handedly and without doubt jeopardized the very best situation she’d ever had. And in record time. Not that Mark would fire her; of course, he would never do that. But she might have to quit, if she couldn’t get hold of her feelings, especially if things between them didn’t work out. The wind picked up, and she could swear she heard Mark whisper her name. She needed to stop her old pattern of forcing men away for fear of being hurt, or she would have to accept the cold and damp of a heart that shriveled in the sun.
She gave Mrs. Nelson her lesson in a daze. “Up, down” Jane heard herself repeating in a monotone as Mrs. Nelson attempted to master the concept of posting to trot, at a walk. “Up, down” she found herself rhythmically repeating, as visions of herself and Mark danced teasingly before her. She was greatly relieved when the lesson ended. She cleaned and put up the tack and gave Ransom an extra special rub down. She walked slowly back to her house, knowing how grateful her body would be for a bath and a good night’s sleep.
All will be well, she told herself. After all of her emotional upheaval, she chose acceptance — everything was already what it was and would be what it would be. And that would be fine. And either way, she would have her place the sun.
Chapter Eighteen
Mark was utterly baffled by Jane’s having left so unceremoniously. He didn’t know what to make of it. He knew she was shy, but he thought they’d broken through that. He had felt full and content with her. And when she left, she took the fullness away, leaving Mark disheartened with an empty feeling in his chest. He thought that perhaps she still worried about his being, technically, her boss. He wished that he hadn’t let his desire override his recent decision, and her request, to take things slow. H
e wished that he had told her what he was feeling. But he didn’t want to scare her off. They hadn’t known each other very long, after all — only a couple of months. He didn’t want to spring a ridiculously premature marriage proposal on her. He wasn’t sure he’d even won her yet, “For Chrissake, Mark, you’re going to drive her off if you keep coming on so strong,” he chided himself.
He’d give her some time to gather her thoughts, and then he’d somehow make this right. Mark had never experienced complications with women, he pursued them, and they generally enjoyed his company, and things never got serious. He never wanted them to. It was different with Jane. He had wanted her, and he had had her. But the expected relief he usually experienced after sleeping with a woman was not forthcoming. In fact, his desire had intensified. He wanted her more now, somehow, and found himself worrying about what she was thinking and how she was feeling.
It occurred to him that he’d never taken a woman to his place, not even in the city. He always stayed at the woman’s place. And he was the one who always itched to leave. He often made himself stay the night with women out of politeness, but there were times when, God forgive him, he jumped out of bed with some lame ass excuse to the woman whose body had lately served his purpose. Well, now he’d gotten a taste of his own medicine, not, he thought, that Jane intended it that way. Still, she sped out so fast, she ditched her own shadow.
As he watched her make her way to the barn, he breathed her name. He had all but mentally traded the Porsche for something with four doors — oh god, a minivan. What more was there left for him to experience? Alone, he’d flown planes, sky dived, raced cars, hiked mountains. He’d had more women than he cared to count. He thought of Phillips and his wife and children. Phillips, who had done none of these things to Mark’s knowledge, but was contented.
After a shower and some food, he went for a walk. The afternoons had begun to darken earlier, and he saw Jane in the outdoor arena with her lesson. The clouds rolled over, and the sun dashed in and out behind them. Would Jane accept him for the long haul? He laughed at himself, suddenly feeling like a woman in a comedy, only he was the one saying, “tick tock, Jane, t-i-c-k, t-o-c-k.” If he was ever going to have a family, he thought, there was no time to lose. He’d already let too many years go by.
The tall grass and the taller alfalfa of the fields in the distance moved in slow sheets from the pressure of the wind, and the shadows of the clouds over the waving fields put Mark in mind of Van Gogh, so much passion — “it’s no wonder he cut off his ear, poor bastard,” Mark thought, just as a swiftly swirling rook of starlings sped through the skies like schools of fish in the ocean. Their rapid adjustments crossing the sky back and forth mimicked the waving of the alfalfa, and Mark felt his world altering and shifting. He saw the bright promise of loving Jane, of sharing his life with her, making children with her, gumming their oatmeal together in old age.
He went home and poured a short whiskey and coiffed it. It was pointless to ruminate any further. He needed to talk to Jane. As he traversed the distance to her house in long strides, he called her on the cell and asked if she’d see him. She was waiting at the door for him as he closed the distance between them.
She had just emerged from the bath and was still in her robe.
“May I come in, Jane?” Mark smiled.
“Please do,” she politely replied.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” she asked.
“Actually, I was wondering if we could just talk,” and hearing Rachel and Abby animatedly conversing in the kitchen, added, “privately. We could go out, if you like,” he offered.
“Ben and Abby and Rachel have plans for a movie. He’s on his way over. I’m a little tired, actually. I was getting ready for bed,” and seeing his mien lower, added, “but, we can talk in my room, if you like. I’d like that.”
They sat cross-legged upon Jane’s bed, and Mark took her hands in his. “I missed you after you left this afternoon, Jane,” he began.
“Oh, yes,” she said, coloring, “I’m so sorry about that. But I’m glad you’re here now. I wanted to talk to you, too.”
“Do you want to go first?” he asked.
Jane, steeling herself for whatever Mark wanted to say, invited him to speak first.
“I don’t know exactly how to begin — I feel as if my mind has been swirling since I met you. First of all,” he vowed, “you’re beautiful, Jane. I could look at you forever.” Encouraged by her blush and smile, Mark continued, “and I love how quirky you are,” he laughed. “You’re so … unpredictable. And you don’t pretend to be anything you’re not. I love your honesty and your kindness. And you’re smart, and … ”
Mark paused, and smiled broadly, “Jane, I’m in love with you. I know you don’t want to go too fast, and every time we’re together, I know I have, we have. I want there to be more to us than just great sex.” Mark looked down at Jane’s hands in his. “Jane, I’m forty. I don’t want to scare you off, but I’ve never felt about anyone the way I’ve been feeling about you.” Mark looked up into Jane’s open face and pointed out, “We’re not kids. I know what I want for the first time in a long time.” Mark saw Jane’s brow knitting into a frown and, fearing that he’d said too much added, “Just tell me that I’ve got a chance, Jane. If we’re not on the same page … ”
“Mark,” Jane said as tears began to form, “we are so most definitely on the same page,” she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. “I was afraid I was the only one feeling this way. I’m so sorry, I should have trusted more.”
“Jane,” he said tenderly, pulling her onto his lap, “please don’t ever be afraid of me or of us. I love you, and I will love you tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that. I’ve never been a religious man, Jane, but the way I feel, it’s like praying, and hoping, and knowing all at the same time.”
And then he loved her. He loved her with his body. He loved her with his heart. He loved her with his soul. He loved her unreservedly, and all of their confusion lifted in the wisdom of their bodies.
Chapter Nineteen
Jane woke up alone, the fire Mark had made was burning brightly and cheerfully. And then she smelled coffee and bacon. She hadn’t heard Abby or Rachel stir — it was still early for either of them to rise. She hoped that she and Mark had not disturbed them during the night. She threw on her robe and rubbed the solid oak door — hmm, pretty thick. I think we’re good here. As she went downstairs, she followed the scent of coffee, a spiritual experience at that hour, and bacon and eggs.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Mark said smiling at her. “I’m starved. Do you like your eggs over easy?”
“Anyway is fine,” Jane yawned. “So, did you sleep well?” she asked with a shy smile.
“When I slept, yah,” he laughed, as he put a plate of bacon and toast in front of her.
“And you cook, too. This is great,” she said, taking a slice of perfectly crisp bacon. “Thank you.”
“You’re not going to thank me for sex again, are you?” Mark said, sliding an egg on her toast.
“Are you kidding me?” she laughed. “I’m having an award made, like an Oscar, only more phallic — if that’s even possible.”
“Why, Jane O’Hara, I’m seeing a new side of you. I’m impressed.”
As Mark poured more coffee, Jane asked, “So, what are you going to do today? Anything important?”
“Well, I’ll need to be on deck this afternoon for the party, but I was hoping we could spend most of the day together. What’s your schedule like?”
“Not too bad, actually. Just morning chores. No lessons scheduled, in honor of the party. Why,” she smiled, “what did you have in mind?”
“Nothing much,” he said.
And when she’d had taken precisely five bites of her breakfast, he took her by the hand, and they raced up the
stairs back to her bedroom.
• • •
Jane spent the entire day with Mark, and in between barn chores they ate, and talked, and made love. When they weren’t occupied with each other physically, they enjoyed forging the emotional connection they’d begun so brilliantly the night before. As they lay in Jane’s bed, Mark held her, his arms circled around her protectively. “Jane,” he said, “you never did get a chance to tell me what was on your mind, last night. I feel guilty. You said you wanted to talk, too, but I kind of took over.”
“Oh,” she dismissed, “it was nothing — just my crazy fear, Mark. You brushed the clouds away.”
“I’m glad of that, but what were you afraid of?”
“Nothing … really,” she winced, recalling her thoughts yesterday.
“Something, I think. You can tell me.”
She looked up at him, contented that she could tell him anything. “Well,” she began, “I didn’t think you could ever really love me, and I was so freaking head over heels for you. I let the old voices in my head rule me. I didn’t trust you or myself. And, I was afraid that the sex was so good that it would block out anything else from developing. I should have had more faith in you, Mark. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Is that all?” he said, and squeezed her reassuringly. “Not long ago, you might have been right, Jane. But that’s all in the past, love. I promise you that.”
“Oh, speaking of the past,” Jane blurted out, “do we need to speak of it? The idea of reviewing past relationships makes me want to ralph.”
“Oh, God no,” Mark pronounced emphatically. “Let’s just say we come with experiences from which we learned all good lessons. Does that work for you?”
“Perfectly,” Jane murmured with relief.
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