Twice in a Lifetime

by Rebecca Flanders

  It was after midnight, as they went back to their table to catch their breath, that she exclaimed, "Don't you ever get tired?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," he moaned, laughing. "I'm a little out of practice for all this. All my bones ache, not just the broken one!"

  "I don't believe it!" she retorted, eyes sparkling. "I'm exhausted, and I wouldn't object if you offered to take me home now."

  He slipped his arm around her waist as he picked up the check. "Now, that," he murmured, "sounds like a proposition with promise."

  He parked the car in the garage and helped her out. "I'll walk you home," he told her with a gleam in his eye, "but I feel it's only fair to point out that the walk to my place is a lot shorter than to yours."

  She felt a tremor go through her, but he simply encircled her hand warmly with his and led her across the lawn. Under the golden glow of the porch light he unlocked the door and bent to kiss her gently. No lingering passion tonight. Perhaps he sensed, more than ever before, that she needed time. And in a way she was glad. After the high pitch of last night her emotions were still in a turmoil.

  "Sleep well," he told her, and touching her cheek lightly, he turned to go.

  "I had a terrific time," she called after him softly.

  He lifted his hand with a smile and started across the lawn.

  She went inside and switched on a lamp, feeling pleasantly drowsy and good inside. But almost immediately her senses were assaulted by a sickly sweet, harsh chemical odor. When she took a deep breath, she choked, and nausea churned in her stomach. A faint mist still clung in the air and she realized in alarm that the house had been completely closed up all afternoon. The poison penetrated every corner, worse than paint fumes and twice as toxic. She coughed and squinted her burning eyes, waving at the air. Her stomach weakened and she felt a little dizzy. She turned and stumbled for the door, coughing as she clung to the porch rail and gasping deep breaths of clean night air.

  She must have been inside only a few seconds, for it seemed that immediately Kyle was beside her, inquiring, "What—?" But seeing her sickly color, he did not bother with further questions, just pulled her to sit on the steps and forced her head down.

  "I'm okay," she gasped in a moment, hugging her arms against a sudden chill as she tried to sit up straight. "The exterminators!"

  He groaned and got up, but there was an undertone of laughter to his voice as he pulled the door closed and locked it. "I forgot! They said it wouldn't be safe to go back in until tomorrow. Poor Bobbie." He sat down beside her and slipped his arm around her shoulders, and he was shaking with the effort to hold back chuckles. "You okay?"

  She knew she must have made a ridiculous sight, bursting out of the house that way, and she did not mind his laughing at her. She just couldn't find the amusement in the situation yet.

  "Lord!" she gasped with a shudder, biting back nausea. "I can't sleep in there tonight. Ugh!"

  He pulled her to her feet, an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. "Well," he announced, "it looks like you're coming home with me tonight after all."

  She caught her breath, her eyes wide with question. Would it be tonight, then? So soon? She was not certain she was ready for this, although she knew she should be and she could not bear to disappoint him again.

  But he simply slipped his arm around her waist as he led her across the lawn and explained mildly, "My sofa can be made into a bed with no trouble at all." He glanced at her, his expression enigmatic. "That is, if the sofa is what you really want."

  Another shiver shook her. "The sofa will be fine," she told him.

  She felt the need to chatter nervously as they ascended the stairs and he escorted her inside. "I never knew the stuff they used was so lethal. I don't usually have a weak stomach. Why didn't they spray your place too, I wonder?"

  He glanced at her patiently as he took extra linen out of the closet. "Possibly," he offered, "because the garage is made of stone."

  "Oh," she responded flatly, clasping her hands together and feeling foolish.

  "Relax," he told her as he moved the sofa away from the wall and opened it into a generous-size bed. "I promise I won't ravish you in the middle of the night." He glanced up at her with a wink. "Not my style."

  She managed to laugh a little. "And I promise you the same thing."

  "I can't tell you," he responded gravely, "how secure that makes me feel."

  She helped him make the bed, and when it was done, she stood there, hesitant. She was wearing slacks and a ruffled shirt, not very comfortable for sleeping, and the jeans she had left here when she had changed would not be much better.

  "I suppose you wear pajamas," he said, as though reading her thoughts. "I don't, myself."

  She blushed a little and started toward the door. "I guess I'd better go get a nightgown."

  "All your clothes will smell like that stuff for at least another twenty-four hours," he told her, studying her reflectively. Then, "Wait a minute. I might have something."

  He went to the closet and pulled out his suitcase, producing after a moment of pair of neatly folded blue men's pajamas. "They make you wear them in a hospital," he explained, perfectly deadpan.

  She giggled a little as she accepted them. "I guess they would."

  He grinned. "I've always wanted to see a girl wearing my pajama top."

  "Don't try to tell me you never have," she retorted. "And I'll take the bottoms too, thank you."

  He laughed. "They'll swallow you whole!"

  She went into the bathroom. "And no," he called after her, "I never have."

  When she returned, he was already in bed, and she hurried past him, trying to keep her eyes away from his naked torso. "Adorable," he grinned as she climbed into her own bed in the overly large pajamas, and he switched off the light. "Now," he said after a moment, "isn't this better than sleeping alone?"

  She smothered a laugh in her pillow. "Good night, Kyle."

  But sleep did not come easily to Barbara. She would have been less than human had the proximity of a man as virile and as attractive as Kyle not affected her. She would have been less than a woman had not the sound of his deep breathing in the bed next to hers brought back memories of nights wrapped in Daniel's arms in contented lethargy after their lovemaking… But in her half-dozing state the memories became confused and it was in Kyle's arms that she lay, his strong, naked limbs entwined with hers… She tossed and turned restlessly, trying to put the treacherous images out of her mind, and at last she fell into a troubled sleep.

  She awoke abruptly, shivering violently, her face wet with tears, and hiccuping with sobs. Kyle was holding her and she clung to him instinctively.

  "It's only a dream," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Just a bad dream. Hush now."

  She tried to stop sobbing, but she couldn't. The tears came of their own volition, and she could not remember what she was crying about. "I—I'm sorry," she gulped at last, curling her fingers around the soft lapels of his robe. "I w-woke you up. Stupid. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be silly," he responded soothingly, and his arms around her were warm and comforting. "Everyone has bad dreams."

  She looked up at him, trembling helplessly, aware only that if she could keep him talking, maybe he would not leave. The nightmare suddenly seemed very close at hand. "D-do you?"

  "Sure, I suppose," he answered easily, as one would to a child. "Not as bad as yours, I imagine." He looked down at her and smiled encouragingly in the dark. "Do you want to tell me about it?" he inquired gently.

  She pressed her face against his chest, trying to calm herself to the slow, steady beating of his heart. "S-sometimes," she managed, in a small, weak voice, "I dream I'm being… nailed into a casket." She had never told anyone that before.

  His arms tightened about her, his face dropped to her hair. "Poor Bobbie!" he whispered, and his tone was deep with genuine sympathy.

  "It's awful," she gulped. "I can't breathe."

  "Oh, darling." He drew her closer as another
shiver racked her. His voice was soothing and his embrace strong and protective. "Don't think about it. It's over now. It's all right."

  He started to move away, and she gasped instinctively and clung to him. But he only lifted the sheet and slipped into bed beside her, drawing her more firmly into the warmth of his embrace. "It's all right," he whispered, holding her tightly. "Nothing can hurt you now. I'm here. I won't leave you."

  She fell asleep against his chest sometime later to the soothing sound of those words, repeated over and over again like a charm.

  Barbara woke up alone in the sofa bed the next morning. Light from the southern wall flooded the room, and so did memories of the night before. She remembered waking again during the night, stirring faintly and contentedly in his arms and having him inquire softly, "You okay?" She realized vaguely that he had not been asleep at all, but the thought of him standing guard over her throughout the night was so comforting that she only nodded and murmured something unintelligible and snuggled closer into the protective circle of his body.

  Now she felt guilty for having kept him awake, and also a little confused for what had passed between them—or, more accurately, what had not happened. But overwhelming both those emotions was a sense of well-being, of happiness, of contentment with the world and everything in it, and she found herself humming softly as she quickly changed into her jeans, made the beds, and put on fresh coffee.

  She assumed Kyle had gone down to the house, and she debated whether to make breakfast here or take a chance on the lingering fumes in Kate's kitchen. She rang the intercom to get Kyle's opinion, but he did not answer. She shrugged and walked over to the window to draw the draperies. It was already sultry this morning, and the sunlight pouring in through all the windows would turn the place into an oven by noon.

  For a moment she stood at the open window, looking out over the sea. Puffy white clouds outlined in gray were lingering close to the horizon, threatening a storm, and the sea was somewhat duller than its customary blue-green. And then a motion in the breakers caught her eye.

  It was Kyle, diving in and out of the surf with the grace of a porpoise, the sun glinting off his skin and glistening in his hair as he turned and swam in strong, graceful strokes away from the shore. She watched until his figure became small and almost indiscernible, then he turned again and began to swim in. As in everything he did, he was a delight to the eyes. She smiled, wishing she were out there with him. He let the surf carry him in, and then stood up and began to walk to shore. He was completely nude.

  For a moment she was fascinated by the perfection of his body: the trim, athletic lines; the healthy, but not overdeveloped, muscles; the smooth symmetry and grace of every part. Then shame and embarrassment overcame her and she turned quickly away from the window, closing the draperies as she had intended to do in the first place.

  When Kyle came in, she was just taking the bacon up and pouring eggs from a bright yellow bowl into the skillet. "Now, this is what I like to come home to," he declared, tossing his towel onto a chair. "Smells great."

  "Scrambled okay?" she called brightly over her shoulder.

  "Perfect." He came from behind her and kissed the back of her neck. His skin was still cool from the water. She concentrated on cooking the eggs.

  They met as he was taking juice from the refrigerator and she was turning to place the plates on the table. He had pulled on jeans but no shirt, his feet were bare, and his hair, though it had dried quickly in the sun, was still damp about the edges. It was inevitable that a vision of the last time she had seen him should spring to mind, and so was the tingle of a blush that followed it.

  His eyes flickered over her with amusement as he went directly to the heart of her thoughts. "Don't knock it," he advised soberly, "if you haven't tried it."

  She faced him down coolly, deliberately ignoring the heat in her face. "You'd better hang up that wet towel," she told him.

  He made a dry face at her. "Yes, ma'am."

  "I went over early and opened up the house," he said as he came from the bathroom, pulling on a shirt. "It's not too bad in there now."

  "Well," she replied as they were seated, "thanks for putting me up. You must have been expecting overnight guests when you bought that sofa bed."

  "I was expecting overnight guests," he informed her seriously, "when I bought the king-size bed. Which," he added, taking up his juice, "is exactly where I'm going to spend the rest of the day."

  She glanced at him curiously as she nibbled at her toast, and he explained, "It might not come as too much of a surprise to you to learn I didn't close my eyes once last night."

  "That's odd," she teased him. "I slept quite well."

  "Lust," he replied flatly, lifting a forkful of eggs. "It'll ruin a night's sleep every time."

  She choked a little on her coffee. "It sounds as though you speak from experience!"

  "Oh," he assured her quite seriously, "I've had a few. I remember one night a couple of years ago," he mused, "that was almost—not quite—as bad." Her eyes grew wide with interest as he went on. "I had just quit smoking, and I lay awake all night craving a cigarette like you wouldn't believe. The worst part was, of course, that there was a pack on the night table right next to me. Yes," he agreed thoughtfully, trying to disguise the twinkle in his eyes, "the more I think about it, the more the torture I went through that night seems exactly like what I endured last night."

  She suggested, keeping her face very sober, "Why didn't you just get up and throw the cigarettes out the window?"

  He contemplated her seriously. "It's an exercise in willpower," he decided.

  "Congratulations." She lifted her juice glass to him. "You passed the test."

  He grinned. "Don't tempt me. The day is young and the bed is large. Sure you wouldn't care to join me?"

  "No, thanks," she replied lightly, turning back to her breakfast. "I'm not sleepy."

  He laughed, and she joined him easily. He had rescued what could have been a very awkward morning-after scene with his usual ease and humor, and she was grateful. He had not embarrassed her by reminding her of a childish nightmare, nor made more of the fact of their sleeping together than should have been. He was, she thought, growing more wonderful each day.

  Kyle was not joking about being tired, though, and work on the book was called off for the day. It was just as well, because the impending storm was growing closer and Barbara wanted to air out the house before it broke. The afternoon grew thick and heavy, and she changed into a pair of shorts and a halter top as she worked, stringing up a line in the backyard and draping the contents of closets over it. She vacuumed the carpet and scrubbed the floors and covered whatever traces of the unpleasant scent remained with a bright dusting of lemon furniture polish. She was trudging up the stairs with the last armload of linens that had been airing in the backyard when the intercom rang about six o'clock.

  "No," Kyle answered her without giving her a chance to ask the question, "I haven't been sleeping all this time, just most of it. Is there any of that roast beef left for sandwiches?"

  "Help yourself," she invited. "But I've got to warn you, I'm a mess, and the house isn't much better."

  "I'll be a gentleman and pretend not to notice."

  "You'd better hurry," she said, glancing at the purplish sky, "or you're going to get wet."

  "I'm on my way."

  But rain was beginning to spatter as he crossed the lawn, and when he came in, he was brushing droplets off his shoulders and his hair. He took one look at her and said, "You're tired. Go sit down and put your feet up. I'll handle the sandwiches."

  She accepted his offer gratefully, pausing only once to glance critically in the mirror. She had pinned her hair up while she worked, and now escaping tendrils clung damply to her face. She pushed them back halfheartedly and decided against changing into something more appropriate for entertaining. Kyle was not exactly a guest in this house, and for once he would have to simply accept her as she was.

  He br
ought roast beef sandwiches and coffee on a tray and they ate in front of the empty fireplace, listening to the rain tinkle on the windows and the metal guard of the chimney with a sort of lazy indolence. The rain became a downpour, its waning and increasing beat hypnotic, sealing them off intimately in a separate world of gentle lamplight. Barbara became aware that neither of them had spoken in a long time and that Kyle was watching her, studying her in a relaxed, contemplative way over his coffee. The atmosphere generated by the cozy room and his steady, easy gaze was both reassuring and close, but at the same time it made her a little nervous. She straightened up a little from her lounging position on the sofa and inquired, "What did you do all day— besides sleep?"

  A lazy smile touched his eyes. "I painted a little. I do that a lot when you think I'm busy with transatlantic phone calls or designing the world's first energy-independent skyscraper."

  "You still talk like you're ashamed of it!" she exclaimed. "I told you—"

  He shrugged. "It's a hard habit to break, I guess. I've been a closet artist for so long I'm not used to other people knowing about it."

  She smiled. "At least you're calling yourself an artist now."

  "I'm still not sure I believe it, though."

  "You don't have to hide your painting from me, Kyle," she told him earnestly. "I think it's wonderful, really. I want you to be proud of it."

  His slow smile was tender and touched with something deeper than she had ever seen before. "I know," he said. He placed his coffee cup on the table and came over to the sofa. She started to move over to make room for him, but he surprised her by sweeping her feet onto the sofa, so that she was lying full length upon it, and pushing her back gently against the cushions. Then he sat beside her, simply looking at her.

  The rain made whooshing noises against the windowpane as the wind rose, but inside, the yellow lamplight of the room was warm and secure, and there was just the two of them. His fingers gently explored the planes of her face, twisting lightly in her curls, tracing the arc of her eyebrows. His eyes were a very deep green.