Ecstasy

by Gwynne Forster

  He raised both eyebrows. “And we don’t have to give this up either. We’re free, over twenty-one and...”

  “You know what would be fun?” she interrupted, and he could see lights dancing in her warm brown eyes. Alright, he’d give in this time; he had learned the value of patience.

  “What would be fun?” he asked.

  “Let’s take the Métro to the opera house, walk over to the Café de la Paix, get a sidewalk table and watch the people.”

  He stroked his chin, the notion that Jeannetta liked to live outside of herself occurring to him for the first time. He mused over it, certain that he’d discovered something important about her.

  “You like that sort of thing, don’t you? I seem to recall your having suggested that I sit at a sidewalk café on Columbus Avenue and freeze with you while you gazed at the passersby. What is it about watching strangers that gives you so much satisfaction?”

  “I don’t know.” She waved a hand airily. “People-watching is an art. If I watch a person walking toward me and then away from me, I can tell you a lot of things about him.”

  The swirling skirts and dancing boots of a group of Gypsies caught his gaze, and he nudged Jeannetta. Immediately, she joined them. The dancers welcomed her, and Mason watched in awe as her feet seemed to take wings. Her head back and arms spread wide in abandon, her whirling skirt became a maze of brown, orange and yellow billowing in the breeze as she gave herself to the music. A glow of ecstasy glistened on her face, and he had the feeling that she tossed off burden after burden as she danced. But for her darker skin and thick, wooly hair, he couldn’t have distinguished her from the Gypsies. When at last the music stopped, her new friends applauded her. She waved goodbye to them and, with his finger at her elbow, they continued down the crowded street. She seemed suffused with joy, but the incident depressed him, because he recognized an unwholesome desperation in it, a false joie de vivre.

  * * *

  “Gee, what a pretty child. Look, Mason.”

  He noticed the little dark-haired and rosy-cheeked girl who stared inquiringly at Jeannetta. She dropped his hand, walked over and hunkered down to the little girl’s level. His heart skittered in his chest as the child, wreathed in smiles and delighted with the attention, touched Jeannetta’s cheek. The child’s mother stood there and watched the exchange, her prideful delight in the beautiful little girl obvious. He had to turn away when a look of longing darkened Jeannetta’s face. She’s young and so beautiful, he thought. Why did she have that look of longing in her eyes? He stepped to her side, took her hand and helped her to her feet. It occurred to him for the nth time that she needed his protection. But when he offered it, however camouflaged, she made certain he knew that she didn’t need it.

  * * *

  At the Café de la Paix, they found a tiny round table at the edge of the café, beside the sidewalk, a prize any time of the year in spite of its cracked marble top, myriad coffee stains and rickety legs, and settled back to observe the changing scene on one of the world’s busiest streets. Jeannetta could hardly contain herself.

  Mason ordered two cups of espresso. “I was eighteen the last time I sat at this very table,” he said, pointing to the initials he’d carved in the marble. “I had the world at my feet—a scholarship to Stanford and this trip to Europe that I’d been awarded for graduating at the top of my high-school class. My horizons had no bounds.” He leaned back in his chair and spoke quietly, as though to himself. “Youth is a wondrous thing.”

  Alert to any clue that might tell her that she could safely broach the subject of her health and whether he’d return to the practice of medicine in order to help her, she cocked an ear. “Do I hear disillusionment behind those words?” she questioned, in an attempt to lead him into a discussion of his past.

  “You’re hearing the voice of reality. Man proposes and God disposes.” He looked away, strummed his fingers on the tiny table and she could see him detach himself. Well, another time.

  “See that couple over there?” she asked him. “The man’s wearing a black jogging top.”

  “Yeah. What about him?”

  She cupped her chin with her palms and braced her elbows on her crossed knee. “She wants more from him than he’s giving or wants to give.” She paused, watching them closely as they passed. “See? She can hardly keep up with him. He’s not a bit concerned about her.” She pushed her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose and waited for his reaction.

  “All that with just a glance? All I saw was two people walking past.”

  “You were looking. I was observing,” she said. “That man has a serious problem. Hands in his pockets, gaze on the pavement, hunched over. I’d bet on it.” She had his full attention and, deciding that she didn’t want to relinquish it, she tossed her head back and looked at him from lowered eyelids. “You’re a clever man. You can do as well as I can.” Alright, so she was getting fresh with him; he wasn’t above a little flirtation himself. His slow smile confirmed it.

  “Your passion for people-watching could be a very consuming pastime.” He said it so softly that she had to lean toward him, showing more cleavage than she thought prudent. His smile told her he’d done that intentionally. “These characters who flow through your life, do you keep them in mind, forget about them, or what?”

  “The ones that I can’t forget...” she let her long pause include him in that group “...find their way into my novels.”

  “You’re a writer? A novelist? I thought you wrote jokes and made dolls.” His frown reminded her that she hadn’t put “novelist” as her occupation on her application to Fenwick Travel Agency. He let it slide.

  “Jeannetta, I’m enjoying this, but I have to get back to the hotel and make some overseas calls. Have dinner with me.”

  He’d take her to a swank restaurant with an idyllic setting; fine wine and elegant food. He was that type. And when he took her back to the hotel, she’d be a pushover. For the snap of his finger, she’d crawl all over him right then; a luscious evening with him would...

  “I...I think I’d better turn in early tonight... You...you’re marvelous company, but...maybe not.” From the lights dancing in his eyes, and the amusement she detected around his twitching lips, she knew he had her number. Those wonderful eyes challenged, teased and coaxed. Oh, how she adored his eyes.

  “I haven’t bitten any pretty women recently,” he bantered. “Besides, I’m responsible for you, so you can trust me. Or does Ames have first dibs on your evenings?”

  “Oh, Mason, he’s hungry for company,” she said with pretended seriousness. “Can he come along with us? You won’t mind, will you?”

  Streaks of pleasure danced along her limbs when he gave in to his amusement and let his face dissolve into an infectious, devastating grin.

  “If Ames is hungry for company, I’ll introduce him to Lucy Abernathy. She’s practically starving for it. She took this tour last year and the year before, so I’d say she could use some good company.”

  She thought of dowdy Miss Abernathy and said, “What about Maybeth?”

  His smile faded. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a sadistic streak. Maybeth Baxter is a man-eater. In six months, Ames wouldn’t have a dime of his lottery millions. Besides, he’s too smart to go any place with that woman.” He stood and waved for the waiter. “Garçon. L’addition, s’il vous plâit.” The bill, please. He extended his hand to her.

  “This is our only night in Paris. I don’t want to eat—I want to dine, and I don’t want to look across the table at Geoffrey Ames while I do it.” His voice, low, soothing, teased her senses. “I want to look at you while I enjoy my meal.” The huskiness of his tone and the soothing strokes of his fingers rattled her will to resist him. Face it, she told herself, you want to go with him; what’s the use of being coy about it?

  “Dinner would be nice. I’d like to g
et back early, though, since we’re leaving in the morning.” She didn’t fool herself; he’d already shown her that she needed all of her wits when, as now, he challenged her, dared her, without so much as one word, with only the mischievous merriment or the smoldering suggestiveness in the extraordinary eyes that gleamed at her from his impassive face.

  The man bowed from the waist and taunted, “At your service, ma’am.”

  She had to stifle a laugh. She wouldn’t be outdone; her sense of humor was as good as the next one’s.

  “Mason, it’s easy to forget, sometimes, that you’re a mere mortal—but if the rest of us make that mistake, you be sure and keep your head screwed on right. Psychiatrists probably make even more money than surgeons.”

  She wanted to swallow her tongue. His eyes rounded and, beneath his sharply arched eyebrows, she could see every bit of the white in them. She couldn’t let the unfriendliness in his penetrating stare disconcert her. Too much hung on this moment. She put an inquiring look on her face that questioned his change of mood, and prayed that her bluff would cover her slip. After a minute, he relaxed, but he didn’t pursue the topic.

  “Let’s find a cab,” he said as they walked out in the warm sun. If he noticed her stumble, he didn’t mention it.

  * * *

  “Seven o’clock,” he admonished, as a reminder of her tardiness, and she left him and went to her room. She took off her sandals, got her recorder and began to describe all that she’d seen and done since arriving in Paris that morning. But the practice that she had enjoyed in the early days of the tour weighed on her now as an unwanted chore. She put the instrument aside, flipped on the television news program and, minutes later, sat gaping at herself in a frenzied dance, whirling and cavorting on the rue du Chandon with the colorful Gypsies. She remembered the wildness of it, the wonderful feeling of abandon, the... She zapped the channel and soon turned off the television.

  Paris was so close to Germany, less than one jet hour away. Maybe she ought to quit the tour, go to Frankfurt and see a specialist. Germans had always been leaders in medicine. She only had the word of two doctors, both of whom could be wrong. For all she knew, they had consulted with one another. Maybe she didn’t have a tumor. She hadn’t had any dizziness since the first days of the tour, and then only twice, and she hadn’t had a headache in several days. Anybody could have a headache. Deciding that she’d think about it later, she undressed and got into bed for a pre-dinner nap.

  An hour later, she awakened in the midst of damp, rumpled sheets, her gown clinging to her perspiring body. She hadn’t had a nightmare since learning the nature of her illness. But this time, it had ended differently. In Mason’s arms, his velvet tongue spreading sweet nectar in her mouth as he lay buried deep within her, powerful waves of sensation had banished the darkness. His hugs and kisses, tender murmuring and total giving of himself, had dissipated her fears, made her a whole, vibrant person again. She struggled out of bed, showered, donned a lavender-pink silk peignoir and walked out on her balcony, hoping to see the sun set. She looked toward the Arc de Triomphe and gasped. Rays of the red setting sun filtered through the leaves of the flowering horse chestnut trees that lined the famous avenue, a humbling vision against the background of dark gray sky. Men and women rushed home, by bicycle, automobile and foot—much as Americans did, though you wouldn’t see any Americans carrying a long loaf of unwrapped bread.

  Six o’clock. That made it noontime in the northeastern United States, she calculated, going to the telephone. Within minutes, she heard Laura’s voice.

  “Made any headway with him yet?” Laura’s question took the place of a greeting, reminded Jeannetta that she had better treat the matter with the urgency it deserved. She couldn’t tell Laura that she’d made headway, but not the kind she needed.

  “I’m working on it. What’s new?”

  “Same old mountains, hon. You soak up all that Paris atmosphere, but you come back with a commitment out of that man, you hear?” Laura’s ability to focus the way a racehorse does, with the help of blinders, had always amused Jeannetta, though many found it reason for faulting her intelligence. If she knew your problem, she didn’t let you forget it until you solved it.

  “Don’t you get caught up in that man and forget why you’re spending all of that money,” Laura went on. “The Lord helps those who help themselves, and if you don’t do your part, He’ll think you don’t care what happens.” Jeannetta knew she’d better not tell her sister that Mason had come close to kissing her more than once.

  “He hasn’t given me the opportunity to bring up the subject, though I’ve made several openings. From what I’ve come to know of him, I don’t think I’ll accomplish anything by jumping in cold and asking him.”

  “You mean you’ve been with him for almost three weeks and you haven’t even mentioned it? Since when did you get so shy? Something’s wrong. You’re leaving something out.” She could see Laura rest the back of her hand on her hip, and a look of incredulity spread over her face.

  “Don’t worry, Laura. I’ll work hard at it. I don’t intend to fail.” I’d better not, she admonished herself, as Laura blew kisses into the phone, reminded her that she’d have a big bill and hung up.

  Jeannetta meandered slowly back to the balcony, pensive, her thoughts weighted with misgivings, thanks to Laura’s pessimism. She walked to the edge of the balcony, where she glimpsed a tall man of African descent strolling along the Avenue. He stopped, leaned against a big chestnut tree and looked toward the Arc, seemingly enraptured by the sunset. She had heard it said that one could connect with another person through the mind. Could she compel him to look her way? The force of her concentration produced the first headache she’d had in days. He’s strong-willed, she decided, but she wouldn’t give up.

  “Look at me. Show me your face,” she commanded repeatedly. As though in defiance, he straightened up, strolled to the corner, paused, then continued and, finally, as though against his will, Mason Fenwick looked directly into her eyes. She would have liked to evaporate. He stared at her for a long time, didn’t smile and turned the corner toward the hotel’s entrance.

  Cold shivers coursed through her, and she rubbed her arms furiously as she stumbled back into her room. She’d tried that trick dozens of times without having succeeded but, when she would have given anything to fail, she’d finally done it. Maybe the cards were not in her favor; she hadn’t done anything right where Mason was concerned. Perhaps she shouldn’t have plotted to win his concern, but should have gone to his office, told him her story and accepted the consequences. How could she face him? She laid back her shoulders, went to the closet and took out a scooped-neck sleeveless sheath, a luscious green that shimmered with green crystal beads and stopped four inches above her knee. She covered her long legs with sheer black stockings and slipped her feet into a pair of spike-heeled black silk evening shoes. A small black beaded bag completed what she referred to as her masquerade. She’d scrubbed her face with cold water, buffed it with a terry towel and twisted her hair on top of her head.

  “What you see is what you get,” she said, reflecting on her refusal to wear makeup of any kind or earrings. She dabbed a bit of Trésor behind her ears and between her breasts, glanced at the mirror and left the room.

  * * *

  Mason pushed back the sleeve of his white evening jacket, checked his Timex, headed for the elevator and leaned against the wall facing the door. She’d given him plenty to think about that day, half a dozen women in the same body. He’d never known such a changeable woman. He suspected that part of it was due to the anonymity one gets in a strange place. Her odd behavior on the balcony of her room. That wild dance, for instance; she would never have done that in Pilgrim, nor New York City for that matter. But the longing he’d seen in her when she talked with that child had been real. And she took that people-watching thing almost to an extreme. The writer in her. Mayb
e. Hard to say. He had no doubt as to the genuineness of her sensuous nature: art, music and that intuitiveness about lovers. Maybe it was all real. One thing he didn’t question was the fascination she held for him.

  The elevator door opened. He supposed he’d have to get used to the tingling delight that shot through him when she stepped into the lounge. He could only stare, as a crazy, schoolboy kind of joy zinged through him when she saw him and transformed her beautiful brown face into a glowing appreciation of his manliness. He knew that women thought him handsome, that they especially raved about his eyes, but he’d long since learned to ignore their shallow adulation.

  “Your loveliness, so natural and so beguiling, takes my breath away. I’ll be the envy of every man who sees us tonight.”

  She tossed her head to the side, in what he’d noticed signaled a flirtatious mood.

  “French women aren’t slow when it comes to appreciating men either. From what I’ve heard, they may get fresh with you while I’m holding your hand.” Her exaggerated deep breath made him wonder what else to expect. She didn’t keep him waiting.

  “I’ve never been in a cat fight, and I’d just as soon my first one happened someplace where nobody knows me. Why not Paris? Ready to go?”

  He didn’t recall her previously having wrinkled her nose at him in playful flirtation as she did then. What a female, he thought, as he offered her his arm. With this woman, he’d have to keep his motor oiled and running. “Slow down, buddy,” he cautioned himself.

  He’d reserved a table at an elegant restaurant that seated twelve couples or parties of four. Potted palms between the tables guaranteed privacy, and the multicolored lights, reflected off the waterfall in the room’s center and in the overhead chandeliers, gave the room a soft allure, a testimonial to the French preoccupation with l’amour.

  “You like it?” he asked as the waiter seated them.

  “Oh, Mason. It’s the loveliest restaurant I’ve ever seen. Thank you for choosing it. I’ll add it to the treasure of memories I’ve stashed away in the archives of my mind.”