Ecstasy

by Gwynne Forster

  “I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I could. The driver made himself a few extra francs at my expense.” Her gaze locked with his, and she had to suppress the urge to reach out to him as the flash of heat in his eyes told her he remembered the night before. That he hadn’t forgotten his pleasure in holding her body close to his. But, as quickly as it came, the moment of recognition was gone.

  “This tour occupies car seven,” he explained, his voice impersonal. “The dining car is at one end and the lavatories are on the other.” He reeled off a list of do’s and don’ts. She wouldn’t allow him to put distance between them, not after the note he’d left her that morning: “My dear Jeannetta, neither of us wanted to become involved, but Providence decreed otherwise. I’m strongly attracted to you, but I’ll do my best not to impose it on you nor on our tour members. The next move is yours. Mason.”

  “Thank you for the note I found under my door this morning. We’ll work it out. I know we will. And I wouldn’t have upset you this morning if I could have avoided it.” His strong fingers gently stroking her cheek encouraged her to smile, stirring anticipation and want in her that must have been mirrored in her eyes, for he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own.

  “Come on. I’ll show you to your compartment,” he said, taking her bag with one hand and resting his other arm protectively around her shoulder. “You’re in L-11.”

  “Where’s yours?” She wanted to know. He placed her bag on the sofa bed, raised an eyebrow and frowned.

  “Four doors down. Why? Do you sleepwalk?” Embarrassment flooded her until his frown dissolved into a wicked grin.

  “Oh, you!” This man had a streak of devilment in him, but she knew she could hold her own in that department. “I don’t think I’ve done it in the past, but I’m sure I could learn,” she teased. “At what point do you think I’d wake up?” His rapt stare both censored her and heated her up and, when his eyes became that greenish-brown that she knew indicated desire, she had the feeling that she’d better not play with him. From his harsh intakes of breath and unsmiling face, she knew he didn’t want any more jokes about their relationship.

  “Find yourself down there, day or night, sweetheart, and I’ll answer any question you can ask, close any door you open and finish anything you start. Come around anytime the spirit moves you. Lunch at noon today. If you need a snack before that, walk down to the dining room. If you need me, dial eight or push the blue button on your intercom. Remember that anything you say on the intercom can be heard by anybody who wants to listen. Have a good rest, and don’t come to lunch late. See you.”

  She figured that by the time she got her mouth closed, he’d be in possession of his equilibrium.

  * * *

  Mason sat at the maître d’s desk at the entrance of the dining room. Geoffrey and Lucy lingered over coffee, engrossed in conversation, but most other members of the tour had finished their lunch and either returned to their compartments or gone to the observation lounge. It seemed as though he had looked at his watch more frequently since meeting Jeannetta Rollins than in all his previous thirty-seven years. Didn’t she ever go anywhere on time? He got up, went to the buffet table and began filling a plate for her. That finished, he laid a few pieces of smoked salmon on black pumpernickel bread and wrapped it in cellophane paper in case she didn’t like the cold plate. The woman needed a keeper. He grimaced at the niggling voice of his conscience that proclaimed, “You don’t seem averse to looking after her.” He refused to glance up when the door opened; he knew who it was.

  “Do you always bring up the rear?” he asked, declining to glance her way. “Lunch hour will be over in seven minutes, and the dining room has to be readied for the one o’clock seating. I asked you to be on time.” Her soft hand rested on the middle of his back, and he told himself to stay firm, but he couldn’t help swinging around after the first soothing stroke.

  “I don’t mean to upset your schedules, but I’ve stopped rushing through life. There’s so much to see, and so li...so few opportunities. I never used to stop and smell the flowers, as it were, or even to look at them. Nowadays, I savor every precious thing. Back in Pilgrim, the mountains have always been part of my life, and I’ve taken them for granted. But a couple of days before I left home to join the tour, I stood at my kitchen window late one evening and looked out. That time of year, the mountains are always snowcapped, but that evening, bright red streaked the peaks, and I thought for a moment that there’d been a terrible catastrophe. But I’d only seen the lustrous glow of a setting sun. I couldn’t imagine how I had missed that awe-inspiring, majestic sight for so many years.”

  He knew something about achieving balance in your life, turning corners and taking control of your future, and he knew the feeling of satisfaction it gave. He’d done it. “Haven’t you noticed that I don’t rush?” he asked her. “I’m never late either, and that’s because I budget my time properly. Try it.” He motioned toward the buffet table. “I fixed something for you. The dining room will close to our group in about two minutes, so I suggest you take this to your compartment.” He watched the smile spread over her face and an uncensored gleam of admiration—or something more...dangerous—shine from her dark eyes. He turned away. Before I do something foolish, he cautioned himself.

  “Here.” He handed her the plate and sandwiches. “Why don’t you go in your compartment and eat? I...I’ve got a few things to do.”

  “You’re not angry because I came in here late, are you?” She put so much weight in that question, he thought, as though his opinion, how he felt about her, mattered more than anything else.

  “Nah,” he said, as casually as he could. “Now go eat your lunch.” Why didn’t she move? Why did she stand there sending him vibration after vibration of pure sweet hell, her eyes warm and inviting, smiling at him as if he were a king?

  “Thanks for making sure I got something to eat,” she said, and blinked both eyes in what he realized was an attempt to wink.

  “Get out of here, Jeannetta. Right now.” Her eyes widened, and he swore lustily and headed for the adjoining caboose.

  * * *

  He was sitting in the dining car, reading Colin Powell’s autobiography, when she walked in around three-thirty for a can of lemonade.

  “Thanks for sending me the International Herald Tribune. How’d you know I’d gotten hungry for some news of what’s going on in the world?”

  He glanced up from his book, vowing not to let her shackle his insides for the second time that day. “My pleasure. It’s a courtesy to my guests.”

  Her mouth drooped in disappointment. “Sure, and I suppose you sent all nineteen of us a red rose to go with it.”

  He put the book aside and stood.

  “You’re welcome.” Alright. Let her frown, he told himself without a trace of guilt. She’d knocked the wind out of him, and he hadn’t decided he liked it. Trouble was, she could match him, mood for mood and stance for stance. An inner amusement lightened his thoughts. He never could understand why women felt so much more powerful when they stood akimbo, with their feet wider apart than normal. He grinned down at her. Like a little bantam-weight fighter squaring off against Muhammad Ali. He would have laughed if he hadn’t been sure she’d feel hurt.

  “Still vexed because I was late for lunch, are we?” she asked in a low don’t-battle-with-me voice. “Well, I wandered into car number six and met some Swiss children. A whole car full of them.” A glow spread over her face, lifting his spirits, drawing him into the pleasure she recalled. “We had a wonderful time, and I just couldn’t leave them. A whole car full of five- and six-year-olds. It was wonderful.” He couldn’t help staring at her. This mercurial woman, who fascinated him and made him think of a warm fireplace on cold nights. He fingered the keys in his pockets, shook his head and wondered about his sanity. Had he gone so far with her that he couldn’t back up? It wasn’t pos
sible.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, misunderstanding his reaction. “Don’t you like children?”

  He shook his head in awe.

  “You’d be a full-time job for any man,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  “I hope they’d all had lunch before you descended on them. They won’t get another chance to eat until around five-thirty.”

  She cocked an eyebrow and gnawed her bottom lip.

  “You’re not overdoing this protective thing, are you?”

  He grinned. “Sure I am.”

  “Well, I appreciate your concern, but don’t ladle it out too thickly. Okay?” She turned to go, stopped and reversed herself. “Thanks for the pretty rose. When I get back to Pilgrim, I’m going to press it and keep it in the family Bible.”

  He gaped. “You’re serious?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the first thing you gave me, and it may be the only thing. I want to keep it.” Long after she left, he stared at the spot where she’d stood.

  * * *

  After dinner, Jeannetta sat in the lounge, sipping ginger ale and doodling on a paper napkin as she surreptitiously observed her companions. Leonard Deek, a university professor on a year’s sabbatical, seemed to shrink in Maybeth’s voluptuous presence. When she stood, her bosom dwarfed the little man. Chuckling to herself, Jeannetta quickly scribbled three one-line jokes about the decline in breastfeeding and the refusal of increasing numbers of men to grow up. Her smile of delight greeted Geoffrey’s arrival.

  “If you’re not expecting anybody, I’d love to join you.”

  She motioned toward the empty chair.

  “I’d love your company, Geoffrey. Where’s Lucy?”

  “Couldn’t say for sure, but I expect she’s somewhere primping. Never seen a woman pat and primp like she does. I told her if she was any more perfect she’d have silvery wings, but she just laughed and patted her hair. I hope I’m on her mind when she’s doing it.”

  Jeannetta had to fight a wave of melancholia. Was the need for love so powerful that it ruled one’s life regardless of age? And could she live without it? She told herself not to think that way.

  “I wouldn’t worry, Geoffrey. Miss Abernathy cut you from the pack before our plane left JFK Airport.” She thought his shoulders straightened and his chin lifted. She liked his earthy chuckle.

  “I must be slower than I thought.”

  Jeannetta nodded toward the door, warning him to change the subject, as Mason entered with Lucy Abernathy. That woman is really burning up his ears, she thought, observing the rapid movements of Lucy’s lips. Geoffrey stood and waved them over.

  “Sure we’re not interrupting anything?” Mason asked.

  She’d nearly asked what there was to interrupt, when Geoffrey’s cool reply gave her a lesson in the management of men.

  “Not a bit sure—we were sitting here in conversation, weren’t we? Ya’ll sit down while I get us all something to drink.” He left the table without waiting for a reply.

  Jeannetta nearly giggled as she watched Mason stare at Geoffrey’s back. She wondered what Geoffrey had been telling Lucy; her serenity would have been worthy of a queen. It amused Jeannetta that Mason directed his conversation to Lucy, ignoring her. She didn’t believe his ego needed bolstering, because no man with his looks, physique and manners could have lacked the adulation of women. Wherever she saw him, he stood out, a belly-twisting example of virile manhood. Geoffrey returned with a loaded tray, and she helped herself to a glass of ginger ale.

  With his gaze searing her, Mason raised his glass of cognac, sending dazzling sensations zinging through her body. Applying as much calm as she could muster, she lifted her glass to him and then brought it forward for a sip but, to her amazement the ginger ale poured into her lap. She couldn’t control the trembling of her fingers, but she tried nevertheless to smooth over the incident, smiling as though it didn’t matter. When she finally glanced up, his dark eyes were fixed on her, but they lacked warmth or sensuality; he had the look of a man deeply concerned. Quickly, she glanced away.

  Mason flinched as the liquid streamed into her lap. He’d realized that the glass hadn’t touched her lips and, if she’d been drinking wine or any other alcoholic drink, he’d have ascribed it to the liquor, but she didn’t drink alcoholic beverages. He’d seen that in his medical practice: the failure to judge distance correctly in relation to one’s self. Sometimes that meant missing a step, sitting on the floor rather than in a chair, grasping air when reaching for something. But she didn’t have any of the symptoms that accompanied the ailments that came to mind. Still, her fingers had trembled and what seemed like fear had settled in her eyes. He took a slug of cognac. He’d forced himself to quit that kind of fanciful thinking, and not even his concern for her was going to trick him back into it.

  * * *

  “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in.” She saw Mason glance at his watch, but where was it written that she couldn’t go to bed at eight-thirty if she wanted to?

  “I’ll see you to your compartment,” she heard him say, in a tone that discouraged rejection. At the door, he extended his hand for her key, his gaze sweeping over her. He opened the door and stood there. Waiting. She didn’t dare look at him, because she knew he could turn her on with a smile, a wink, and all she could think of was that night in Paris, outside her bedroom door.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He said it with reluctance, as though he wished she’d say no, but his posture suggested otherwise. Less than twelve inches separated them; bridge it, and she’d know again the sweet nectar, the pulsing ferment, of his loving. His unsmiling face and purposeful manner jarred her. Had he noticed? Maybe this would be a good time to talk with him and ask him if he’d help her.

  “Mason, I...yes...if...”

  He interrupted. “Ask me in. You ought to know by now that I don’t bite.” His unexpected smile sent a flush of heat through her, but she refused to let him see her lose composure.

  “What excuse would I give myself?” she asked him, not caring how he took her flirtatiousness. “I can’t invite you for coffee and I left my etchings in Pilgrim.”

  “Then ask me in because you want my company.”

  She backed in the door, and he followed, closing it with his elbow. He’d expected more feminine surroundings but, except for a jacket thrown across the sofa and the red rose he’d sent her, the compartment bore no testament to femininity. Bare.

  He couldn’t help showing his surprise. “Didn’t you unpack? When you walk out of here, this place might as well have been unoccupied.”

  “I told you I don’t collect things. I’m satisfied with admiring lovely things—I don’t have to own them. In fact, I don’t like to accumulate stuff. With millions of people hoarding things, more and more must be made, and since everything we have comes from the earth and sea, think what that does to the environment.” He leaned against the closet door and observed her beneath half-lowered lids.

  “You’re a nature lover?” The way she tossed her head back, and that half smile that curved around her sweet mouth, Lord! He looked toward the writing table, any place but at that voluptuous invitation to forever that glowed before him.

  “I love everything that’s graceful and beautiful. Everything.”

  “You love children.” He didn’t ask himself why his heart pounded while he waited for her answer. She nodded, though he thought her smile forced.

  “Don’t you?” she asked him in turn. Her delicate hands slid up and down the sides of her hips, rubbing them. A camouflage for her trembling fingers, he noticed. He didn’t want to torment her; she meant something to him. He didn’t know what, but something. Yet, the scientist in him had to solve the riddle she represented. Something stood amiss. He
’d bet his life on it.

  “What are you seeking on this trip?” He swung away from the closet door and closed the space between them. “You want something. What is it?”

  “I want to see the world.”

  He shook his head.

  “But you’ve got plenty of time for that. This is my third year with this tour, and you’re the first applicant I’ve had who was under forty. Young people usually don’t have the money and two free months to spend on a tour.” He paced a few steps while he waited for her to interrupt him. Nothing. He turned back to her. “My clients are retirees and newly divorced and widowed people who are trying to put order into their lives, to start over. What’s your reason?” He hated that he had begun to sound accusing, but he teetered at the edge of caring for her, and he had to have some answers. He needed to know that the wild pounding of his heart that began whenever he saw her wouldn’t some day suffocate him.

  “Are you running from a broken love affair? Hit the lottery as Ames did? I’m curious.”

  “I told you—I want to see the world.”

  He shrugged.

  “Sure you do. But why do you feel you have to satisfy this curiosity now? There’s a reason, and you aren’t giving it.”

  He’d have been a successful attorney, Jeannetta thought. She knew from his turn of mind that the opportunity to bring up the subject of her health had slipped past, if, indeed, it had been there at all.

  “Why do you think my wanting to see the world is so unreasonable?” she asked, hoping that he would soon tire of the subject.

  “It isn’t unreasonable, but if you’re twenty-nine years old and have a master’s degree, you can’t have worked more than five years and, unless college teachers make more than I thought, you’ve spent a chunk—maybe all—of your savings on this trip. A trip that began two weeks before the end of your school’s regular term.”

  “Some deduction! If your tour had started two weeks later, I wouldn’t have had to skip the last two weeks of school.” She wanted to tell him that it was none of his business, but it was his business. He was her reason. When she could force herself to look him in the eye, she saw his skepticism mirrored there. Maybe she could find a way to tell him. She began slowly, fearfully.