A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  Isabel let out a brief, sharp sound that echoed through him—triumph and pleasure with an inexplicably dark edge, as though shadows lay beyond the blaze of their intimacy. A dizzying intensity took hold and lifted him up and far away somewhere, and they soared and then plummeted, crashing down with a violent release. When she shattered beneath him and cried out, he lost himself in her, and for a fleeting moment he saw a glimmer of…possibility, perhaps. Finally he lay completely still, covering her, breathing hard and feeling disoriented. Like the victim of an accident, he tried to assess what had occurred, what the damage was. He should have been emptied out by the experience. That was what being with a woman had come to mean to him—a way to drain himself of feeling, to move on with no impression left behind, just a hollow relief that never lasted.

  And now Isabel. She had come out of nowhere, a mysterious stranger who challenged and confounded him, who heated his blood and made him forget his whole life. Instead of emptying out his soul, she filled him with emotions and sensations he never allowed himself to feel. He gazed at her and saw the world in her eyes, and suddenly it was not a prospect to be simply endured, but a place he truly wanted to be.

  When at last he separated from her, he was still burning. He wondered if she had any notion of his thoughts, if she shared even a fraction of the intensity roaring through him. He was astounded that they had spoken so little, for a rich communication had taken place, and he would swear the look in her eyes was one of complete understanding. He felt an enormous responsibility for her, even though he knew she’d claim she could look after herself.

  He cradled her face between the palms of his hands and was startled to feel the warm moisture of tears on her cheeks. He’d got it all wrong, then. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel, I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted was to dishonor you.”

  A broken laugh escaped her. “It’s a bit soon for regrets, isn’t it? And too late for apologies.” She put her fingertips to his lips to keep him silent. “Believe me, I’m not the sort to cling to social conventions. Particularly those that would restrict…this.”

  He took her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm and folded his own hand around it. “Then why are you crying?”

  She hesitated, then used a corner of the bedsheet to blot away the tears. “I know what you’re asking, and I adore you for thinking it could be true. But I will tell you plain, my dear Dr. Calhoun. I’m no virgin and haven’t been for a good many years.” Sliding down beside him, she turned to fold her arms across his chest. Blue-white moonglow shaded her in mystery, outlining the curve of her bare shoulders, the delicacy of her features and creamy skin. In the shadows, her enormous eyes seemed bruised by emotion, haunted by secrets. “But no one has ever made love to me,” she said. “Until now.”

  Her words chipped away at the barriers he’d built to protect himself from moments like this. In his studies, he had memorized the anatomy of the human heart. He’d researched its complicated and vital processes, the pathology of its diseases.

  But he’d never learned why a woman’s honest words had the power to fill it up, to cause it to squeeze until it hurt, to make him wonder if his heart could possibly be big enough to hold her.

  Thirty

  Isabel watched Blue while he slept. She brushed a wavy lock of hair from his forehead, and as she studied him, a sweep of tenderness overcame her. In slumber, he appeared young and untroubled, perhaps because his brow was smooth and unmarred by worries. She grazed her knuckles along his jawline and remembered the sensual rasp of that light stubble on her skin as he kissed her. A sigh shuddered through her. She shut her eyes and tried to relive every moment of this night, every breath she’d taken, every magical sensation his touch had evoked.

  This was not supposed to happen to her. She wasn’t supposed to fall in love. She was supposed to be an independent woman, bound to see the world and have adventures and move on without looking back.

  Yet with Blue, with this sad, damaged man, she had found a reason to wish she could stay. There was a sweetness to their newfound love that threatened to overpower her. In books of poetry, she had read the ways love could transform a person, but she had always thought the notion whimsical and improbable.

  Now, finally and unexpectedly, she was learning the truth all on her own. Loving someone was more important than life itself. It nourished the invisible but vital part of a person and changed everything about her life, her future and her dreams. Before Blue, she hadn’t realized the world could look and feel this way. In her travels, she had seen wonders beyond imagining, but nothing she’d seen the world over had ever given her what she’d found here, tonight, in this man’s arms.

  Prickles of the old restlessness drove her from the bed. Barefoot, she slipped on a robe and paced the floor, her thoughts chasing each other and keeping her from sleep. She didn’t wish to wake him, so she wandered toward the dressing room adjacent to the bedchamber, shut the door and lit the lamp. This was Sancha’s deepest inner sanctum, where she kept her clothing and shoes, jewelry and hats, undergarments and stockings. According to Bernadette, none of this had been touched until Isabel had started borrowing things.

  “Am I going to burn in hell for wearing your clothes?” she whispered, trailing her fingers along a line of hanging gowns. “Will you haunt me for moving into your former life?”

  Isabel was not a superstitious sort; she wasn’t expecting an answer. So when a hatbox fell from a shelf and spilled on the floor, she nearly screamed. With her wrist pushed against her mouth to keep from gasping aloud, she crouched down and inched toward the box. The lid had fallen off, and inside was not a hat, but a cache of letters.

  Like all of Sancha’s things, they were perfectly organized. These were neatly folded in packets bound with string and identified by the year.

  Every last one was from Blue.

  Isabel started to shake as she realized what she’d found. This was their entire love affair, written from Blue’s perspective.

  She couldn’t help herself; she started reading. She wanted to know everything about him, including the sort of man he was when he was in love with another woman. The early letters started when they were children, and his scrawled messages were cursory, inviting her to see a new foal, or to go fishing with him, or to tell her he had a new baby sister named Amanda. As a boy soldier in the Union Army, he’d written with passion and hope, begging her to marry him when the war was over. A particular statement caught Isabel’s eye. “If I die in this hospital, it will not be the end for us. Our love will survive even death.”

  With trembling hands, she put the letters back and turned down the lamp. He was a diamond with many facets, and she had only glimpsed a few of them. Each time she saw a new side of him, she loved him more.

  Isabel knew she was in trouble. Ordinarily, in the midst of a journey, her destination became clear to her. Like a city on a map, her next stop was outlined in black and white. A new place, a new adventure.

  But now she questioned herself. Her desire to see the world was nothing compared to her desire to be with Blue. She wanted to stay with him, not just for a night, but forever.

  That was what her heart wanted. Her head knew better. The threat of discovery lay like a thundercloud over her. The past had a way of catching up at inconvenient moments. She knew she’d ruin her fleeting happiness with Blue by staying too long. Best to leave while things were good between them. He’d remember her with fondness rather than resentment at finding himself saddled with a woman like her. Or worse, he might pity her.

  Staying here could never work. Not for much longer, anyway. She could not hide from the stark truth. With Blue, she believed she’d discovered what love was, but she was probably fooling herself. She had no understanding of love, didn’t know how to sustain it or keep it safe from the things the world does to a person. Good God, if her own mother wouldn’t keep her, why should she believe anyone else would? She had nothing genuine, nothing of value to give a man like Blue Calhoun. She loved him, yes. She loved hi
s son and the women who lived here, and perhaps in their own naive way they cared for her. But they didn’t know her. No one knew her. That was the very key to her survival. She was not the person she pretended to be. She pretended so much that, long ago, she had lost the person she was.

  One thing she knew for certain about herself was that she was incapable of living a settled life. She was made for moving on and leaving nothing in her wake but a few soon-forgotten encounters.

  As she closed the door to the dressing room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass in the corner of the room. Washed in moonlight, she looked like a ghost, as insubstantial as fog.

  She was a danger to Blue, judging by her reception at the Far East Tea Company. Staying here put everyone under this roof in peril, and the reality of that was bearing down on her. She had to leave, because she simply could not conceive of a way to stay.

  She would need to go soon. Each moment she delayed, she sank a little more deeply in love with Blue Calhoun. She stopped pacing and turned back to the bed, to the sleeping man there. He lay with one arm outstretched across the pillow.

  Gazing at him, Isabel faltered, and a soft sob escaped her. She held her breath until she regained control, then slipped into the bed next to him. He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her head to his chest where she could hear the strong, steady throbbing of his heart. A tear slid down her cheek and dampened his skin. It wasn’t like the tears she’d shed earlier, when the bliss of his lovemaking had felt like an exquisite agony. These tears were private, and she forced them to stop. If she didn’t do something soon, she’d drown, disappear beneath the surface.

  It was still dark when Blue awoke to the rich smell of brewing coffee. Isabel was gone, but her essence lingered in the sheets and pillows, on his skin…in his heart. The madness that had possessed him still raged in his blood—but it wasn’t madness, he conceded. He knew with utter sanity that he wanted her again. Now, and always. Moving silently through the dark house, he went to find her.

  The quiet noise of utensils drew him to the kitchen. When she heard him come in, she turned to him. “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Are you asking as a doctor or as my lover?”

  He laughed at her directness. “I’m both, now.”

  “My answer is the same regardless. I’m quite well, thank you.” She worked in the glow of a low-burning lamp, setting out two cups and saucers. She looked delicate and ethereal, her hair mussed and curling around her face. He almost couldn’t believe that just a short time ago, he had held her next to his heart and filled himself with her.

  Insulating her hand with a tea towel, she picked up the enamel coffeepot from the stove and poured two cups of coffee.

  He took a sip and shut his eyes, savoring the perfect brew. “I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since Mrs. Li came to work for me.”

  She put a lump of sugar into her cup. “Tell me about Mrs. Li. She’s a perfect cook, except for the coffee. She’s a strict mother. What else?”

  “She was the property of a tong boss, a virtual slave. She’d lost all her children except one.”

  Isabel’s blood chilled. “June.”

  He nodded, remembering the terror and desperation of Li Mei when she’d appeared in his office nine years ago with her sick child in her arms. He also remembered his own sense of resolute conviction when confronted by the tong, demanding the return of their property. He would have died protecting the young mother and child, but fortunately, it didn’t come to that. “June had come down with diphtheria,” he told Isabel. “While she recovered, Rory and I discussed what to do about Li Mei—Mrs. Li. If we sent her back to the city, she’d be at the mercy of the tong once again. So Rory and I figured out a way to help her.”

  “I suspect it wasn’t as simple as you make it sound.”

  “We never expected it to be simple.” He savored his coffee. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” Then he set down his cup and went to her, taking her hand and drawing her into his arms. “I take that back,” he said just before he kissed her. “It’s the second-most delicious thing.”

  In another part of the house, a bell clattered rudely. They broke apart, and Blue swore softly under his breath. “That’s the telephone,” he said, heading for the coffin-shaped instrument mounted on a wall in the front hallway. Blue used it rarely. It was generally only a means to summon him to one of his well-heeled patients.

  “Can you make it stop?” she asked, following him.

  He snatched down the receiving earpiece and held the bell-shaped black instrument to his ear. “Only by answering the summons.”

  “I was afraid that would be the case.”

  Thirty-One

  Miss Isabel seemed restless at breakfast. Lucas noticed that she barely ate a thing, and her cup rattled in the saucer when she picked it up, as though her hand shook. Maybe she was lonely; the house seemed silent after Grandfather and the rest of the family had left on their cruise around the world. Sometimes Lucas wondered if he should have gone with them after all, but he knew he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving June a moment before it was absolutely necessary.

  His father had left before anyone was up, called away to tend a patient. Thinking back over the years, Lucas realized his father was gone more than he was present in this house. He seemed driven to answer more and more calls, to look after more and more patients. It was an admirable trait in a doctor, Lucas knew. When he was younger, he used to wish his father was a banker or businessman who kept regular hours, who ate breakfast with his son.

  Lucas didn’t miss him so much anymore. He didn’t let himself.

  He cut a glance at June Li, who was at the sideboard checking the low-burning flame under the coffee in the samovar. She always found a reason to come to the dining room during breakfast.

  June offered that special little smile she seemed to save only for him. Just the sight of that smile lifted his heart, and for a few glorious seconds he forgot his worry about Miss Isabel.

  “Would you like some coffee?” asked June.

  He handed her his cup. “Yes, please.” It was a bitter, vile substance; her mother was famously inept at making coffee. But if June handed him a cup of kerosene, he would have drunk it just to please her. He took a sip and was amazed to taste a rich, delicious brew. “The coffee’s excellent,” he said.

  June made a slight bow. “Miss Isabel made it this morning.”

  Miss Isabel ignored them as she read the morning edition of the Examiner. She turned the page, and he could hear her breath catch. “Oh, my.”

  “What is it?” asked Lucas.

  “Do you know anything about the Sand Hills Shooting Club?” she asked.

  “It’s a social club,” he said. “Lots of people belong.”

  “They’re sponsoring a tournament at Russ Park. Two hundred targets at unknown angles. There are some rather large purses. One thousand dollars for the top shooter.”

  Lucas said nothing. All his friends belonged to the gun club, and many would be taking part in the tournament. He, of course, was prohibited from joining Sand Hills or any shooting club.

  But sometimes, on quiet evenings, he would ride down to Hayes Park, where he could hear the shooting in Hayes Valley, a sandy desert in the vicinity of Grove Street. Lucas would sit and watch, and listen. In his mind, he sighted down the slickly oiled gun barrel, timed each shot perfectly, shattering the clay pigeons into exploding fragments. Several times, he’d slipped in among the shooters and convinced Andrew or Frank to let him have a go.

  The first time he’d hit a target, Lucas had felt it—he loved the sport of shooting. Even without constant practice, he fired with confidence and accuracy. Once, the gallery master had approached him, hurrying along the gravel track where the shooters gathered in front of the field of traphouses. Lucas had been terrified, certain he’d been found out.

  Instead, the master offered a handshake, declaring th
at Lucas was truly gifted.

  “Are you planning to enter?” Miss Isabel asked.

  He was a mere breath away from admitting the truth—that his father disapproved of guns and would not allow them in the house. That Lucas had been forbidden to learn the sport of shooting. But instead, some inner voice of rebellion said, “I’d like to.”

  From the corner of his eye, he could see June become still, waiting and listening.

  Isabel lifted one eyebrow in that curious fashion of hers, a look that made a small measure of candor break free from Lucas.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I’m not…very experienced.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’ve never…actually, I’ve had no instruction in shooting. And not much experience.” He hated saying that. Learning to shoot was one of those things sons did with their fathers. But not Lucas, of course.

  “Then it’s about time you had,” she said matter-of-factly. “Especially if you hope to attend the military academy at West Point.”

  “My father is too busy with his practice to teach me,” he said, another admission he loathed.

  “He certainly is, and his patients are better off for it. So I shall teach you myself.”

  He regarded her in surprise. “You know how to shoot?”

  “I certainly do. You’ll find I’m quite an expert.”

  He couldn’t suppress a grin. Excitement surged through him. He quickly put together a plan. While his father worked—which was all the time—he and Miss Isabel could go down to Hayes Park and practice. More and more, Lucas was convinced that rebelling against his father’s rules was the only way to get what he wanted. Perhaps once he won the honors he sought at West Point, Father would finally understand.