by Dana Taylor
I continued a litany of complaints between teary hiccups while he offered small phrases of commiseration and settled me on his lap in a wingback chair in the living room. My head burrowed into the crook of his neck as I struggled for composure.
He massaged my back, arms, neck, releasing small jolts of tension down my spine. “Take some deep breaths. Out with the bad air, in with the good air."
I inhaled his wonderful unique scent. Thank you, God, for sending me this man at this moment. He gently kissed the top of my head. I needed to touch him and taste him. Needed to absorb his calming strength and retreat into his arms.
With trembling lips and fingers, I caressed his neck and chin, entwined my arms around the back of his head. His soft hair curled across my knuckles. He uttered a small growl, answered by my sighing whimper. I feathered his face with light kisses, savoring his scratchy five o'clock shadow against my tender lips. He swiveled me slightly, and took over the role of aggressor. His kiss was strong, deep, and demanding.
My soul cried out for union as my body simmered with ever-increasing heat. He was the one who could fill the emptiness in my heart. Complete thoughts fragmented to basic desires-hold me, stroke me, love me.
Our tongues played a mating dance that would have escalated into full body lovemaking had we not been trapped in the confines of the chair. I desperately wanted him and nearly dragged him onto the carpet to complete our coupling.
Though I was losing control, Jason wasn't nearly as far gone. He lowered the sexual intensity by pulling his mouth away. I took a long shuddering breath and fought my way back to reality.
He kissed a trail down my cheek.
"Mmm ... salty kisses,” he said. “Feeling better?"
Sniffing, rubbing my face with the back of my hands, I offered a watery smile. “Better."
"Haven't we played this scene before?"
"You seem to bring out the hysterical side of me ... Did you see the broadcast?"
He patted my hip. “I'd just come in to say hello to Mother and she had her TV on, as always. I thought you looked very good."
I snorted. “Yeah and I'll bet I look ravishing right now, too. I feel like crawling into a deep hole."
"I know the feeling. Listen, take it from a veteran of bad publicity-you've got to get your face right out there and show them they can't hurt you."
I snuggled into his shoulder. “I don't wanna."
He slapped my rump. “Get up, Scarlett my dear, tomorrow is another day.” He stood us up and checked his watch. “Actually we have a fund-raiser in an hour and a half and you have a lot of work to do. You look ... messy. Adorable, but messy.” He kissed the tip of my nose.
"I don't think..."
"I'll be back in one hour. Be ready."
Chapter Seven
-
Even though he liked my hair down, I didn't have time for a set, so I twisted it up into a top knot with pretty hair jewelry. Cucumber slices on my eyes for a few minutes helped alleviate the crying baggage. I applied more makeup than usual, hoping to go incognito. The less I looked like the squirrelly herb lady on TV the better.
Survival schizophrenia set in. My body went through the mechanical movements of getting ready for a night on the town while my mind churned with a million thoughts of anger, humiliation, and the need for revenge.
I knew who was behind that broadcast. Little Miss All Smiles Charlene Foster. She had the power and motive to arrange that Inside Edition wanna-be. I wanted her to writhe with humiliation-maybe Cowboy Bill would run off with a court clerk or little Billy could take up stealing. I wished her gum disease.
I argued with myself. Where are your values? What about turning the other cheek? Doing unto others ... forgiving seventy times seventy? Revenge is mine, saith the Lord. I prayed for a pure heart because I could feel mine turning into a charcoal briquette.
When Jason arrived at my door, my act was together, somewhat. Tension still gripped my spine, but I was ready to take on all comers. He stared at me as I held the door open. My dress floated just below my knees in a teal chiffon cloud. The satiny lining clung to my breasts and swished under the overdress.
His eyes gleamed approval. “You clean up well."
"Gee, thanks. So do you."
He looked great. Gray suit bringing out those gray-blue eyes.
He put his hand behind my back and guided me to his car. Okie Cinderella departed for the ball. Was it back to rags at midnight?
Once we were headed down the highway, we talked about his week, Valerie's latest antics, and Ruth's increasingly forgetful habits. She had put the milk bottle in her closet and her purse in the refrigerator. He was thinking of finding full time live-in help. Good luck.
He finally broached the subject of the newscast. “I know what you're feeling about the story. I was front page gossip when Christina and John became common knowledge. She lapped up the attention, even gave a couple of interviews. I finally had to put a restraining order on her and threaten to lower alimony to shut her up.” He patted my arm. “It goes away. You'll be yesterday's news tomorrow. It may actually be good for business. Some say there's no such thing as bad publicity. I'm proud that you didn't wimp out on me tonight."
"I still feel like strangling Charlene."
"Who's Charlene?"
"The bi ... mastermind behind the scenes. I know it."
"What does this Charlene have against you?"
My blood pressure spurted up again. “It's a long story and goes back a long way and I don't want to talk about it right now. I haven't even told you about all the fuss going on in town. If I start in, I'll tear up and run this mascara and you'll be bringing a raccoon to meet your friends."
He dropped his hand on my thigh and gave a little squeeze. “All right. You can fill me in later. Have I told you about the time I got thrown in jail for contempt of court?"
* * * *
The party was at a mansion in the older part of Oklahoma City, where the first rich oilies built their power statements. Lots of architectural columns meant lots of pumping oilrigs. Nouveau riche knew how to throw it around and out-spend their neighbors. It had been a miracle on the prairie-mansions where only the buffalo had roamed a decade before. Now, a hundred years later, the neighborhood showed its age, grand homes next to dilapidated relics waiting for young couples to fall in love with a money pit.
The H.D. Homer Mansion was now home to the managing partner of Watkins, Miller, Somerset, Phillips, and Kent. Copied after a Mediterranean villa, the mansion was early Okie-Spanish with its tile roof and arched porticos. So what if the nearest saltwater sea was the Gulf of Mexico off the Texas coast? The original tin ceilings had been revived and made it as interesting to look up as around at the exquisite decor. The current owner went in for the Casablanca jungle look. Lamps with monkeys holding up the shades, zebra wall paper and a large teakwood elephant stood beside the fireplace.
Wall sconces alighted our way as we headed toward the ballroom. Yes, there are still houses with ballrooms. Since the days of waltzes and the Virginia reel were over, the massive room held several round tables already set with salads. Large elegant ferns in beautiful pots lined the walls of the room.
Elegantly bored people mingled sipping drinks, discussing terribly important issues or just trading lies. I noticed my first faux paus. I was not dressed in black. I glanced at Jason and he must have read my mind.
He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “You're the most beautiful woman here.” He warmed me to my toes.
We chose a spot near a garden door, so we could make an unobtrusive exit, if need be. He asked if I'd like a glass of wine and left for the bar. I stood by the door admiring the view of the gardens and the swimming-pool sized pond complete with a Michelangelo David fountain.
A female voice spoke from behind me. “Hello, again."
I turned to see business associate Barbara smiling at me with her lips, but not her eyes.
"Hello-Barbara-isn't it?"
"Yes, uh, I'm
sorry I don't remember your name."
"Persephone Jones."
"Ah, yes, how could I forget? I assume you're here with Jason."
"Yes."
She took a drag of a cigarette and gave me a considering look. Her straight blond bob swung about her head. The politically correct little black dress hugged her toned, artificially tanned body. Acrylic claws hid the stubby fingernails.
"I was wondering who he was calling now for his late night pillow talk. He's been all business lately with me, so I knew someone else was getting his down time. Good luck, honey. I hope you're better at exorcising Ghost Christina than I was."
Before I could muster up a snappy reply, she slunk off in search of fresh meat.
Jason returned with drinks in hand and introduced me to acquaintances standing by. Appearing so smooth, he kept a hand in the small of my back as I tried my best to fit in. He talked with a portly fellow, Gerald Something-or-other, about the upcoming changes in the DUI laws and promised to swap some case law. Gerald's wife and I exchanged friendly smiles. They sauntered to another table. Jason turned to me.
"Would you like to sit down?” He pulled out a chair for me and I demurely took my place. I found my dinky formal purse and fished for a compact while he stood conversing with passersby.
I heard him say, “Hello, Brent. Never miss an opportunity meet new clients, right? Perse, do you know Brent?"
To my utter shock, Jason and Brent Furneau, Charlene's brother, were very chummy. Brent looked at me with a moment of apprehension and then quickly recovered.
"Of course Perse knows me. Everyone knows everybody in Peeler. She's the same age as my sister. We even had a couple of dates in high school."
Oh, God, don't remind me. “Always good to see you, Brent.” I hoped he'd get the hint and take a hike.
He turned back to Jason. “That house of yours is setting a new tone for our sleepy little town. The five acres to the south of you has just come on the market, if you're interested in that, too."
Jason glanced down at me. “Brent was the realtor who sold me my land."
Brent continued in his best hot-shot realtor manner. “We're hoping to develop that whole area into upscale homes. Perse, I could probably get you a good price for your land, even with that crumbling Victorian you're living in.” His toothy grin reminded me of Charlene.
I stood up. “Would you just pave over the family graves, Brent?"
He thought I was serious. “We could work something out.” His eye caught a potential target. “Stan, hold on!” He slapped Jason on the back. “Always great seeing you. I'll call you on Monday. So long, Perse, keep peddling your weeds, I don't care what anybody says.” He was gone before I could spill salad dressing on his suit.
Jason put his hand on my shoulder and eased me back down into my chair, taking the seat next to mine. “Have a sip of wine."
A good idea.
The room was filling up, getting noisier as people chattered and loosened up from the benefits of the open bar. Two attorneys, their wives, and a lone female psychologist took places at our table. Jason swapped lawyer tales with the guys. He held my hand under the table and played little circles with his thumb on my palm, sending pleasant shivers up my spine. I mellowed with the wine and watched the crowd assemble. The Governor, his wife, and assorted dignitaries held court at the front table, next to a podium. Two empty seats remained at the head table when the Attorney General stepped up to the podium to officially begin the evening.
"Good evening, everyone. We're all honored and privileged to be here to donate our time, money, and efforts to the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial Fund. Let's bow our heads for a moment of prayer..."
As he began a heartfelt blessing of the food, a commotion distracted the crowd. A pair of latecomers made a noisy entrance into the room. A familiar grating female voice complained as she stepped into the hushed room and realized her voice reverberated against the walls. Charlene and Cowboy Bill froze in the entranceway and waited while the Attorney General finished his prayer. My hand sank like a claw into Jason's thigh as I watched the two waddle to the front table. She was giving Bill hell about something and then turned all smiles to the Governor.
Jason stiffened as he surreptitiously pried my fingers loose and shot me a questioning gaze. I returned a fake smile and took another sip of wine. I joined the table conversation and kept a quiet eye on a preening Charlene. She just loved schmoozing with the big shots.
We listened to the first speaker unveil the plans for the Memorial and oohed and ahhed over the mock-up model. I ate around the chemical-laden entree of Chicken Kiev as the Governor extolled the great spirit of the people of Oklahoma and announced the next guest.
"It's my privilege to bring you one of the unsung heroes of that fateful morning on April 19, 1995 when all of our lives were changed forever. You haven't heard his story before. He didn't take a photo opportunity, but he was there working tirelessly until we forced him to go home two days later. I had to twist his arm to get him to come this evening.” His attention veered in our direction. “Ladies and gentlemen will you welcome Oklahoma's own, Jason Brooks."
My mouth dropped open. Jason had never mentioned a word about any personal involvement with the bombing. Come to think of it, he never bragged or appeared on the ego trip associated with successful lawyers.
He issued a low grunt, wiped his mouth with his napkin, rose, and made his way to the front of the room. The audience applauded politely as he took his place behind the podium. He stood quietly before the crowd, taking their measure as they ceased their applause.
Though his expression appeared impassive, his hands gripped the podium betraying pent-up tension. “Paul's correct in telling you I am here reluctantly. I know most of you think I'm a publicity hound, always ready to give a statement when the cameras are rolling. It's true that I'm not shy about putting my face in the forefront when there's an issue I consider worth taking a stand for. But tonight is different. The experience of the bombing-the sights, smells, and memories are forever imprinted in my mind and soul."
Grim lines drew around his mouth. “I was there, one of the first on the scene, two blocks away from the Murrah Building when the blast went off, knocking me off my feet. The glass of the high-rise windows around me shattered and rained down on the sidewalks as I crouched into a ball, feeling particles of debris bounce off my back. My memories after that moment are as fragmented as the building itself..."
His voice filled the room with his remembrances of the blood, smoke, fear, and valor brought forth following the terrorist attack on the American heartland. We revisited the day again through his eyes. He carried dead toddlers out of the what was left of the day care center ... he calmed hysterical people searching in vain for loved ones ... he helped organize a triage center. He stared helplessly at the fragmented, blackened mass of concrete, glass and twisted steel that had so recently been an orderly structure of offices, reception areas, and snack rooms. Everyday people were working to support their families and fulfill their place in the world when a misguided, angry young man wiped them off the face of the earth forever.
Jason didn't want to remember, but he couldn't let us forget. A Memorial was necessary, but would never be enough for the families left behind. However, it was all we could do and must do to sanctify a place where evil had momentarily overtaken goodness. A Memorial honored the dead and encouraged the living. It was the right thing to do.
The audience was pulled into his word pictures and overcome with the tide of memory. Most of the women had tears in their eyes, while the men held their faces in tight masks of restraint. Jason fought for emotional control and cleared his throat on numerous occasions to keep going. His eyes found mine again and again as he related the painful details of our collective days in hell.
"It won't bring any of them back, but we can't let the victims be forgotten in the mists of time. The memorial will not only be honoring the 168 people who died that day, but the hundreds who survived. We are al
l survivors of the bombing. You all remember where you were that day, what you were doing when you heard about it. Many of you felt the impact of blast and knew something terrible had occurred. It's a memorial for all of us in the city, in the state, and in the country. I didn't want to participate in a tragedy, but we must all participate in the recovery. Good night and God bless you all."
He walked through the room as people leapt to their feet in emotional applause. Men patted his back; women wiped their eyes. He never took his gaze off me. I stood up slowly, meeting his penetrating soul stripping stare with tear-filled eyes. He grabbed my hand.
"Let's get out of here.” I nodded, gathered up my purse and we exited into the cool of the gardens, the crowd still applauding as we stole into the night.
* * * *
We didn't speak during the forty-five minute ride home. Wound up so tightly with emotion, I knew I could let loose with the waterworks again and I didn't want to go there. Jason appeared relaxed, but his clenched jaw revealed his tension. He punched on a CD that filled the car with a bluesy-jazz sound, pulling me even deeper into a swirling, needy mood. Encapsulated together, we sped in our sleek vehicle through the black night, each trapped by our individual feelings.
His right hand suddenly let go of the steering wheel and reached for mine. He squeezed it like a lifeline and I responded in kind. A zing akin to electricity shot through my body. His hand, his arm, his being became an extension of me. Just holding hands ... but so much more. My head fell back on the seat. Eyes closed, I gave myself over to the sensual drumming of our pulses. The saxophone sang a siren song of sexuality. Time disappeared. Only one moment-now-existed.
The crunch of gravel told me we had pulled into my driveway. He let go of my hand to turn off the engine, leaving me slightly bereft.
His baritone voice spoke softly. “It's been a long day for you."
My eyes sought his in the shadows; my hand reached for his face. “For you too."
Reading my expression, he saw my unhidden need for him. His mask of reserve let down revealing his intense emotional hunger. We exited the car, moved through the chill of the October night, up the porch steps, to the front door.