by Ruth Wind
"Good things coming too fast can be as hard as bad things, too, you know."
"What good things?"
Ellen laughed incredulously. "The rave reviews of your steel-mill piece, for one thing. That gorgeous hunk of male you spent the weekend with, for another. Those are a couple of things I'd kick up my heels over."
Before Heather could answer, the roar of a Harley-Davidson in the driveway signaled Mike's arrival, and a minute later, he bounded into the kitchen. "Hello, baby," he greeted, sweeping Heather in a bear hug. "You've made both of us famous."
"What?"
With a smug grin, he let her go to kiss Ellen. "I forgot you were hidden away in loverland all weekend. Guess you haven't seen yesterday's paper?"
"No."
Mike dipped under a pile of newspapers on the table and withdrew the life-style section with a flourish. In a surprisingly good photograph, Heather was depicted playing her guitar. Her braid fell over one shoulder, glistening like a strand of jewels against the dark velvet of her costume. "Newcomer Captures Mill Life" the headline read. Heather gaped. "How did this happen?"
"I did it," Mike admitted with a grin. "When Tom told me you'd given him that piece, and then told me how great it was, I talked him into getting you to play it and I called Joe at The Chieftain." His dark blond curls bounced as he straightened triumphantly. "He was impressed, to say the least."
Heather stared at him, struggling with several conflicting emotions. "I can't believe you would be so devious," she commented finally.
"There's more."
"Pray tell," Heather inquired dryly.
"I recorded it, and the tape is on its way to a producer Joe recommended."
Heather jumped up, furious. The motion sent a pounding to her clouded head and she pressed a chilly-fingered hand to her eye. "You had no right to do that without my permission."
Ellen backed off toward the stove. "I told you she wouldn't be happy about that."
Mike crossed his arms, his tattoos bulging over massive muscles. His face was set in a stubborn expression, his eyes as revealing as glass. "You don't have enough confidence in yourself, Heather. If I hadn't done it, you never would have."
"That doesn't give you the right to meddle in my life. Who do you think you are?"
"I'm the only brother you ever had—maybe the only relative who ever cared enough about you to make you try."
Heather sighed, suddenly exhausted and dangerously close to tears. She sank back into the chair. "All right." She sighed. "We'll just wait and see what happens. It can't hurt anything, I guess."
Ellen brought her a cup of tea and with extreme gentleness, kissed the top of Heather's head. "We love you, sweetie. I hope you know that."
Touched, Heather glanced up. "I know. Thank you." She sipped the strong, hot tea for courage and looked at Mike. "I came by to ask you a favor."
"Shoot."
"I drove Ben's car down here yesterday, and I left it at the arts center. I wonder if you would give him his keys?"
Mike pressed his lips together. "Sorry, Heather. I can't do that."
His refusal was like a shock of cold water. "Why?"
"Because it's time you stopped hiding. I've played along with this game longer than I should have already, and I'm not doing it anymore."
"What makes you think I'm hiding?"
"If you weren't, you'd give him the keys yourself." The logic was irrefutable.
"We had a fight, and I don't feel comfortable seeing him right now."
Mike shrugged. "You'll have to find someone else to be your intermediary, then."
"Thanks ever so much," Heather replied stiffly, rising to her feet. "I'll see myself out."
As she brushed past Mike, he shot his arm out and grabbed hers. "Take care of yourself, honey," he said.
She shook herself free. "No problem."
With her head whirling and pounding, Heather drove back home and once there, dived directly into bed, covering her face with the pillows. Here some cold medicine she'd ingested proved to be a friend rather than an enemy, for she fell directly into sleep, a sleep during which nothing could touch her.
Unfortunately the respite didn't last long. After three hours of gloriously numbed sleep, Heather was awakened by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Groggily she made her way to the door and peered through the peephole. Tom stood in its warped view. Heather blinked. Monday, she remembered, was the day she'd told him to come by. "Just a minute," she called, then rushed to the bathroom to brush her hair and splash cold water on her face. As she bent over the sink, her head throbbed malevolently and she coughed.
She opened the door to Tom and a small young woman who accompanied him. They both smiled and Heather felt a twinge of guilt for her inhospitable sentiments. "Hello," she greeted as warmly as she could manage.
"Oh, you sound like you've got a bad cold," Tom said with a frown. "Should we come back another time?"
"No, please come in." She brushed her hair away from her face and led them inside. "Can I get you a cup of tea? I was just about to make a pot."
"Sure." Tom looped an affectionate arm around the girl at his side. "I want you to meet my fiancée, Helen."
The girl was barely twenty, but her pale eyes showed knowledge beyond her years. Her smile was friendly but reserved. "I've heard a lot about you, Heather."
"Nothing bad, I hope."
"Hardly. He raves about you all the time." She looked up at Tom with tenderness. "You've really brought him out of his shell."
Heather padded barefoot into the kitchen to start a pot of water boiling and returned to the others. "So, what's the word?"
Tom cleared his throat and sat forward on the couch. "I have an audition for Professor Caine on Thursday afternoon." The color that crept up his cheeks at nervous moments now inched toward his eyes. "When I told them you insisted I come talk to them, they were real impressed."
Heather smiled. "Who did you talk to today?"
"Dr. Jacobs?" He said the name as if he were unsure it was the right one. "Short man with long white hair?"
"That's him. He's very eccentric but a lot of fun. You'll take all your basic classes from him."
"If I get in."
"You will." She noted the trembling of his fingers. "Did you find out about taking your GED?"
He nodded. "They have a class I can take to help prepare for it, too."
"Good." The teakettle whistled and Heather jumped. "I have quite a few kinds of tea. Would you like to choose, or shall I surprise you?"
"Surprise us," Helen said. "I'm sure you know more than we do about it." She stood. "Can I help you with something?"
"I'll let you bring in the cream and sugar." As Heather readied the pot, choosing a flowery Darjeeling, she realized she felt better. She still had the cold, of course, but her gloom had lifted. James—and Ben—seemed like distant specters, like people she'd read about in a book. Live for the moment, she thought with an ironic twist to her lips, and the days will take care of themselves.
The three chatted easily over the tea. Then Helen suggested Tom get his guitar from the car. He was reluctant at first, but with some coaxing was persuaded to fetch it.
When he returned, Heather gave him a severe look. "I didn't give you my steel-mill piece so that you could show it to my brother-in-law, by the way."
"Not consciously," Tom replied with a grin.
She'd expected him to at least look ashamed. When he didn't, she had to wonder if there wasn't some truth to his words. Maybe her subconscious was healthier than her everyday mind. "Well, let's hear it. Have you learned it?"
"Some." He laboriously picked out the major themes. "It's not the simplest thing to play, with those double leads."
"I wanted it to work on two levels. With two guitars, they could be separated."
"I guess they can."
"What are you going to play for the audition?"
"I was thinking about the last piece you gave me—the one I played in class that day."
> She nodded, and leaning over her guitar, made a note on an envelope on the table. "I also think you should brush up on the Mozart I taught you near the first of the year."
For an hour they reviewed and played portions of the two compositions and discussed the merits of several others before settling on a third, modern-blues piece that showcased Tom's acute interpretation of mood.
"Thanks, Heather," Tom said, standing to leave. "I really appreciate your help."
"No problem. In fact," she blurted out, suddenly seeing a way to fill some of the yawning hours of the week, "if you like, we can rehearse an hour or two every day until Thursday."
Although the move had been made selfishly, Heather was gratified by the sudden blaze of appreciation in Tom's eyes. "That'd be great."
"You're welcome to come along, Helen," Heather added.
The girl smiled but shook her head. "I think Tom will practice more seriously if I'm not here. I'll stay home this week, but I hope to see you again."
"Anytime."
She saw them out, then, faced with the deep silence of the house, fed her pets, and rationalizing that colds were the body's bid for rest, went back to bed. At nine she awoke, took another cold tablet and slept through the night. If the phone rang, she didn't hear it.
* * *
Chapter Ten
« ^ »
Tuesday morning, Heather's phone did ring, but it wasn't Ben asking about his car. Instead, the man who'd spoken to her about playing in his club phoned to see if she was still interested. Arrangements were made for her to come in Thursday to examine the area and talk in-depth about the terms of her employment. It was more money than Heather had ever made playing anything, and in spite of her cold, she was pleased.
When she hung up, she paused with her hand on the telephone. She had to make arrangements for the return of Ben's car. Biting her lip, she dialed the numbers quickly, before she could change her mind.
"Hello?" It wasn't Ben on the other end of the line, and she felt a surge of relief.
"Hello. This is Heather Scarborough and I have Ben's car. I'd like to make arrangements to get it back to him."
"Just a minute."
Before Heather could utter a word of protest, John had laid the phone down. For one cowardly second, she considered just hanging up and leaving them to deal with the question of the car. But the courtesy that had been drilled into her for eighteen years wouldn't allow her to do it. She'd borrowed the car. It was her responsibility to see that it was properly returned.
Ben's voice, cool and distant, came through the line this time. "Heather."
"Yes."
"Can you drive it up here? John will take you back."
Her stomach plummeted. Why couldn't they be in a real city, she thought with irritation, where cabs were as common as pennies? People here considered them extravagant and slightly suspicious—a throwback, she supposed, to the hard-chiseled self-reliance of the settlers of the Old West.
Ben seemed to sense her hesitation. "Don't worry," he added, "I won't be anywhere in sight."
It seemed impossible that this was the same man who'd held her so lovingly on Sunday afternoon, the same man whose voice had whispered loving words. This voice held no husky undercurrent of seduction. This voice was hard and cold—even a touch exasperated. It reminded her of the night he'd had his seizure in her house and abruptly shut her out. Again Heather thought of James—James in one of his bad moods—and the protective shield she'd erected against Ben was reinforced with another layer. She could only really be hurt if she allowed someone to get close to her. "It isn't necessary for you to avoid me. I'll bring the car this afternoon, if that's a satisfactory arrangement for you two."
"I wasn't avoiding you, lady."
"Point taken," she replied coldly. "I have lessons this morning. Will two o'clock be all right?"
"Fine."
As she hung up the phone the second time, her elation was gone. Her headache thumped heavily against the back of her skull and she coughed, summoning a requisite amount of self-pity; if she had to return his silly car today, she wouldn't even be able to take her cold tablets. But at least it would be over then. She wouldn't have to think of Ben Shaw anymore—or of how close she had come to falling in love again.
* * *
When Ben hung up, he threw his pencil across the room, swearing more violently than he had in years.
John moved the dishes from lunch and joked, "I like this set. If you want to break plates, let me get you the Goodwill stuff."
"Oh, hell, man. This woman is driving me crazy."
"I didn't notice."
Ben narrowed his eyes. "You're the one who does all the falling in love. What would you do in a case like this?"
"A case like what?"
"She thinks she owes her dead husband something."
John pursed his lips. "Maybe just let her work it out."
It was essentially the same advice Ben had given himself on Sunday, but it wasn't any easier to swallow from John. He rubbed his face. "I've even finished this novel. I feel at loose ends."
"You've done the rewrite, too?"
Ben wiggled his nose as he lit a cigarette. "It won't need much. This was one of the lucky ones. Some angel or something wrote it, not me."
"So, maybe you should go back to New York, take it to your agent and see a play or something."
Ben nodded. "That might work. At least it'll get me out of town for a week or two. I could go down to Virginia and see my sister when I'm done."
"You want me to make the arrangements?" Ben warmed to the idea. Maybe he could even stay with his sister through Christmas. At least he would be out of temptation's way. And maybe by the time he got back, he could approach Heather again—they would have gotten over this infatuation. It would be done, either way. He couldn't sit in this house all winter and wait for her. That just wasn't his way.
To John's question, he answered, "Yeah. I'll leave as soon as you can get me a seat." He stood. "I don't want to see her when she comes."
"You got it."
* * *
By the time Heather started the thirty-mile drive to Beulah, her eyes were grainy, her nose was raw and her cough had deepened into a harsh barking. She kept telling herself she'd invited the cold to attack her so that she wouldn't have to deal with her emotions, but that didn't seem to lessen the severity of her symptoms at all.
It was a long, miserable drive, overlaid with dread. "Dear God," she prayed aloud, "if you love me at all, please let him be taking a shower or something when I get there."
But when she pulled up in front of the house and saw no sign of Ben, she felt a little tremor of disappointment. Oh, make up your mind, she thought irritably. She slammed the car door with more force than she'd intended.
Before she got to the porch, the same man who'd picked Ben up the night of his seizure appeared on the porch, slipping his arms into a heavy leather jacket. "Hi," he said.
Heather took a breath. "Hi."
"You ready?"
She nodded, giving him the keys and turning from the house to climb into the passenger seat. In front of her, through the windshield, she could see the wide-open field that led to Ben's forest grove. If she turned her face the slightest bit to the right, she would be able to see the edge of the barn, but she stared straight ahead. As it was, she was hard put to keep the earthy memories of Sunday afternoon at bay. As John started the car and guided it out of the circular driveway, she had a clear mental flash of Ben behind her on the horse, with the snow falling on her naked shoulders, and she couldn't resist a last glance at the house.
Only the blank windows returned her gaze, and Heather hunched into her seat.
All at once she admitted that she'd wanted to see him, had wanted a chance to explain her reactions on Sunday. She'd wanted to ease the terrible scene that had separated them.
On the heels of that thought came another: free or not, she loved him. The knowledge racked her like a vicious shaking from a brutal parent. H
er feelings had crossed the line at some point, had deepened when she wasn't paying attention. Oh, God! she breathed silently. How could I have let this happen?
With quiet sympathy, John touched her hand between the seats, squeezed it once and let it go. After a moment he said, "I saw the article about you in the paper Sunday. I wish I could have heard that. My dad worked at the mill for thirty-five years."
Gratefully, Heather accepted his conversational lifeline. "What did he do?"
"He was a millwright."
"Tell me about him."
John willingly did just that, giving Heather a glimpse of a Pueblo flush with mill money twenty years before. The stories kept her from brooding on the trip back, and when John dropped her at the arts center, she paused. "Thank you," she said.
He seemed to understand she was thanking him for more than the ride, for with a sober nod he replied, "Chin up."
Later in the silence of her own house, Heather headed straight for the bathroom, swallowed her cold tablets and went to bed. She had never been sicker in her life.
* * *
Mike scrambled closer to the World War II Triumph motorcycle he was restoring, easing a bolt free with infinite patience. The socket slipped suddenly when his heel moved an inch in the gravel beneath his feet and his knuckles landed hard against a jutting, immovable shelf of metal. Snatching his fingers back, he swore violently and slammed the tool down. No matter how many times he did it, he never got used to the first searing pain of knuckles scraped raw.
"Mike."
He turned toward Tom's voice with irritation. "What is it?" The kid was nice and all, but he could show up at the worst times.
"I'm kinda worried about Heather. I thought you oughta know."
"Heather?" He stood up and looked at Tom. "What's wrong?"
He dipped his head, then looked back. "I don't know. She was supposed to meet me today, and I can't get her to answer the door."
Mike grimaced and shook his stinging fingers. "Hell, man, she's probably off with her boyfriend."
Tom shook his head stubbornly. "No, she wouldn't do that. She said she'd meet me."