by Ruth Wind
Ben couldn't find a single word to send to his mouth. He stared in silence for a long, long moment.
Heather could barely breathe at the sight of him, and his silence unnerved her. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he was glad to see her or not. "Hi," she said quietly.
He stepped inside the compartment and closed the door, sinking gingerly to the edge of a chair. Below his hat, the expression of his eyes was hidden in shadow. "Hi," he replied.
"Mike sent the steel-mill piece to a producer," she told him, running her fingers nervously over the silken body of her guitar.
Ben patted his jacket pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. "Good, good." Still, his tone was impossible to read.
"The company called this morning to ask if I'd be offended if another guitarist recorded the piece."
"What did you say?"
"Of course not. I've always said I'm not a concert-quality guitarist."
"They're going to record it?"
"Yes." Again the surge of excitement the news had given her that morning—especially on the heels of all the other revelations—rose high within her and she felt as if she could light an entire city for a night.
"That's great, Heather." Very slowly and carefully, he lit his cigarette, exhaled, and looked at her. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, they asked if I could come to New York. I just happened to hear that you'd be traveling this way."
"And these?" He pulled the telegram from his pocket.
She smiled enigmatically again and bent her head over her guitar. She began to play, as she had so many times since he'd met her. "This one," she said, with a throaty note in her voice, "is for you, Ben Shaw."
As she struck her fingers over the strings, she knew she'd been a fool to overlook the passion inherent in this composition. It was the one she'd written the morning of the eerie sunrise on her last train ride, the morning Ben had walked her to her room after hours of backgammon. It was sultry and inviting. To her ear, it was the sound of the color orange, the same orange of the sun that morning—vivid and hot and joyous. Although she couldn't add the flute and tambourine, she echoed them with her guitar, seeing now the soft lavender that had lit the edges of the clouds that morning. Gentle, cool lavender, the color of morning glories, to balance the orange heat. There were streaks of red—and hints of blue, and finally, a soaring, twirling dance of color—the colors of the man she'd dedicated it to; the colors that painted her soul when she was with him.
When she lifted her head at the end, Ben had removed his hat, and his heavily fringed eyes were riveted upon her. The slightly distant expression was gone. "That's the sunrise you saw, isn't it?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes."
He reached into a satchel, a small grin chasing away the last shadows that lingered on his face. He pulled out a square white box—a shirt box, Heather thought.
Not a shirt, she found when she opened it. The heavy box held the loose, typewritten pages of a manuscript: Other Eyes, by Ben Shaw. Heather glanced at Ben.
"Turn the title page," he directed her.
She lifted the first page. The next held a dedication. "'To Heather,'" she read aloud, and Ben's voice chimed in, "Titania's rival."
"Oh, Ben," Heather said, raising eyes suddenly full of unshed tears. "I'm so honored."
"That's the book I thought of the night we were on the train. It took me two weeks to write." He moved from the chair to the bed and placed the manuscript beside her. He clasped both of her hands in his. "We seemed to have been pretty good for each other, right from the first."
This was the moment she'd rehearsed, the one in which she could admit everything she'd done wrong, explain all that had transpired the night Tom had come to her with his own insecurities. As she looked into Ben's deep brown eyes she realized the details could wait. "Ben," she whispered, "I've been so blind and horrible. I was a fool not to see that you're one of the best things that ever happened to me."
He took her chin into his long fingers. "We haven't known each other a real long time, honey," he cautioned soberly.
She laughed lightly. "I don't think that seems to matter in this case. Do you?"
"I'm a bear to live with sometimes. You've seen that part of me."
"I know." She took a breath. "I think I had to realize that I'm not responsible for the way everyone else feels. If you turn into Mr. Hyde, I'll go and leave you alone. But I expect the same in return. I don't want to have to jump up and do something for you if I'm in the middle of something myself."
He nodded, and his eyes took on a glitter of humor as they swept her face. "I guess we ought to look into getting you a ring, then. What do you say?"
Heather held up her left hand with the circle of elves. "I already have one, thank you." He kissed her then—lovingly, gently—and pulled her into his arms.
"I love you, Heather. I thought I'd never get another chance to hold you like this."
Her heart swelled at his tender strength. "I'm sorry I've been such a fool."
"We all have to work things out our own way."
Heather pulled back to look at him. "I have a small surprise for you," she announced, standing.
Ben felt all his exhaustion flow away from him as she stood before him, her pale hair cloaking her shoulders and arms and chest. A teasing light glowed in her eyes, and Ben felt the familiar heat rising in his loins.
Moving with the languor of a cat, Heather lifted her arms to the curtain of hair and lifted it away, letting it drop behind her shoulders. The whisper-thin muslin draped her naked body, offering alluring glimpses of flesh. A devilish smile played over her lips. "What do you think? I hear it's the latest in elfin nightwear."
He stood and took hold of the drawstring around the neck of the filmy gown. Her breath quickened at his touch and he let a smile of his own play over his mouth before he kissed her, this time not so gently. His arms circled her waist. "Do we have to wait for the honeymoon to make love?" He bent and nibbled her neck with light nips of his teeth. He felt her lean into him.
"Oh," she breathed. "No, I don't think that's necessary."
He laughed. "You'll have to come live with me at my house. I can't live in that little cracker box in the city." As he spoke, he tugged the drawstring gently.
As the fabric slid away from her fine, slight body, she swayed against him. "I've already put the house up for sale."
He stroked her back, feeling the fire rise within him. His own voice sounded strained as he said, "Mighty sure of yourself, weren't you?"
She pressed herself into him, toppling them to the bed, with her hair cascading over them like a blanket. She found the buttons of his shirt and her lips burned over his skin as she released each one. "Mmm-hmm."
There were no words left to utter, nothing so important it couldn't wait. He held his vision in his arms, and as they joined in the moonlight bathing them from the window, his heart sang at the reprieve.
"I love you, Ben Shaw," she whispered.
It was enough.
* * * * *