Never Trust A Lady

by Kathleen Creighton

  “I sure wouldn’t want that.” And studying her, he added with unexpected and devastating softness, “I’d really miss your smile.”

  “Here you go,” the waitress trilled, blowing in like a nor’easter, dispersing the sultry, weighted atmosphere that had settled over them with gusts of good cheer and wonderful fragrances. And as she briskly deposited plates and bowls in their proper places and left them with instructions to “Enjoy your meal!,” Jane thought what a relief it was, for a time, to have to deal only with a hunger so uncomplicated, and so easily assuaged.

  After the waitress left, for a while they did just that, other needs put aside while they attended with silent concentration to one perhaps even more fundamental. Perhaps. Because, with an empty bowl and a full stomach, Jane found her thoughts returning to-if indeed they’d ever really left-that other hunger, the one so rudely, so voraciously awakened by the gentle press of this stranger’s mouth on hers. By the weight and warmth of his body, the electrifying caress of his fingers. The hunger that, once awakened, stubbornly refused to creep back into hibernation.

  Tom Hawkins… Always a fast eater, having disposed of her bowl of chowder while her companion was barely beginning his assault on his steak, she watched him narrowly through the steam from her refilled coffee cup and thought how strange it was that features so forbidding and irregular should have become, in so short a time, so pleasing to her eyes.

  Man From Interpol… How alien that sounded, without reality, like the title of a book, or a movie. And how impossible now to think of him that way. Now he was just…a man, a flesh-and-blood man, in need of a shave, a shower and a good night’s sleep, a man who had covered her with his jacket and watched over her while she slept, a man whose hands had touched her in intimate places, a man whose tongue she’d tasted.

  A man who played games in which the stakes were human lives.

  How could this have happened? she thought. To me.

  “I think,” said Hawk, pushing aside his plate and reaching for his coffee, “we’d better talk about what we’re going to do.” He felt much better for having a decent meal under his belt, much less off balance, much more in control. A good night’s sleep, he thought with dogged optimism, and I’ll be back on track again.

  Jane was nodding, regarding him steadily, as she had been for a while now, across the rim of her coffee mug. She’d been hiding behind that damn mug, it seemed to him, ever since they’d sat down. Which was probably just as well. Her eyes were bad enough, dark and disturbing as the sea just before a storm, but vulnerable, too, and smudged with shadows. He wasn’t sure that in his own exhausted state he would have been able to look at her mouth and have the willpower and concentration to block out the way it had felt…tasted… Or to stop himself from thinking about how much he wanted to taste her again.

  He lit a cigarette, then said, “I still don’t think there’s much use trying to get back to the mainland tonight. It would take us till morning to get anything accomplished anyway. Better we check into a motel here, get some rest I’ve, uh, arranged for a flight out in the morning.”

  She’d been nodding, going along with him, but when he said that, she pulled up, looking surprised. “A flight? You mean, an airplane?”

  “Yeah, there’s an airstrip here.”

  “Air…strip. You mean, a small plane.”

  He quirked a smile at her. “Little one.”

  She murmured, “Oh,” and her eyes flicked sideways in a way that made him uneasy.

  “Don’t tell me-you get airsick.”

  Her eyes were wide, the smudges under them making her seem very young and apprehensive, like a child contemplating a Ferris wheel. “I don’t know. I’ve never been in a little plane before.”

  He felt a sudden and unsettling tenderness toward her, which probably accounted for the brusqueness with which he said, “Hey-don’t worry. You’re gonna love it”

  The funny thing was, he realized as he stubbed out his cigarette, reached for the check and shoved back his chair, that he knew it was true. Once she got used to the idea, she would love flying, the adventure of it, the breathtaking thrill, the excitement. And it wouldn’t make any difference to her if she did get airsick, she’d enjoy it anyway, just because the experience was new. And how was it he knew so much about her, when he actually knew her barely at all?

  “My kids are never going to believe this,” he heard her mutter as she followed him to the cash register.

  He turned to scowl at her, one hand in his pocket, groping for change. “You got kids?” Of course she had kids. The woman practically had a sign around her neck that said MOM. Just another thing he’d managed to forget while he was doing the tongue tango with her back there in the truck. One more reason why he had to forget about it, put it out of his mind.

  Sure. The way he could forget the taste of a ripe peach, or a fine, sweet Tuscany wine.

  “Two daughters,” she said, hitching her tote bag onto her shoulder. “Lynn’s in college and Tracy’s a senior in high school. What about you?”

  He didn’t reply, pretending his business with the cashier was occupying so much of his attention that he hadn’t heard the question. Because another thing he’d come to understand about her in the brief time he’d known her was that she was too polite-or maybe too sensitive-to ask again.

  He turned from the register with a frown to inquire as he tucked away his wallet, “You need to call? Let somebody know where you are?” Like your husband, he thought, and put the leaden feeling in his chest down to tiredness.

  The question had been meant to distract, and it did, even though he had a feeling she knew perfectly well what he’d done. She made a wry little grimace. “I tried, from the terminal.” Then, with a smile and a shrug, “It is Saturday night. I got the answering machine. I left a message-just told them I’d call tomorrow. Even if they had tried to reach me at the hotel, I don’t think they’d worry. They’d just assume I was out seeing the sights in Washington, or maybe having dinner, or something.”

  As he held the door for her, he played back what she’d said, frustrated to realize he still didn’t know whether or not she had a husband, angry with himself for wanting to know. And damned if he was going to ask her.

  “We’ll call the hotel,” he said, “as soon as we get settled in here. Take care of checking out. You’re probably going to want to have your things sent.” He reached for her tote bag, shrugged it onto his own shoulder. He did it unthinkingly, an automatic response to something he’d all but forgotten, like hearing a song he hadn’t thought of for years and discovering he still knew the words. “I can have somebody from headquarters take care of it for you, if you like.”

  Again he felt her eyes flick at him, quickly and then away. “Thank you. I’ll try the hotel first. If there’s any problem…” She let her words trail off into nothing.

  They were walking unhurried in the cold March night, the breeze damp and sea-smelly, the sandy pavement gritty underfoot. Jane suddenly shook herself and wrapped her arms across her body as if she was cold, but when she spoke it was in a soft, ecstatic voice, full of wonder and a fierce kind of joy. “How quiet it is here, have you noticed? No man-made sounds at all, only nature. And look how bright the stars are. It reminds me of when I was a child. the mountains…the desert… I wish-”

  She would have left it there, but for some reason, not knowing why he did, he prompted her, “You wish…?”

  She shrugged and laughed her low, self-deprecating signature laugh. “Oh, just that I guess I wish I’d known then how lovely it was-the desert, I mean. I hated it-fealty. I wanted to go…somewhere else. Anywhere else. And everywhere else. I wanted to see the whole world…backpack all over Europe, see London, Paris, Rome, Madrid. And I was so afraid I was never going to get to see any of it, except for that damn desert.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Hawk gruffly. “See how wrong you were?”

  “Yes…” But he thought she sounded sad. After a moment, in a different, lighter ton
e, she said, “This was one of the places I dreamed of going, do you know that? The outer islands…I’d read about the wild ponies, you see. And the Atlantic Ocean…wow, it seemed as far away as Mars.”

  Restless and reaching for his cigarettes, he said dryly, “It’s okay now, I guess. Not so nice in the summertime. Sure as hell not quiet.”

  He could feel her eyes touch him with that brightening look of hers. “Oh-have you been here before? Really?”

  Kicking himself, he drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled with the answer. “Yeah, I’ve been here.”

  He was here with his wife. As soon as the thought touched her mind, she knew it was true, just as she knew his wife must also be the childhood friend whose name he refused to speak. The friend and wife whose death had cast him into a lonely exile of grief from which he couldn’t seem to find his way back. How did she know? She just did. She knew.

  Compassion filled her, spreading like Novocain through her heart so that she no longer felt her own pain. Softly, knowing what a risky thing it was, she asked, “Was it your honeymoon?”

  He threw her a startled look, drew one last time on his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, extinguishing it with the toe of his shoe before walking on. She was surprised when he answered, and thought he was, too. “Not my honeymoon.” He laughed, a sound like the creaking of an old structure swaying in the wind. “We weren’t married, just…together.”

  She held her breath, held back the questions she wanted to ask. It was a long time before he went on, almost as if she wasn’t there at all, and he was talking only to himself.

  “This is where we decided to do it, finally. Decided to get married. We’d been together forever-since we were kids. We’d talked about it before, but…I guess we were both afraid of ruining a good thing.”

  “What changed your mind?” Jane dared to ask, as softly as she knew how.

  They were walking on a quiet street lined with picket fences, beneath the branches of enormous live oaks. She thought it was like being in some ancient, ruined cathedral, except that there was light now from some of the houses they passed, distant music, canned laughter from someone’s TV.

  “Children,” said Tom, after she’d given up hope of an answer. “We decided, since we both wanted kids, we should get married first.”

  “You have children?”

  Unable to trust his voice, Hawk only nodded, knowing she’d misunderstand.

  It had been a long time since he’d hurt this bad, not since those first terrible weeks and months, after the shock had worn off and before he’d learned other ways to numb the pain. Part of him wanted to hate the woman beside him, this woman whose gentle insistence was like a dentist’s probe on an exposed nerve. But he couldn’t. He knew he could have put an end to her probing, could have cut her down as he’d cut down so many before her, coldly, cleanly, bloodlessly as a surgeon’s scalpel. But he didn’t.

  And when she fell silent for a time, he was bewildered to find that there was a part of him that was sorry.

  They’d come back to the highway, the lights of the motel he’d telephoned from the ferry terminal visible up ahead of them, before she spoke again. It was late and cold; few people were still out and about She was hugging herself, and he imagined she must be shivering. So he was surprised by the softness, the easiness of her voice when she said, “You must have lovely memories of this place.”

  Memories? Memories weren’t lovely, they were his enemies. But…yes, he remembered the little house they’d rented, he and Jen. They’d spent the weekend walking hand in hand on the beach, looking for shells, strolling the unpaved street under the great old oaks, looking at gravestones in the family cemeteries. They’d been like children playing house. They’d fought some and laughed some and made love in the quiet afternoons.

  He reached for his cigarettes instead of answering.

  “You should treasure them,” she went on, her voice sighing gently across his auditory nerves. “I always think that good memories are like beloved keepsakes. You put them away and keep them safe-but not buried so deeply you can’t get at them when you need them. They don’t cause you pain, they bring you pleasure. Sometimes a little sadness, too, when you bring them out and look at them. But you’d never want to lose them, and you wouldn’t trade them for gold or diamonds.”

  He could only nod, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Unable to look at the woman beside him, he plunged ahead of her, across the street and into the brightly lit motel lobby.

  Jane insisted on registering separately, paying with her own credit card, though he’d offered to put it on his expense voucher. They had adjoining rooms on the second floor, his smoking, hers non. They smiled through the formalities, chatting with the desk clerk but not with each other.

  They climbed the stairs together in silence, Hawk once again carrying the tote bag. He waited while she unlocked her door and turned on a light, then stuck his head in for a cursory check of the room before he handed over her bag.

  She thanked him in a polite, expressionless murmur, then cleared her throat and said, “Um, what time do I need to be ready in the morning?”

  “Plane should be ready to go at eight.” His voice was like a cement mixer full of rocks. “I’ll knock on your door at seven-we can go get a bite first, if you want to. Need a wake-up call?”

  She shook her head and held up her bag. “I have my little travel alarm.”

  Absolutely devoid of makeup, her mouth looked vulnerable as a child’s. Looking at her. Hawk felt something inside him begin to loosen, to ease and soften, like a balloon that had been filled to the danger point slowly deflating. He had a sudden urge to touch her. And then he did, even though he knew it wasn’t wise.

  When he touched the side of her cheek with his fingertips, he felt her tremble. “Get some sleep,” he said softly, and letting his hand drop to his side, stepped back out of her doorway. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” she whispered as he turned away. But she hadn’t closed her door yet when he suddenly turned back, his heart beating hard and fast.

  “Her name was Jennifer,” he said. “My wife. She and our son, Jason, died when a terrorist’s bomb went off on a meny-go-round in Marseilles. In April. Seven years ago next month.”

  Chapter 11

  For the second day in a row, Jane found herself bone-tired and unable to sleep. After delivering his terrible revelation, Tom had gone into his room and shut the door, leaving her standing in her own doorway, appalled and trembling, icy with shock. Inside her room now, she paced, thoroughly rattled and furious, too. And frustrated. Furious with him for doing such a cruel thing to her, and frustrated because how, after all, could she be angry with someone who’d suffered so devastating a loss?

  The cold inside her would not go away. A nice hot soak in the tub seemed the most sensible remedy, but first she had to compose herself enough to try calling the girls again. She sat on the edge of the bed and counted seconds up to sixty, then picked up the phone and dialed. The machine answered on the third ring. She was almost glad, and left the same message she’d left earlier. “Hi, this is Mom, I’ll try again in the morning, Love you, Bye.”

  She did not leave the number where she could be reached, because she couldn’t think how to explain what she was doing on an island in North Carolina’s Outer Banks, when she was supposed to be in Washington, D.C. She wasn’t accustomed to lying to her children, but how could she tell them about any of this?

  Perhaps, she thought, there were just some things about their parents children were better off not knowing. And vice versa.

  While the tub was filling, she emptied the contents of her tote bag onto the bed. The painting and Roy Rogers six-shooter she set aside in their jumbled brown paper, to be rewrapped later. She checked the batteries in the flashlight, made a mental note to put in new ones as soon as she got home, and threw the cookie and peanut wrappers in the trash. Everything else went back into the bag except for her hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush, and the litt
le zippered pouch in which she carried tiny sample bottles of deodorant and hand lotion, and the packets of shampoo and conditioner she’d taken from the hotel in Arlington. Had it only been this morning? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  She undressed and hung her clothes neatly on the motel hangers, except for her knee-high nylons and bra and panties, which she was determined to wash, even if it meant she had to put them on wet tomorrow. She brushed her teeth, unable to avoid her reflection in the mirror and vaguely disheartened by it, having reached an age where it was sometimes a shock to see herself, especially like this, tired and without makeup. She’d already made the discovery everyone makes, sooner or later, which was that the human heart is ageless; on the inside she still felt exactly the same as she’d felt when she was eighteen. So how is it, she wondered as she contemplated her tired-looking eyes and the parentheses of lines at the corners of her mouth, that I have this middle-aged face?

  She lowered herself into the tub slowly, her body shuddering and cringing with delight at the heat, and as she closed her eyes and lay back in the warm water’s embrace, something inside her gave in and let go, and tears began to seep between her lashes.

  She knew it was silly, even shameful that she should feel so bad about such a thing, but that knowledge didn’t change the fact that she did, not one bit. The truth was, Tom Hawkins had touched her, and it had felt wonderful. And every nerve and cell in her body waited, ached, begged and screamed for him to do it again.

  How did this happen? she wondered. How could I have gotten so desperately hungry, and not have known it?

  Sex had been one of the few things about her marriage that had seemed to work, until the last few years, anyway. David had prided himself on being a vigorous and imaginative lover; it was part of his self-image. Satisfying his wife in bed had been important to him, and over the years he’d learned just which of her buttons to push in order to elicit the physical response he desired. Emotional response wasn’t something he required, or understood, and if Jane had often found their lovemaking lacking in tenderness, or joy, and if she’d ever tried to tell him so, he wouldn’t have known what on earth she was talking about.