Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  Reyne cooked the pasta to perfection and combined it with a beautiful light sauce. I ate with more appetite than usual, exhilarated to be in the company of someone with whom I felt so free to laugh, to say what I thought. We lingered over the table, chatting as if we'd known each other for years.

  The evening was passing too quickly, and with regret I noted the time. "I should go, soon."

  Reyne warmed me with her quick, "Not yet, surely?" She strode off into the kitchen. "I'm putting fresh coffee on to wake you up before you go."

  "I'm not sleepy."

  She laughed. "Well, to wake me up, then. I'm still waiting for that second international call."

  As we sat opposite each other in lounge chairs I was reminded of the hotel in Brisbane. Extraordinarily, as though she'd read my mind, Reyne said, "You never did answer my question."

  "Which one? You ask so many."

  She smiled. "The one about marriage."

  I shrugged. "It's not for me. That's all."

  "Why?"

  Suddenly furious with her for spoiling the evening with the question, I said tightly, "I'm better alone. That's the way it is." She continued to look at me steadily. I said, "Have you considered that no one ever asked me?"

  "No, I didn't consider that."

  I could feel my anger rising like a tide, and for once I didn't try to contain it. "I can't imagine myself married. I never could. And Reyne, I'm not a lesbian, if that's what you're thinking."

  I stood, putting down my coffee carefully. "I must Reyne had risen too, and was silently regarding me. I was horrified to find myself near to tears. I wanted to get away, to be alone.

  "I'm sorry," she said softly. She stepped forward and put her arms around me. "I didn't mean to upset you."

  I stood still within her light embrace, surrendering, for a moment, to the confusion of my contradictory emotions. I wanted to step back from her, and yet stay. I wanted to put my arms around her at the same time I knew I should push her away.

  Reyne looked at my mouth, the weight of her glance searing. I inclined toward her, wanting and not wanting the kiss. What was a kiss? Not something irrevocable that would change me...

  Her lips, warm, slightly open, brushed mine. I heard the breath hiss in my throat as her embrace tightened. "Yes," she said against my mouth. Her tongue was delicately probing. I tried to draw back, but her hand at the back of my head held me captive.

  My consciousness kept spinning away, enticed by sensation. My heart beat heavily, weakening me. Reyne's mouth demanded obedience. Trying to shut my lips against her insistent tongue was futile — and I realized I didn't want her to stop.

  She took her mouth from mine, but continued to hold me tightly. Her ragged breathing intrigued, excited my imagination. I knew she was going to kiss me again and that I'd have no control, no authority. "Reyne, please don't..."

  She released me immediately and stepped back. "Victoria?"

  Unable to meet her eyes, I fumbled for my car keys. "I have to go."

  I drove home carefully, my actions reflecting the deliberation of my thoughts. I analyzed the evening as if I were an uninvolved observer. When upset or frightened, I had always used this technique to calm myself. As I reached my driveway I remembered, absurdly, that I'd neglected to thank Reyne for dinner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Zoe dumped the large cardboard box on her kitchen bench. It was dusty and tattered and the printing along the side indicated that it had once held men's riding boots. Oddly reluctant to remove the grimy cardboard lid, I said, "What's in it? Have you had a good look?"

  "Just to check it was all stuff for you." Zoe's voice was offhand, but there was an undertone that made me look up.

  "Is there something..."

  "What? Something what?" Zoe's tone was challenging. It was as though I was reading a script where my part made no sense because I didn't know some vital fact.

  I said, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Of course not." Zoe's reply was as rapid as it was insincere. "Obviously Mum kept some of your parents' papers and photos. She put them away in the back of the wardrobe and forgot about them." She smiled brightly. "Do you want coffee? Tea?"

  The box was a time bomb ticking on the bench. I gathered it up under one arm. "Thanks, but I've got to be back at the university by four." This wasn't true, but I had no scruples about a falsehood, as I sensed Zoe was as keen for me to go as I was to leave.

  Driving back to the university I kept glancing at the inoffensive cardboard container on the seat beside me. Although I had no more classes, I didn't want to take it back to my house, feeling, in some obscure way, that it would contaminate the peace I'd created there.

  Gerald was just unlocking his car as I drew up in the staff car park. He slammed the door and walked over to me. "Can we have that talk now?"

  "I am busy..."

  "Not too busy to talk about us. You're not going to fob me off."

  His determined tone made me feel both angry and guilty. "Gerald, I do want to discuss everything, but..."

  He took the cardboard box from me. "Let me carry that. I'll walk up with you."

  Before I could protest, he'd turned and was striding towards the entrance of the building. I followed, half impatient, half relieved that he'd delayed my investigation of the box's contents.

  In my office, he placed the box precisely in the center of my desk. "What is this?"

  I was offhand. "Just some papers my aunt kept for me."

  Gerald wasn't really interested. "Can I see you tonight? I'm not pushing, Victoria, but I'm really unhappy about the way things are between us."

  For him to say this much was an indication of his strength of feeling. He was usually reticent about his emotions — a characteristic that had initially attracted me to him.

  I glanced at the box. "I've got a lot of work to do..."

  "Please. It's important to me."

  I felt my will power leaking out of me like air from a punctured balloon. "All right, Gerald. Where and when?"

  He was buoyed by my acquiescence. "Leave it to me. I'll pick you up about seven."

  I waited until he'd walked down the corridor, then locked the door behind him.

  The cardboard lid felt gritty and unpleasant and the jumble of papers and photographs equally disagreeable. I sorted through the contents, glancing briefly at each item. There were old receipts, business letters, a few personal letters and cards, mostly between my parents, my baptism certificate indicating I'd been christened Victoria May, yellowed newspaper clippings — some, jokingly, reports of the accident that had killed my parents — and a collection of family photographs, some loose and some in envelopes or folders. At the bottom, of the box were two battered containers of Super-8 movie film.

  I took out one reel and unrolled a section, holding it up to the light. Even squinting at the tiny images closely it was impossible to make any sense out of who or what was there. Each container had Woodson Enterprises stenciled across the brand-name of the film and a handwritten note in faded ink. One notation read, K5 plus, and the other, K & FW.

  I put the film reels to one side, making a mental note to ask about locating an eight-millimeter projector. Although long superseded by videotape technology, some projectors existed, I presumed; some enthusiast would still have the means to play old movie reels. There was a chance the university library might have access to out-of-date projectors for film held in the archives.

  Putting the two film reels into the bottom drawer of my desk, I began to sort the rest of the contents into three piles: photographs; personal cards and letters; other papers. Then I started with the personal communications, feeling like a voyeur as I skimmed through several frank love letters my parents had written to each other before they married. Faded cards celebrating birthdays, one commemorated their first wedding anniversary, others were I'm sorry or I love you cards for some incidents in their relationship. I found a small bundle of cards tied with ribbon that were about me: congratulat
ions on my birth, some for different birthdays — including one with an inscription that made my throat close: Daddy loves his little Vicky.

  Suddenly I couldn't bear to continue sorting through the items. I shoveled everything into three large manila envelopes and put them into the drawer with the film reels. Tomorrow would be soon enough to go through these mementos of the past.

  Before I discarded the grubby cardboard box, I examined it closely. Had the riding boots it once contained belonged to my father? Or, more improbably, to my Uncle David? Apart from a brand name and size, the box had nothing to tell me and, obscurely, I didn't want it in my office, so I went to the trouble of taking it down the corridor to the large waste paper container in the photocopying room.

  Back in my office, I started as my telephone gave a metallic burr. "Victoria? It's Reyne." She sounded uncharacteristically meek, almost tentative. "About last night..." She gave a small, impatient sigh. "You know, I rehearsed what I was going to say, and now I've lost it."

  During a restless night, I'd rehearsed what to say too. I chose a cool but friendly tone. "Reyne, let's just forget anything happened. It was just one of those things."

  "If that's the way you want to play it."

  In contrast to the doubt in her voice, I was decisive. "It is."

  There was a pause, then she was all business. "I know you're flying to Melbourne Friday for another literary luncheon and book shop appearance. I hadn't planned to be there, but now Millennium is sending me to cover the Eiesley trial verdict. I'm leaving this afternoon, but I'm sure I'll still be in Melbourne for the weekend, and as I do need to tidy up a few details about your early life, I'd like to see you, if possible."

  It was my turn to pause. I wanted to resume our growing friendship. In a restless night of analyzing that embrace, that kiss, I'd decided that I'd inadvertently precipitated the situation. I didn't cast Reyne as a predatory lesbian bent on seducing me and felt sure she'd take her cue from my behavior. "That shouldn't be a problem. I'm staying at the Southern Cross. You can get in touch with me there."

  She thanked me formally, then hung up. For a moment I felt obscurely resentful, as though she should have been friendlier, until I realized it would be embarrassing' for us both if she were. Somehow we had to reestablish our relationship so that there'd be no future misunderstandings.

  Misunderstandings? an inner voice said. The kiss was given — and received.

  My phone rang. "Hugh Oliver here, Victoria. Just checking you're A-OK for Melbourne."

  "I am."

  My brevity didn't dampen Hugh's enthusiasm. "Great! And I want you to know I'll be with you every step of the way."

  "That's a comfort, Hugh."

  He chuckled at my dry tone. "Knew you'd be pleased. I've got your itinerary for the States, too. Need to go over it with you, but that can wait until we hit Melbourne." he cleared his throat. "Victoria, there is one little thing..."

  I was immediately suspicious. "What?"

  "It's excellent publicity, doesn't cost a cent and puts your name in the public eye..."

  "Hugh..."

  "It's in today's Courier. Pippa Blaine's got an item about you in her column." He hurried on before I could comment. "This is the second time she's mentioned you, Victoria, and she's used a photo. You just can't buy that kind of coverage."

  "What exactly does she say?"

  "I'll fax it through to you, if you like." I had the feeling he didn't want to say it aloud because he knew I'd be unhappy with the text. "It's not necessary to fax it. Just read it to me, please."

  Hugh cleared his throat again. "Well, all right..."

  " 'The Professor of Sex Wooed,' the headline says. 'Word around university corridors is that attractive dark-haired Professor Victoria Woodson, writer of steamy bestseller, The Erotic Muse, will be hearing wedding bells any moment. Friends and colleagues confirm things are hotting up between the never-married prof and handsome historian Gerald Humphries. Who said all that dry research into sex never pays off?' "

  I listened as he read it, sighed, and said, "Where did she get that from?"

  Hugh was heartened by my mild tone. "Who knows where Pippa gets her material? She asks around, someone gossips, a few phone calls..." When I didn't respond, he added anxiously, "It is good publicity, Victoria. Trust me on this."

  "Don't fax it to me, Hugh. I don't want anyone in the office reading it first and then sniggering when they hand it to me."

  "I think you're taking this a little too seriously. And it's true, anyway, isn't it?"

  I ignored his question. "I'll get my own copy. Don't bother sending me one."

  I'd hardly got him off the line before Jane, a friend from Administration who'd been at the university so long she was almost a fixture, put her head around the door. "Seen the Courier, Victoria? Think you should."

  "I didn't know you read that rag."

  Jane's face crinkled with amusement as she handed me a copy of the tabloid newspaper. "Naturally I don't. It was the office staff."

  I groaned. "God. Now I suppose everyone'll hear about it."

  "Including Gerald Humphries," said Jane cheerfully, pointing to the center of the Lifestyle column. "When I left there was friendly competition in the office to see who should be the bearer of such good tidings."

  I quickly read the paragraph to check that Hugh hadn't edited the version he'd read to me.

  Jane's expression was sympathetic. "I can imagine how you feel, but you can hardly sue Pippa Blaine for telling the truth, however badly she writes it."

  "It isn't true, Jane. To use the old cliché, Gerald and I are just good friends."

  She grinned at me wickedly. "Of course you are. Just keep saying that. Maybe someone, somewhere, will believe you."

  I was discovering that the most unlikely people believed tabloid newspaper gossip. Before I left for the day, the Vice Chancellor popped into my office to say cheerily, "Just happened to hear about Pippa Blaine's column. Are congratulations in order?" He seemed quite taken aback at my curt denial. Then, as I drove through the university security gates, the guard winked at me suggestively as he gestured with a Courier open at the appropriate page. At home I found two messages on my answering machine. In the first Zoe demanded to know why I hadn't told her the good news before it appeared in print. The second one, from my cousin John, simply asked if the rumor had any basis.

  "Do you have anything to say?" I inquired of Tao, who had hurtled through the cat door when he heard the key in the lock. He had — but it was all on the subject of how he'd been neglected, and how food would lessen the trauma.

  Knowing Zoe would pepper my answering machine with queries until I responded, I called her back immediately. "I didn't know you read the Courier, Zoe."

  "I don't, usually. It was just by chance that paragraph about you and Gerald caught my eye." She went on the offensive. "Honestly, Victoria, I would have expected you to tell the family the news before some tacky gossip column prints it."

  "I hate to disappoint you, but it isn't true."

  Zoe clicked her tongue impatiently. "It's perfectly clear to me that Gerald loves you. And you're not getting any younger..."

  John was far more supportive. "I'd be annoyed, too, Vicky, but you have the consolation that it'll all be forgotten by tomorrow."

  Gerald arrived precisely at seven. He kissed my cheek, then straightened his tie. "I didn't call you, Victoria. I was sure you'd realize I'd hear about the article and I knew we could discuss it tonight."

  He looked subtly pleased, a fact that annoyed me further. "It isn't an article, Gerald. It's a paragraph in a cheap gossip column."

  "No one will take it seriously and you have to admit it can't hurt your book sales."

  "You're beginning to sound like Hugh."

  My comment gained a slight grimace. "I certainly don't have any ambition to resemble Hugh Oliver. And you won't have to put up with anyone like him once the whole fuss about your book dies down."

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"


  He looked at me seriously. "I won't pretend I haven't resented the time all this has taken away from us, but I've thought it through, and I know I've been unreasonable."

  I had the keen sense that no matter what I said or did, Gerald would refuse to argue with me. He was determined, it seemed, to be agreeable, even when I grumbled ungraciously about going out to dinner. "Gerald, I've got so much to do. I'm spending the weekend in Melbourne, and I haven't even thought about what I'm going to pack..."

  "I promise to have you back early."

  Ashamed of my churlishness, I made a mental vow to make the evening a success.

  We dined at a little Italian restaurant that had both atmosphere and delicious food. Chatting lightly about work matters and mutual friends made me aware that most of my friends and acquaintances were associated with my work at the university. No doubt this was why Reyne Kendall seemed so dangerously different and why she intrigued me so much.

  Gerald was at his entertaining best and we laughed the evening away. As he promised, he had me at my front door before eleven. I put the key in the lock, then turned to give him a good night embrace that would make it clear I wasn't asking him in, but he said quickly, "You did promise to talk seriously. I'm asking for a cup of coffee and half an hour."

  Tao chose this moment to wind himself between my legs with purring expressions of deep affection. "He loves you," said Gerald with the clear intention of suggesting that Tao wasn't the only one to feel this emotion. Exasperated, I swept Tao up into my arms. "All right, thirty minutes and coffee. It's a deal."

  While I filled the percolator, Gerald tried unsuccessfully to interest Tao in a game. I wondered if Reyne liked cats. I was convinced that anyone who had the slightest inclination towards them would fall instantly in love with Tao's sleek lines and aristocratic air. Even as a kitten he'd had an elegant high regard for himself, and his self-image had only intensified with adulthood.