by Peggy Webb
There was a stir in the audience as Brick Sullivan entered from the wings riding on the most broken-down, swaybacked horse Cramer had ever seen. They must have taken the nag directly from the glue factory.
The horse was exactly as Shakespeare had de-scribed it, as were the clothes Brick Sullivan wore —an old jerkin that looked as if the mice had chewed it, britches with holes in them, mismatched boots, one laced and one buckled, and an old rusty sword with a broken hilt.
"Woo'd you I did, and wed you I will." Brick's Petruchio dismounted his nag and swooped upon Helen like a falcon diving for his prey. He circled her waist and swept her into his arms. "Kiss me Kate, for I desire a taste of honey before I wed."
The lines he had quoted were not Shakespeare, and the kiss he gave his ex-wife was definitely not a stage kiss. Cramer stuck his hand underneath his coat to feel his camera.
The kiss lasted so long that a murmur of appreciation went up from the audience.
Brick Sullivan finally released Helen and dazzled the audience with his famous grin.
"Come, come, sweet Kate," he roared, "you call that a kiss. 'Tis but a slight sting of the bee."
"Touch me again, and I'll show you my stinger."
"Your stinger I'll take, but later, sweet Kate. Unless you desire an audience when you give me all?"
"I'll give you nothing."
"I take what I want, not ask. And sweet Kate, I'm taking you."
Brick swept her into his arms once more, then leaned her over backward until her hair was almost sweeping the floor.
The audience sighed their approval. Cramer listened for whispered comments about how the play had drastically departed from the original, but there were none. No actors alive could get by with rewriting Shakespeare except the Sullivans.
He pulled his notepad out and began to scribble.
" 'Of all mad matches, never was the like'!" One of the characters onstage spoke the line that sounded like the real Shakespeare, but Cramer was beyond caring. From offstage came the sound of minstrel music. It grew louder and louder, until finally the minstrels paraded onto the stage, followed by a man in priest's garb.
"I'll be a son of a gun." Cramer jerked out his camera. The priest was no actor; he was Father Glenn O'Malley from the St. James Catholic Church in nearby Concord.
"Come, come," Brick said. "Don't dawdle, parson, for I would wed the wench."
"No wench am I, and no wife I'll be."
Brick chucked Helen under the chin, then kissed her thoroughly once more, much to the delight of the audience.
"Some call you an irksome, brawling scold, a waspish, ill-tempered wildcat." Brick ran his hands the length of Helen's back, letting them come to rest on her derriere. "But I call you sweeter than a honeycomb, and your nectar I'll suck before the day's end."
"Twill end before you wish if you don't put your hands in a proper place."
"Nay, sweet Kate. All is proper for all will be mine." Brick clapped the priest on the shoulder. "On with the wedding."
Brick took Helen's hand, and the two of them stood before the priest.
Others in the audience recognized the priest.
"That's Father O'Malley," one said.
"The wedding's real."
"Brick Sullivan's going to remarry his wife."
Indeed, he was… and Cramer was going to have the exclusive. Chortling with glee, he stood up to record the event for the first page of the morning edition… and found himself in the company of eight other newspapermen, popping up all over the theater like toast.
"So much for an exclusive," he muttered.
Onstage Brick was only vaguely aware of the glare of flashbulbs. He had eyes only for Helen. She looked beautiful and very, very vulnerable. Her hand trembled in his as she said her vows.
Once again they had rushed to the altar without spending much time in courtship. But they were older now, and wiser. The second time around would be the charm.
Wouldn't it?
TWELVE
Headlines around the nation carried the news of their wedding. "Reunion of the Famous Sullivans Permanent."
"Petruchio Weds Kate; Brick Weds Helen."
"The Sullivans Exchange Vows Onstage."
"Love Thaws in the Frozen North."
"Shakespeare Rewritten by the Famous Sullivans."
The newspapers were scattered around their honeymoon suite. After the play closed, they'd graciously granted interviews, then ducked out to hop a private plane to New York.
They hadn't even had a honeymoon the first time. They'd both vowed to do everything right this time.
Brick came through the door softly, determined to surprise his wife, then stood in the bedroom in rapt silence, watching her. She was even more beautiful asleep than awake, if that were possible. The bloom of their recent lovemaking still colored her skin, and the peace of repose eased her entire body in total relaxation.
One arm was curled under her pillow, the other hanging over the bed. One leg was tucked securely under the sheets, the other boldly sprawled in a position both provocative and vulnerable. She still wore high heels and pearls.
To think that he'd once lost her. He batted the wetness from the corner of his eyes.
Never again. He would do everything in his power to keep her this time.
He approached the bed softly. She stirred, sighing, then settled back with a smile on her face. He placed a single long-stemmed red rose on her pillow.
One of her eyelids fluttered open. Then the other.
"Good afternoon, sleepyhead." He bent to kiss her lips.
"My, how time flies when you're having fun." She gave him a dazzling smile.
"Did you have fun?"
"Fishing?"
"Yes. You know how actors are, always looking for rave reviews."
"Superb. Stupendous. Incredible. Awesome. Miraculous… More."
Laughing, he sat down beside her. The mattress sagged under his weight, and the rose rolled off the pillow. He picked it up and caressed her cheeks with the petals.
"I like those reviews. Especially the last one." He moved the petals over her lips. They parted, and her tongue darted out to taste the rose.
"Hmmm. Good. More."
He trailed the rose down the side of her throat, then pushed aside the sheet to tease her nipples.
"Does this rose have thorns?" she asked.
"I plucked them all off." The rose slowly circled her breasts. She arched into its velvety caress. "I've banished thorns from your life forever."
"My hero."
He leaned down and followed the path of the rose with his tongue. Shivers ran through her. Brick loved the way she responded to his foreplay, loved watching her reactions.
"You are the most incredible woman in the world. Did I ever tell you that?" He slid the rose over her flat abdomen, pausing at the indention of her navel to twirl the petals in a circular motion. Her shiver was his reward.
"About six times last night and in the wee hours of the morning."
Her hand moved to lower the sheet, but he covered it with his. One of the best parts of loving was the anticipation.
"Seven."
He drew the rose back over her nipples, slowly caressing. Her hand trembled on the sheet.
"You counted?"
"A guy has to keep track of his performances."
He wet the rose with his tongue, then teased her lips with the damp petals. A pink glow flushed her cheeks.
"Don't expect me to help you keep track. I'm too busy with other things."
The damp rose trailed downward once more, and her body grew taut as a bowstring. Such a small thing. A damp rose. And yet it ignited their passion as quickly as the most erotic, soul-searing kisses.
He leaned back and carefully folded the sheet down, revealing Helen inch by incredible inch. The pearls gleamed against her skin; the black backless high heels shaped her already perfect calves, and the black lace G-string enhanced rather than covered.
"A lady should always wear
pearls with basic black," she'd said, posing the night before in the bathroom doorway.
"Just don't expect me to wear a tux," he'd replied. "It might hamper things a bit."
Remembering, he covered the tiny G-string with one hand, letting it rest lightly, fingers barely brushing her exposed skin. Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched in her throat.
"That's how I want you to be," he said, pressing closer to her, close enough to feel her heat. "Busy with other things." His hand eased aside the bit of lace, his fingers found the heat. "Namely me."
She sucked in a sharp breath. She was already swollen from their night of loving, and he brought her quickly to the edge.
"Brick…" His name ended on a rising crescendo.
Her cries of pleasure ignited him to the boiling point. And still he held back. While the last notes of release still quivered in her throat, he bent over her, reveling in the sweet, hot feel of her intimate flesh against his lips, and brought her quickly back to climax.
"Brick… please."
Drugged with her sweetness, he propped his arms on either side of her head and leaned so close, he almost drowned in her eyes.
"Do you love me, Helen?"
"Yes."
"Say it. Say the words."
"I love yon, Brick Sullivan. I adore you."
"Tell me how much."
"More than life itself."
He tried to let the present joy tamp down the fear in him, the fear that was always in him. Helen had said the words to him, freely and often during their five-year marriage. "I love you, Brick. I adore you. More than life itself." And yet words hadn't kept her from running away.
Would she run again?
The terror threatened to take over, to rob him of the present.
Her arms stole around his neck, and she pulled him down so she could press kisses all over his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, then back to his lips.
"You know I love you, Brick. I always have and always will. This time forever."
Had she said forever the first time around? Brick couldn't remember.
"I want you inside me," she whispered. "Fill me, Brick."
He could lose his fear in her and find a wonder that would ease his mind and heart and soul. And yet, he knew that when the lovemaking was over, the gnawing fear would return. Had he been careful enough? Had the birth control method worked? What if she got pregnant?
He felt a tremor run up his arms and through his body. His pulse pounded so hard, he could almost hear it. His need to fill her was so great, it was almost physical pain.
"Now," she whispered. Her hot, wet kisses inflamed him; her tongue drove him over the edge.
He covered her, merged with her, melted in her. Sweet gentleness and slow tenderness were rarely a part of their lovemaking, had never been a part of it. Their volatile personalities required the same volatility of their bodies.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, shudders already rippling through her. Her cries of pleasure rose and fell like music on his ears. When they'd first made love so many years ago, he'd thought they were cries of distress. Alarmed, he'd pulled back.
"Am I hurting you?" he'd asked.
"No. Oh, no. Please don't stop. Don't go away."
Now, he looked down into her face, loving to see the play of intense emotions. She was totally lost in him, as he was in her. Over and over he watched her shatter, watched the dark fires of passion take over until there was nothing but the wonder and the terror of completely belonging to another, of merging until self was lost and they were one.
Sweat slicked his body. She wrapped her legs higher, around his neck. The heels of her shoes nicked his skin. Her fingernails were sunk deep into his flesh.
Wondrous possession. Terrifying joy.
They moved together as one, as if they belonged, as if they had always belonged. Never stopping, he looked down at her.
"This is a game, Helen, and there's only one rule."
"What is it?"
"You have to keep your eyes open."
"I thought I did."
"No."
"I'm making no rash promises, but I'll try."
The dark fires of love shone in her eyes. Sun slanting through the windows enhanced the glow. Brick felt as if he'd been crowned king of the world.
Helen. His love, his life, his joy.
His passion built until all logical thought left his mind. Ancient rhythms overtook them, and they danced to the music that had moved them through the centuries, the songs that had triggered erotic impulses in their past lives, in green meadows beside quiet streams where the lamb and the lion lay side by side, on rolling hills high above cities that lay under siege, in deep caverns removed from civilizations that were falling. Over mountains and through storms and across seas they had pledged their love again and again. A love that would never die.
Buried deep, he lost himself, his cry of completion blending with hers.
He felt her arms steal around him, felt her hands glide gently over his sweat-slicked back. He rested his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, and she rocked him, crooning love songs that had no words, only meanings, only wonderful, joyous meanings.
For a while yet, time would cease to exist. Brick closed his eyes, willing it always to be that way, willing the world to stay back, willing reality to leave them alone.
Distant sounds of the city drifted up to them —street vendors hawking their wares, the blare of horns from impatient taxi drivers, the squeal of tires, the rumble of trains, and the roar of jets.
"I scratched you," Helen said, her hands roaming down his back. "I'm sorry."
As beautiful as her voice was, Brick didn't want to hear it. Not yet. He wasn't ready to enter the world where people often conversed without communicating.
"It's nothing," he said.
"I'll put something on it."
To satisfy her, he lay still while she went into the bathroom and came back with first-aid cream. When she smeared it on, he didn't tell her that she should wash the wound first, didn't care that she was a lousy nurse. Flushed and lovely, she bent over him, her hair touching his shoulder.
He ran his hands down the length of her legs.
"Hmmm," she said, stretching like a kitten. "Nice."
"Why don't I rub something on you?"
"First-aid cream?"
He laughed. She smiled.
"Guess again."
He reached for her, but she sidestepped.
"Not yet," she said.
He folded one arm under his head and watched as she crossed the room in her highheels and pearls. He would never tire of watching her.
"Close your eyes," she said.
"And miss all the fun?"
"It's a surprise."
Grinning, he closed his eyes. He didn't have to see to know when she stood beside him. He could smell her French perfume, tea rose from the Parfumeur, Ltd. in New Orleans.
"Keep them closed," she whispered, leaning over him so that her hair brushed against his chest. She caught one of his wrists and wrapped something silky and cool around it.
A satin ribbon. She'd tied him to the bed once in New Orleans.
"I already love this surprise," he said.
"Stretch out a little, sweet one."
"Like this?" He spread-eagled on the bed.
There was no reply, nothing except the sound of breathing.
"You're gorgeous, Brick. Did I ever tell you that?"
"Once or twice." She'd always been more than generous with compliments. She'd always made him feel like a hero.
She touched his chest, tangled her hands in his chest hair.
"Beautiful," she whispered.
"It's all yours."
Laughing, she bound him to the bed with scarlet ribbons.
"Now you are my slave," she said.
He didn't bother to tell her that he'd always been her slave. He was too busy with other things.
THIRTEEN
As Brick sauntered up the brick walkway to hi
s home, he noticed a spot of yellow under the big oak tree in their front yard. He hurried toward the tree, and a robin pulling at a fat worm flew off in alarm then watched from a safe distance, guarding his prize.
Brick knelt beside the tree and plucked the bit of yellow. A daffodil. The first sign of spring. There were three in bloom, and he plucked them all, then went whistling up the walkway.
He eased open the front door, wanting to surprise Helen. Leaving his shoes in the hallway, he crept through the house like a thief, peering around corners and through doorways, looking for his wife.
Usually she was downstairs this time of day, either in the sun room relaxing with a cup of tea or curled on the sofa with a good book. Always there was the music. Both of them loved music, especially blues, jazz, and classical, and they kept a stack of CDs on the stereo at all times.
Today Helen was playing Ravel. "Bolero." It was loud enough to cover an invasion of killer elephants, but still Brick tiptoed. He loved surprising Helen, loved the wide-eyed look she always got, adored the way her mouth rounded and her cheeks turned pink.
He scouted the entire downstairs before starting up to the second floor. She was in their bedroom, sitting at the antique secretary beside the window. The late-afternoon sun slanted across her hair and her cheeks.
As always, Brick was awestruck by her beauty. How could one man be so lucky? She was not only sweet and kind and talented, but she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He watched in silence, the spring bouquet hidden behind his back.
In a moment, he would make his presence known. He would call her name, then she'd turn and smile. Her eyes would light up and she'd cross the room to him. Sometimes she hurried and sometimes she deliberately took her time, holding him with her eyes as she made him wait for her. Hurrying or slowly gliding, she was always elegant. Everything she did was elegant, everything she touched.
In a moment he would hold her. Her lips would touch his, and he'd know paradise.
He eased the flowers from behind his back, opened his mouth to call her name. And then he noticed the tension. It was in her stiff back, in the way she held her head, in her slight frown. What in the world was going on? Had someone done something to hurt her?