Tempest in Eden

by Sandra Brown

  "Where do you live?" he asked at last, as if to fill the silent void.

  "In Woodville, near Greenwich. It's small. Mostly commuters to New York live there."

  "What do you do?"

  His eyes were incredibly blue, and she found it hard to keep her mind on the subject. "Do?" she repeated, distracted. The doltish vagueness in her voice yanked her back into the present. "Do? Oh, I work in a gallery. We carry inexpensive works of art, decorating items, things like that."

  "In Manhattan?"

  "No, in Woodville. When I have to go to the city, I drive to Greenwich and take the train. But that's only once or twice a week."

  "Once or twice a week? What takes you to New York once or twice a week?"

  "I—"

  She was cut off by the loud blaring of an automobile horn. They turned simultaneously to see a Mercedes sedan coming to a stop beside Ian's station wagon. As Shay watched, a silver-haired man got out of the driver's side, came around to the passenger side, and offered his hand to Celia. Her mother smiled happily as she took her husband's hand. He planted a soft kiss on her mouth before ushering her toward the back door.

  Ian was there to greet them, holding the screen door open. "I thought my hostess and host had abandoned me," he said, slapping his father on the back. "Hi, Dad. Celia," he said more gently, leaning down to kiss her proffered cheek.

  "Sorry we're so late getting back. Celia had an extensive grocery list. I hope you're hungry." John Douglas's eyes swept the room until they lighted on Shay. "Hello. You must be Shay."

  "Darling, I'm so glad you came." Her mother extricated herself from John's arms and hurried to embrace her daughter. "How are you?"

  "Fine," Shay said into her mother's soft, carefully coiffed brown hair. She hugged her gently and gazed down into a face that reflected deep joy. Smiling broadly, she said, "I don't need to ask how you are. You're positively radiant."

  "And all because of John," her mother said in the soft voice of an enthralled young girl. Stretching out her hand to clasp his, she pulled him forward. "John, this is my daughter Shay."

  With no compunction, he took both her hands in his and let his eyes, a disturbingly familiar blue, roam freely over her face. "Shay, you're as beautiful as your mother." He kissed her on the cheek. "Forgive an aging man his impatience, but I was so eager to give my name to your mother, I wouldn't allow her the time to organize a formal wedding."

  Shay smiled warmly at him. "You've made her very happy. I'd rather be a witness to that than the exchanging of vows."

  "She's brought me more happiness than I ever thought to know again. You're welcome in our home anytime."

  "Thank you."

  He squeezed her hands once more before releasing them and turning toward Ian. "I see that you've met my son."

  "Yes," Shay said, her eyes dancing with reawakened mischief. "I already feel like I know him very well."

  "I'm so glad," Celia gushed. "John and I wanted the two of you to become close friends."

  "You'd be amazed at how close I feel to him," Shay replied meaningfully. Her mother glanced at her warily, and Shay was immediately contrite. She knew that her impish grin and salty tone alerted Celia that she was up to something. Having seen first-hand the happiness this marriage had brought her mother, she didn't want to do anything to spoil it. Putting her devious bent aside, she said humbly, "Ian and I were having a nice getting-acquainted discussion when you drove up."

  "Yes," Ian said. After a significant pause he added, "We were discussing how one's conscience should be one's guide."

  "Oh!" Shay choked on her coffee in startled outrage, her head coming up with a snap. She glared at him. "My conscience isn't one bit offended."

  "Then maybe you should examine your morals."

  "Ian…" John Douglas began uneasily.

  "Oh, dear," said Celia. "And I was so hoping—"

  "My morals are in great shape," Shay retorted, tilting her head back to look directly into Ian's face.

  "You couldn't prove it by me."

  "I don't need to prove anything to you," she snapped. She barely heard her mother's plea to calm herself. "I've never put much merit in the narrow-minded, pious, petty opinions of self-righteous prigs like you." Her breasts heaved with anger as she stared up into his chiseled face, gone hard with rage. "Excuse me," Shay said, moving swiftly toward the door. "I'm going to shower and change before dinner."

  She stomped up the stairs and ran the coldest water she could stand. But, rather than calming her, the shower fueled her agitation. "What a boor," she muttered as she dressed in a swirling skirt and peasant blouse of printed muslin. The soft, sheer fabric felt good against her skin as she lifted her arms to sweep her hair into a careless topknot. She let several curling tendrils lie with beguiling negligence on her neck and cheeks.

  Ian Douglas represented everything she disdained. He was judgmental, stodgy, unyielding in what he considered to be the rules of propriety. He looked upon people like her with stern disapproval for their liberated outlook on life.

  After nearly thirty years, she couldn't change herself, nor did she want to. Her father had been the only one who'd ever understood her. He alone had encouraged her independent nature, her liberal tolerance, her freethinking, her mischievous personality. When he had died, she'd lost not only a loving parent, but also her closest friend and staunchest ally.

  She missed him still. He had been a physician, a man admired by his patients and constituents, adored and pampered by his wife, and loved by his daughter. They had shared a rare relationship, open and honest. While her mother had always been reluctant to discuss certain aspects of life with her daughter, Shay's father had always gone to great lengths to answer her every precocious question in detail. He had found her curiosity refreshing and entertaining, and had admired and encouraged her acceptance of other people, no matter what their lifestyles or philosophies. To those who had criticized her sometimes unorthodox behavior, he had defended her as being forthright and unpretentious.

  Above all, Shay hated narrow-mindedness and those who would impose their brand of stuffy, stodgy, supercilious prudery on others. She tagged Ian Douglas as one of that breed. She only wished he looked more the part he played: with a nose that seemed perpetually turned up in distaste, myopic eyes that searched out indiscretions, and a pointed chin. Somehow it was hard to hate a flawless body that defined masculinity and a face that would have made Narcissus weep with envy.

  It suddenly struck her that she was being unusually harsh and judgmental herself, jumping to conclusions about a man she'd only just met, but she pushed the thought aside impatiently.

  "To hell with him," she said flippantly as she doused herself with a seductive scent. "I didn't ask for his opinion. I don't care what he thinks of me. Once this weekend is over, I don't ever have to see him again."

  With that attitude, she descended the stairs. John and Ian were sitting in easy chairs, sipping chilled white wine from tulip-shaped glasses. "Shay," John called out, standing up, "come join us for a glass of wine."

  She beamed at him and ignored his scowling son. "No thank you, John. I'm sure Mom can use my help in the kitchen." With a saucy swirl of her skirt, she pushed through the swinging door.

  "What can I do?" she asked cheerfully. Her mother was bending down to pull a heavy casserole from the oven.

  Her cheeks flushed becomingly from the heat of the stove, Celia turned around and sighed with despair. "You can march right upstairs and put on a bra, that's what you can do." Hands on hips, wearing a ruffled bibbed apron, her hair mussed, Celia Douglas looked anything but commanding.

  "Why?" Shay asked breezily, going to the relish tray and popping an olive into her mouth.

  Celia sputtered her answer. "Because … because I can see your … dew drops."

  Shay nearly sucked the olive down her throat as she gasped a laugh. "Dew drops?" When she caught her breath, her eyes were dancing with mirth. "They're called nipples, mother. Nipples. And every woman since Eve has
had them. They're part of the female anatomy. God created them. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

  "They're nothing to flaunt either," Celia said with another weary sigh, conceding the argument, as she always did, to her daughter's winning pragmatism. "What will John and Ian think of you?"

  Shay's grin melted, and she frowned. She went to the window and looked out at the lovely twilight-washed landscape. Unwittingly her mother had disarmed her in the most effective way. Shay was reminded of divided loyalties, personality conflicts, and failures to please. In her entire life, had she made anyone proud of her? "Are you ashamed of me, Mother?" she asked quietly.

  "Oh, Shay," her mother said with instant remorse. "Of course not, darling." She came to her daughter quickly and placed a slender arm around her waist. "It's just that I wanted this to be a fun weekend with as little tension as possible. You've already had a run-in with Ian. By the way, what happened?"

  "Nothing much. Just an instant, total, and unalterable dislike for each other." Shay saw no reason to explain the episode that afternoon any further.

  "And you certainly didn't keep your aversion to yourself." Sighing, her mother released her and continued getting the dinner ready for serving. "When will you learn some decorum, Shay? I told your father he was courting disaster when he exercised no restraint in letting you see and hear things that a properly brought-up young lady should never be exposed to. He was far too liberal in his thinking, and it rubbed off on you."

  "And I thank God for it," she said heatedly. When she saw her mother's anxious expression, she softened. "The dinner looks lovely, Mother. Your chicken paprika, if my nose doesn't deceive me." Taking up a tray to carry into the candlelit dining room, she added, "I'll try not to disgrace you in front of your new husband and stepson, Mom."

  Celia's dinner did her proud. She had a knack that made stoneware and stainless look like priceless china and silver. She had arranged spring flowers in a crystal bowl for the centerpiece. Her cooking was unsurpassed. The years she had lived alone in widowhood had deprived her of the opportunity to use her home-making talents. Now she was again in her element. Shay winked at her with a proud smile.

  They commenced eating after John had asked Ian to say grace. Had it not been for Ian's deprecating glances across the linen tablecloth, Shay would have enjoyed the dinner immensely. John was a gentleman in every sense of the word, bridging the infrequent lapses in conversation with new topics of discussion.

  "Your mother tells me you work in a gallery part-time, Shay," he said politely.

  "Yes." She blotted her mouth with a napkin and pushed aside what little remained of her strawberry shortcake. "We cater to clients with excellent taste but limited budgets. For someone with a discerning eye, we carry an appreciable number of artworks."

  "You must know quite a bit about art, then," John said, lighting an aromatic cigar with one of the candles.

  "I should." Shay laughed. "I spend a great deal of time in art studios with artists."

  "Oh? In what capacity?"

  "She's worked for some of the best," Celia inserted nervously. "She's… They say no one else… Her…"

  Shay's eyes slid across the table to Ian, who was sitting with his chin propped on his fist. His elbows rested on the arms of his chair. Candlelight gleamed on his black hair, which seemed perpetually tousled. He was staring into space with vacant blue eyes, apparently bored with the conversation.

  Tossing her head defiantly, Shay determined to rout him out of his insouciance. "What my mother is tiptoeing around so timidly is that I'm a model. A highly specialized model." She paused dramatically. "I pose nude."

  She turned toward the handsome man who was glowering at her with stern disapproval and countered his expression with one of smug triumph, knowing that the revelation would rattle him to the foundation of his bigoted soul.

  But he met her dark eyes without flinching. His lips barely moved as he said softly, "And I'm a minister."

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  For several stunned seconds Shay stared at Ian. Tearing her eyes from his at last, she looked to her mother for verification. "I … I thought I mentioned that it was Ian who married us," Celia said in a soft whisper.

  Acute embarrassment made Shay's cheeks burn with hot color. A dull roaring filled her eardrums, yet her mother's voice had the magnified, distorted pitch of someone speaking in a dream. "No," Shay croaked. "No, you didn't mention that Ian was a minister."

  What had she said to this man? What had she done? Damn! He didn't look like any clergyman she'd ever seen. He didn't wear a Roman collar or robes or any of the solemn trappings she associated with the ministry. It wasn't fair that he sneaked around like a normal person, incognito, waiting to catch someone red-handed in a transgression.

  Her embarrassment began to change to simmering anger for his not telling her about himself. He'd made a fool of her, and that stung her pride. But lashing out at him would only distress her mother. Instead Shay put on her most ingratiating smile, faced him, and said sweetly, "I hope my part-time occupation doesn't shock you, Reverend Douglas."

  He took a sip of coffee nonchalantly. "Nothing you do would shock me."

  She heard the undercurrent of scorn in his voice and pressed her lips into a thin line. Before she could offer a comeback, her mother intervened.

  "I don't want either of you to get the wrong idea about what Shay does. She doesn't pose for men's magazines or anything like that." Celia laughed nervously.

  "I don't need you to defend me to him," Shay said, aiming her ire exclusively at Ian.

  "I'm not, Shay darling," her mother replied diplomatically. "I'm only trying to explain your work." Turning to face her husband, she added, "Shay's used by the most renowned artists, photographers, painters, and sculptors. She's the subject of works of art. Nothing she's posed for could ever be considered lewd."

  Shay despised the pleading sound in her mother's voice. "Oh, for heaven's sake," she said in agitation, and pushed her chair away from the table with a scraping sound. "I'll do the dishes while the three of you hold a prayer meeting over my lost soul." Without another word, she flounced into the kitchen.

  Minutes later, her arms were deep in hot, soapy water, a kitchen towel tucked into the waistband of her skirt in lieu of an apron. She didn't turn around when the door swung open behind her. Resolutely she continued with her task of scrubbing the cooking pots. She didn't want to talk to her mother just now. But her back stiffened with surprise when she heard an unmistakable low voice behind her.

  "Do you want me to relieve you?"

  "No," she answered curtly, striving to ignore the sudden pounding of her heart. "Why didn't your father install a dishwasher when he was building this place?" she asked crossly to cover her sudden nervousness. There was no sense in denying it to herself. As good as her I-don't-give-a-damn act was, she was mortified by what she'd said and done in front of Ian Douglas.

  He laughed as he set down the stack of dirty dishes he had carried in from the dining room. "I think he didn't install a dishwasher because he and my mother had such fun doing the dishes together. They'd come in here after the evening meal and spend hours cleaning the kitchen. They'd talk and plan. I envied their closeness during those times."

  Mollified by his refusal to take offense, Shay asked curiously, "Were you an only child?"

  "Yes."

  "Me, too. I think most only children feel left out when their parents share a private moment. Excluded, like they're intruders and not really part of a family."

  "Are you speaking from experience?"

  She looked up at him from the sink, ready with a defiant answer, but his expression was soft with understanding. "Yes, I guess so," she admitted, then turned back to the sink while he made another trip to the dining room. When he returned, she asked the question uppermost in her mind without intending to ask it. All of a sudden it was there on her lips. "Why didn't you tell me you were a minister before I made a complete fool of myself?"

&nb
sp; Again he laughed. "Circumstances weren't exactly conducive," he said, sweeping an old-fashioned straw broom around the vinyl floor. "When do you suggest I should have made such a pronouncement? While I was standing in the buff with my mouth hanging open? Or maybe you think I should wear a sign around my neck to warn people of my vocation."

  He was making fun of her, and her every muscle strained in rebellion. "You could have said something about your work when we were talking this afternoon."

  "What? And robbed you of the opportunity of trying to turn me on?"

  Splashing hot water and suds against her stomach, she dropped a plate back into the sink and rounded on him. "I wasn't trying to turn you on!"

  "Oh. So you run around without wearing any underwear just for the fun of it?"

  "It's more comfortable than wearing ridiculously constricting garments designed by straight-laced Victorians." She pushed her anger aside and assumed a deliberately sultry expression. Leaning provocatively against the countertop, she looked up at him from under thickly fringed eyelids. "Minister or not, I see you noticed."

  His blue eyes slashed down her body, leaving behind a trail of burning sensation. When they returned to meet her melting gaze, he shrugged indifferently. "I'd have to be blind not to." He took up a dustpan and knelt to sweep into it the debris his broom had collected. Furious, Shay turned back to the sink.

  "You're a fine one to criticize what someone wears," she said. "I never saw a clergyman dressed the way you are." In casual slacks and an Oxford shirt, he looked like a tired executive from Manhattan who had come to Connecticut for a relaxing weekend. "You don't look like a minister."

  Ian seemed highly amused as he raked the trash into the wastebasket. "How are ministers supposed to look?"

  "Not like you," she insisted stubbornly. She could have said they should look older and softer. They should have kind, paternal features and white hair, and maybe steel-rimmed glasses. They definitely should not have coal-black hair that looked so satiny as to tempt a woman to run her fingers through it. They should not have blue eyes that pierced through the toughest self-defensive armors to read one's private thoughts. Those same eyes should not look at a woman with an intensity that seemed to burn her clothes away. Nor should a minister have a body that was tall and lean, hard and strong, tanned and dusted with dark hair.