Desperate Desire

by Flora Kidd

  His lips took hers and darkness invaded her mind again; a black magic that caused her head to spin. He was right, it was good, and she longed to go all the way with him again, but a strange fear was creeping across her mind now like a cold grey light dispersing the warm heady darkness, showing up the dangers that might be in store for her if she agreed to marry him. She opened her eyes, wrenched her mouth from his and pushed him away from her.

  ‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘I can’t marry you. You’re not normal, so I can’t marry you. I’m afraid to marry you!’

  ‘Afraid? Why, for God’s sake?’ His face had gone white.

  ‘Because . . . because you have it in you to . . . to. . . .’ Her voice faltered and broke.

  ‘To what?’ rasped Adam. ‘What do I have it in me to do?’

  But she couldn’t tell him after all that he had it in him to break her heart because one day, when he had got over his fury and frustration at being incapacitated by his blindness he might regret having married her and would want his freedom again.

  ‘Nothing, nothing!’ she cried out wildly. She took a deep breath and attempted to be more controlled. ‘The answer is no, Adam. I won’t marry you, not even to help the music group to get the use of this room,’ she added more quietly. ‘I’ll go now. I guess ... I guess you won’t want me to stay. Goodbye.’

  She turned and walked across the room into the hallway. He didn’t call after her and he didn’t follow her. She opened the door and stepped out into the warm spring sunshine. Down the steps. Across to the car. Into the driver’s seat. She moved like a robot, stiffly without feelings. Only a robot’s hand didn’t shake as hers was shaking when she turned the key in the ignition. And a robot couldn’t cry salt tears as she was crying when she drove away and down the driveway.

  Never had she felt like this, not even when she had parted from Herzel. She felt as if she were being torn in two. Part of her longed to go back to try and explain to Adam what she had meant when she had said she couldn’t marry him because he wasn’t normal; to take him in her arms and kiss him; to stay all night with him and make love with him. Yet part of her wanted to get away as far as possible, to hide in a comer somewhere until the pain of hurting him had eased; until she had forgotten him and he had forgotten her.

  She shouldn’t have gone to see him, she argued, as she drove along Pickering Lane. She should have listened to reason instead of impulsively obeying the desire to see him again. Then it wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t have asked her to marry him and she wouldn’t have been placed in the position of having to refuse.

  Oh, God, would she ever be able to forget the expression on his face when she had said she couldn’t marry him because he wasn’t normal? She had been cruel to be kind. She had meant that if his eyesight had been normal he would never have asked her to marry him. She had been trying to prevent him from making a mistake he might regret later. Oh, she hoped that one day he would understand and would forgive her for what she had said.

  ‘Land sakes, what’s with you?’ exclaimed Blythe when Lenore walked into the kitchen at the Inn. ‘You look as if the end of the world was in sight! Did you have another set-to with the lion? Did he bite after all?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have gone to see him,’ Lenore muttered, collapsing on a chair at the table. ‘Oh, Blythe, I made such a mess of it!’ she wailed, and burst into tears.

  ‘I guess he refused,’ said Blythe dryly, and dipping the soup ladle into the big pan on the stove she scooped up some soup and tasted it. ‘Was he rude?’

  ‘Yes ... and no,’ replied Lenore, sniffing. ‘He ... he asked me to marry him.’

  ‘What?’ Blythe dropped the ladle into the soup and spun around to stare with rounded eyes. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Lenore wiped the tears from her cheeks with her knuckles. ‘He said he would let the music group have the room for their concert if I would agree to marry him.’

  ‘He must be crazy!’

  ‘He is. He’s half mad because he can’t see properly and can’t do the work he likes to do. That’s why I said no.’

  ‘You turned him down?’

  ‘Of course I did. You wouldn’t expect me to marry a man I hardly know, and who doesn’t know what he’s doing or saying, would you?’

  ‘I guess not,’ agreed Blythe. ‘But I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it, when you don’t like him.’

  ‘I’ve never said I don’t like him,’ retorted Lenore, her eyes flashing. ‘Never!’

  ‘Maybe you haven’t, but you sure behave as if you don’t,’ said Blythe.

  ‘He isn’t the sort of person you like or don’t like. You either love him or hate him,’ mused Lenore.

  ‘Oh, really?’ remarked Blythe, raising her eyebrows mockingly. ‘And you hate him, I guess.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know!’ cried Lenore. ‘I don’t want to talk about him any more.’

  ‘Okay,’ Blythe shrugged. ‘But it’s a pity you didn’t get him to agree to let the music group have the room. When are you going to tell Isaac?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Lenore listlessly, and no more was said about the matter.

  Troubled by thoughts of Adam, of the way he had looked when she had refused his proposal, she slept badly and wakened the next morning feeling depressed and, what was worse, feeling guilty.

  ‘You’re wishing you hadn’t refused, aren’t you?’ remarked Blythe shrewdly as they breakfasted in the kitchen. Outside, sunshine sparkled on wet grass and the robins hopped about listening for worms. Other birds were singing. Trees were bursting into leaf. Tulips, red and gold, clustered together in the flower beds.

  ‘I couldn’t do anything else but refuse,’ sighed Lenore. ‘I’m just wishing that I . . . that he. ... Oh, damn!’ She clutched at her head with her hands and with her elbows on the table stared down at the dish in front of her. ‘I wish he hadn’t asked me and then I wouldn’t have had to refuse and make him think that I’d rejected him because . . . because he’s half blind.’

  ‘Mmm, I see what you mean,’ said Blythe. ‘It isn’t a nice feeling, knowing that you might have hurt his feelings and, what’s worse, struck a blow at his masculine pride. He must be hating you pretty badly this morning.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Lenore sighed miserably. She looked across the table and considered her sister’s face, the oval shape of it, the creamy skin, the placid doe-like eyes. Unlike herself Blythe always seemed to be so much in control of her life. She didn’t get passionately involved with anyone. ‘Blythe, have you ever been infatuated with a man?’ she asked.

  ‘Infatuated?’ Blythe’s eyebrows went up in surprise and she smiled, her slow half-mocking smile. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I guess the definition of the word would be to feel crazy about a person you hardly know, on . . . on a physical level.’ Lenore felt the blood bum in her cheeks suddenly. Even though Blythe was her sister they had never before discussed sexual matters, both of them feeling that the subject was strictly personal.

  ‘Inspired with extravagant passion, affected with extreme folly—I think that’s the dictionary definition of the word,’ mused Blythe, still smiling a little as she studied the coffee in her mug. ‘Yes, I’ve felt like that, once or twice, when I was younger.’ She looked up suddenly, her smile fading, her dark eyes hardening. ‘You feel like that about Adam Jonson?’ she asked sharply. ‘Yes ... at least I think so. It can’t be anything else but infatuation, because I don’t know him well enough to be in love with him. It . . . it’s the same with him.’

  ‘Good God!’ whispered Blythe. ‘But you haven’t . . . surely you haven’t. . . .’

  ‘Made love with him?’ put in Lenore, her cheeks burning hotter than ever. ‘Yes,’ she confessed. ‘The night of the storm . . . and then again yesterday . . . we . . . we could hardly keep our hands off each other . . .’

  ‘Oh no!’ groaned Blythe. ‘Lenore, how could you let him take advantage of you like that?’

  �
�But that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He didn’t take advantage, because I wanted to do it too. Oh, we both fought against it and each other . . . but in the end we couldn’t help it. It ... it was stronger than we were.’

  ‘Then why have you refused to marry him?’ ‘For that reason. Can’t you see? Infatuation doesn’t last. It isn’t a good basis for marriage.’

  ‘Ann Landers again,’ mocked Blythe, her mouth twisting. ‘But if it’s only infatuation he’s feeling too why do you think he asked you to marry him?’

  ‘Because—oh, because I suggested to him when we were talking once that marriage was something he could do even though he was half blind. I said it to . . . well, to sort of comfort him, because he was really down about the latest diagnosis about his sight, feeling really helpless and useless. He’s only asked me to marry him because I happen to be the one woman he’s come into contact with for a while.’

  ‘And because he’s attracted to you,’ said Blythe firmly. ‘In spite of what the so-called marriage counsellors say, physical attraction is a very important part of a relationship, and most love affairs, most marriages begin like that. You see someone across a room and he sees you and wham, if the chemistry is right, it begins.’ She paused, then added very quietly, ‘At least it was like that with Josh and me.’

  Lenore stared in surprise at her sister’s down-bent head, at the straight white centre parting in the thick black hair.

  ‘Where . . . where did you meet him?’ she asked, glad to be able to direct the course of the conversation away from herself and Adam.

  ‘At a yard sale, last spring.’

  ‘A yard sale?’ exclaimed Lenore, memories of visiting yard sales with her father when they had been on vacation in Maine years ago flooding into her mind. Mainers were noted for their yard sales. Every year they cleared out their attics and their garages and their basements and put the stuff they found in their yards, as their gardens were called, and invited everyone to come and buy. Sometimes it was possible to pick up genuine antiques for a few dollars. Her father had had a good eye for jewellery and had found many a good silver chain or gold brooch hiding amongst the clutter of ugly costume jewellery and had sold the pieces later for a good price.

  ‘Yes. It was up at the Simmonds’ house. You remember the place, up river? The old lady, Marsha Simmonds, who used to live there, died. There were no heirs to the estate, so the executors of her will put it up for sale. Most of the good furniture went to the auction rooms, but some of the stuff from the kitchen and servants’ quarters was put out in the biggest yard sale ever known in these parts.’ Blythe pointed to the chairs set about the table. ‘These chairs came from that sale. Josh went up there to look for wood, preferably oak, to use for finishing boats. He bought a huge oak table for a few dollars.’ ‘You saw each other at a yard sale and wham, the chemistry began to work. Is that how it was, do you say?’

  ‘That’s right. It wasn’t quite as explosive as your meetings with Adam Jonson, but then neither Josh nor I are very dynamic people. It was slow. It’s still slow.’ Blythe paused, an expression of pain flitting across her face. ‘You see, he’s married.’

  ‘Oh, Blythe!’ whispered Lenore.

  ‘He’s been separated from his wife for nearly three years now. It happened when . . . when he bought the boatyard here. She wouldn’t come— didn’t like the idea of living in a country place, it seems. Didn’t like him giving up his job in Boston and becoming a boatbuilder, I guess.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he divorce her?’

  ‘She . .. she won’t agree to a divorce. She’s still hoping his business here will fail and he’ll want to go back to Boston. Oh, it’s a most unpleasant situation, Lenore. I don’t like saying this about another woman, but she really is a bitch. She doesn’t want to do anything to help Josh. She isn’t being a real wife to him, but she won’t let him go.’

  ‘Are there any children?’

  ‘No, thank God.’ Blythe finished drinking her coffee and stood up. ‘Time I started work. I’m catering a birthday party for tonight—a big one. Northport’s oldest inhabitant, Tom Elder, is ninety-five today and his family and friends are putting on the party. I hope you’ll be around to help. What are you going to do this morning?’

  ‘Go and see Isaac, I guess, and tell him the bad news about not getting the loan of Adam Jonson’s living room for the concert,’ said Lenore with a sigh.

  ‘If you like you can offer the music group the use of the lounge here. It’s not a bad size. You could put a grand piano in the front window alcove and I could arrange seating for about fifty people if I took the sofas and armchairs out. We could also put on a reception for that first concert. You know, wine and cheese, so that the audience can meet the performers. I wouldn’t charge them anything because it would be good publicity for the Inn, especially if you get coverage of the concert by the local TV station.’

  ‘Blythe, you’re an angel!’ Lenore hugged her sister. ‘I’ll tell Isaac—it will be just enough to take the edge off his disappointment. I feel much better now. Thank you, thank you!’

  ‘Confession is always good for the soul,’ remarked Blythe dryly, referring indirectly to Lenore’s confession that she was suffering from infatuation for Adam and had made love with him. ‘But don’t mind me. I guess I’m just envious because you . . . and Adam both recognised what it was you wanted from each other and did something about it. At least you had some rapture together; something good to remember. Do you want the car to go to Isaac’s house?’

  ‘No. I think I can walk that far. My knee is much better,’ said Lenore. ‘It isn’t far.’

  In the small garden enclosed by a white picket fence in front of Isaac’s house, bushes of forsythia blazed yellow. On the black front door the brass knocker, shaped like an American bald eagle, shone brightly. Lenore knocked twice and the door was opened immediately by Rose Goldstein, small and white-haired, dressed in pants and a loose overblouse.

  ‘Isaac was just thinking of phoning you,’ she said, standing back to let Lenore step into the house. ‘Isaac,’ she called, ‘Lenore is here!’

  Isaac came bustling out of the living room. His face was wreathed in smiles and he came towards her with both hands outstretched and took hold of her hands and raised them to his lips.

  ‘You did it. You did it!’ he exclaimed excitedly.

  ‘Did what?’ queried Lenore, bewildered by this expression of joy.

  ‘You bearded the formidable lion, Adam Jonson, in his lair and got him to agree to let us use his house for our concert!’

  ‘I did?’ said Lenore faintly.

  ‘But of course. Isn’t that why you’re here, to tell me that?’

  ‘Now, Isaac, calm down, calm down and take Lenore through to the living room. I’ll put on the coffee pot. You like coffee in the morning, Lenore?’ said the practical Rose.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Lenore, as she was tugged by the effervescent Isaac into the pretty oak-beamed living room. Isaac pushed her into one of the chintz-covered armchairs and sat down on an old Windsor-backed rocking chair.

  ‘First thing this morning, he phoned me,’ said Isaac. ‘It was just after seven, and Rose and I were still in bed. He said you’d asked him yesterday and that overnight he’d considered the request and had decided to let us have the use of the two big rooms on the ground floor of his house for the concert. He wants me—and anyone else belonging to the music group—to go to the house this afternoon to look at the room. By then he hopes to have contacted the local public television network to send a producer and cameraman to meet us and to view the room we want to use so they can plan how to film the concert.’ Isaac paused for breath and clapped his hands together excitedly. ‘It’s wonderful, just wonderful! I can hardly believe it, and it’s all thanks to you.’

  Lenore could hardly believe it either.

  ‘I didn’t know, I didn’t think . . . when I left him yesterday afternoon I had no idea he would agree,’ she whispered. ‘In fact I got the impression tha
t he would refuse.’

  ‘So?’ Isaac’s eyes twinkled. ‘Perhaps he teased you a little, eh? Perhaps he pretends he’s not interested so he can surprise you today. Some people are like that when they find themselves in a position of power. He expects us to go around four o’clock this evening—that’s when Jack can come with us. Also I ask Willa to come with us. Jack must see the piano, you see, and Willa is good on acoustics and that sort of thing.’

  ‘I won’t come,’ said Lenore firmly. ‘You won’t want me there.’

  ‘But of course you must go,’ said Rose, coming into the room with a tray of coffee mugs. ‘You’re the public relations member of the group. You made the contact with Mr Jonson. Isaac, insist that she go with you to introduce you to Mr Jonson.’

  ‘I insist that you come, Lenore,’ said Isaac, his eyes twinkling more than ever with amusement. ‘Me, I’m very shy, as Rose will tell you. If you won’t come with me I don’t go, and we lose this chance to have our concert in that house.’

  ‘You might find that the room isn’t suitable after all,’ suggested Lenore, taking a proffered mug of coffee from Rose.

  ‘I do not know that until I see it,’ retorted Isaac. ‘And I do not see it if you do not come with me.’ ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come with you. But I must come back before six, to help Blythe. She’s catering a birthday party for Mr Elder.’

  ‘You’ll be back for then, I promise,’ replied Isaac. ‘And now I wish to ask you if you would be good enough to play with us at the concert. Jack and I have decided that now we have a clarinettist who plays with such a pure tone we would like to perform with you. Would you agree to doing the trio for clarinet, viola and piano in E flat major by Mozart? It would make a good evening of music with the Brahms.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ agreed Lenore enthusiastically, and immediately forgot all her qualms about going to the Jonson house that afternoon and having to see Adam again.

  ‘But why? Why would he do this?’ she said to Blythe later, after telling her sister that Adam had agreed to let the music group use his house for the concert. ‘He said he would only agree to do it if I agreed to marry him, and I didn’t.’