Wide awake now, Lynne moved her body as Sloan directed until she could feel him quivering inside of her. He quickened the pace and she thought she would die from the feeling. Suddenly, she forgot about finesse and went after what she wanted and needed, telling him what she wanted him to do to her and how she wanted it done. The contractions, pumping and squeezing began, and she erupted around him, holding him prisoner until they both shouted the hymn of lovers in climax. Depleted of energy, she collapsed on him, suddenly aware of her wild behavior and unwillingness to look at him.
He held her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You’re my woman, and any man who attempts to tamper with that fact will deal with me. Understand?”
“Fine,” she said, “provided you understand that you’re not free to associate with other women.”
“No sweat. You’re the only woman who interests me.” He turned out the light, wrapped her in his arms and went to sleep. She listened to his breathing, aware that she had just committed herself to Sloan McNeil. But I love him, and he loves me, and I have everything to gain by it.
* * *
Two weeks before the beginning of the US Open—the tournament that Lynne coveted most—Sloan slid out from beneath an SUV, and a crowbar fell on his left foot, damaging his big toe. After a visit to the hospital emergency room, he was obliged to wear a cast.
“I can’t get over to your place this afternoon,” he told Lynne. “This foot is in pain, and I don’t dare drive.”
“I’ll go to your place,” she told him. “What do you want to eat for supper?”
“I don’t want you to cook. I want you to conserve your energy. In two weeks, you’ll need all of it that you can get.”
“I don’t get tired playing tennis—it’s after the game is over that I’m ready to collapse. I’ll see you about six-thirty.”
He expected that she would be loyal to him, that she’d be there for him if he needed her, but he did not expect her to cook for him. He could easily send out for his meals. However, her willingness to help him touched his heart, and he wouldn’t forget it.
* * *
“Here, you take Sloan this pecan pie,” Thelma said to Lynne when she stopped to see her en route to Sloan’s house. “Tomorrow, I’ll fix him some chicken and dumplings. Never saw a man who didn’t love chicken and dumplings. I want you to come over about this time and get it. Okay?”
“All right. He’ll love it, Thelma, and I appreciate it, too. By the time I finish practicing, I’m too beat to cook.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you have friends.”
She knew she wouldn’t be able to visit him every day, and he let her know that he didn’t expect it.
That evening, they ate dinner together at Sloan’s house, enjoying the baked pork chops with gravy, mashed potatoes, string beans and broiled mushrooms that Lynne cooked at home, and Thelma’s pecan pie. “I love your kitchen,” she told him after she straightened up and put the dishes in the dishwasher. “When I remodel mine, I’m going to use this one as an example.”
He propped his lame foot on an ottoman and stared into her face. “Why would you need two kitchens?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Think about it before you invest time and money in the house you’re renting.” And as if he hadn’t just handed her a live hand grenade, he leaned back and closed his eyes.
“All right,” she said to herself, “I’ll think about it, but I definitely will not comment.”
Later that night, after she returned home, finished her ablutions and prepared for bed, she was startled by the ringing of the telephone. Her brother never called that late, and she doubted Sloan would, knowing that she arose early. She considered not answering it until it occurred to her that Thelma might be in distress.
“Hello,” she said, so softly that her own voice nearly startled her.
“Hello. You mighty late getting home. Where’ve you been?”
At the sound of Willard Marsh’s voice, she dropped the telephone as if it were a hot poker, and it landed on her bed. When she didn’t answer what she regarded as his insolent question, his voice rose as it had always done in his angry or otherwise excited state during their marriage, and although she stood at her full height, she heard his every word.
“What God has joined, no man should sever,” he said, putting his own twist on the famous edict. “I want us to get back together. We set a poor example for my congregation, and to tell you the truth, none of my flock can understand it—we were the ideal couple.”
Willard remembered her as a docile and obedient wife, but when she shed his name, she rid herself simultaneously of his influence, and it was time he knew it. “I’m trying hard not to laugh, Willard, because I’m sure this is your idea of a joke. I’ve gotten on with my life, I’m happier than I’ve ever been and I don’t have time for your nonsense. Please don’t call me again.”
“How dare you speak to me that way and in that tone?” he said, reverting to his real self.
She hung up. If he needed proof that he was shaking a barren tree, she’d be glad to provide it. Thank God, her divorce was final. She got in bed and enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep. However, a call interrupted her breakfast the next morning, and she answered it to hear a high-pitched female voice.
“May I please speak with Mrs. Marsh?”
Lynne suppressed an epithet. “Who is this?”
“This is Mrs. Hand from Reverend Marsh’s church. I’m calling to offer a prayer with Mrs. Marsh.”
Lynne had the feeling that she might swell until she popped. “There is no such person here, and please don’t call here again.”
“Mrs. Marsh? I thought that was you. Our entire congregation is praying that you’ll see the error of your ways and return to your husband and to the church.”
Lynne blew out a deep breath. “I remember you, and you’re so fascinated with Willard Marsh that you believe every damned thing he tells you. I am legally divorced from that man, and I never want to hear his name called again. Mind your own business, and leave me alone.”
“You left him so you could go back to playing tennis. That’s the devil’s work, and you—” Lynne hung up. Then, she called the telephone company, asked that her phone number be changed and unlisted. “Don’t give it out to anyone unless you get my permission.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll call in about half an hour and give you your new number. Please be prepared to write it down. Your old number will be retired.”
She thanked the woman, made a list of the people to whom she would have to give her new number, and as soon as she received it, she phoned Sloan.
“You mean he’s seeking a reconciliation?” he asked after she told him about Willard’s call.
“I don’t see how he can be serious. I suspect his naïve parishioners are behind this.”
“Does he have a chance? Tell me now.”
“Does the sun rise in the north? How can you ask such a question? He didn’t have a chance before I met you. Do you think he has a chance now? Let’s talk about something that makes sense. How’s your foot?”
“My foot’s fine, except that the cast is hot, but my toe is not happy.”
“Did the doctor give you a painkiller?”
“Aspirin. All that did for my toe was insult it.”
Giggles rolled out of her. “I’m coming over this afternoon and singing it a lullaby.” She remembered that Thelma wanted to send Sloan a supper of chicken and dumplings, and she knew he would enjoy having that evidence of the woman’s affection for him.
“I shouldn’t encourage you, because I know you need to focus on your tennis right now, but I want to see you if you can make it.”
“I’ll make it. Uh, I’ll be in Toronto next week for the Canadian Open. Gary only told me today that he’d registered m
e for it. He said he waited until he thought I was ready. I’m not sure it’s the right move, but I have to accept his judgment.”
“Who says you do? If you don’t agree with him, tell him. I’m not even sure you should enter the US Open, but you’ve acquitted yourself well so far. Why do you want to go to Toronto?”
“I’m playing well with my coach, Sloan, but I’m not battle-tough. I don’t have practice at slugging it out when it’s too hot, when I hurt, when I’m losing, when the crowd’s against me, when the chips are down. I need experience at digging into my last reserves and coming up with a winner.”
“And you’ll have one week between that and the US Open. Maybe the Canadian tournament is a good thing, but I have my doubts about the US Open at this time. It’s always scalding hot out there, and they’re not likely to give you night games unless you’re playing a top-ten player. I don’t want to discourage you, but I want what’s best for you. I want you to be happy.”
“I know you do. I’d better do my five miles. See you this evening. Kisses.”
“Love you, sweetheart.”
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, and she had to pause for breath before she could say, “I love you, too. Bye.”
* * *
Just his luck to be confined to his house at a time when Lynne needed his support. She’d made it to the quarter finals in all but the last tournament she entered, but those were minor competitions compared to what she could expect at the US Open, where every professional female tennis player worth her salt would compete. Not that he doubted Lynne’s fitness; he didn’t. But she had been a champion, a great one, and he wanted her to return a champion. Maybe it was unrealistic, but he didn’t want her to hurt.
He answered his cell phone and got a report from Ben on the previous day’s problems and activities. “Would you mind going over to Castle Hills and checking the work on that ceiling? I want to be sure it’s properly insulated. The fact that it’s an automobile service center doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be comfortable.”
“Right. The foreman said you wanted the ATM machine built into the outside wall to cut down traffic into the station. Is that right?”
“Yeah. Don’t you think it makes sense? Tell Jasper to get a longer hose for that air pump.”
“I think he did that yesterday. How’s your foot?”
“Painful. I’m not supposed to put any pressure on it. Otherwise, I’d be at work.”
“Don’t even think it, Sloan. That toe is completely exposed, and if anything fell on it or if you stumped it on something, you really would have a problem.”
“I know. I should be able to get out of here sometime next week, or so I hope. Thanks.”
He passed the day reading, a pleasure for which, in his struggle to get ahead, he’d never had enough time. A biography of Thomas Jefferson perplexed him, and he wondered if the enigmatic man even understood himself. How could he have considered himself a champion of freedom and liberty while his own children and the woman who bore them toiled for him on his lands as his slaves?
“Put your money where your mouth is, man,” he said aloud, tossed the book aside and, with a marking pencil in his hand, began reading W.E.B. duBois’s masterpiece, The Souls of Black Folks.
Every few minutes, he looked at his watch. “I didn’t know time could crawl so slowly. She won’t be here for another three hours at the least.” He hobbled over to his music center and looked through the CDs. He wanted to hear some blues but, deciding that he didn’t want to be in the mood that the blues would create, he settled for a collection of Mozart piano concertos. “Nothing sentimental about these,” he told himself, and was listening to the set for the third time when he heard Caesar’s bark.
He opened the door and, without a word, she reached up and singed his lips with a fleeting kiss. He was so hungry for her, but he merely looked down at her face, open and expectant. The thumping of Caesar’s tail reminded him that he had ignored his other visitor, and he braced himself against the door, leaned down and patted the big German shepherd on his head. Caesar rewarded him with a wag of his tail.
“Come on in,” he said to Lynne. “From the time you hung up until now, a week seems to have passed. I spent the day waiting for you. Oh, I read this and that, and I listened to music, but they were ways of surviving until I could feel your lips on mine.”
“I did some counting, too, and the hours took their time passing.”
“What’s in there?” he asked of the package she carried.
“Our supper. Thelma sent you something good. She also thinks you need somebody to look after you, and if you think the same, she wants to volunteer for the job.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing her, but I don’t want her to play nursemaid, though I’m sure she’s good at it. If you come back before you go to Toronto, would you bring her?” By any description, the expression on her face was a dressing down. “Did I say something wrong?”
She brushed past him and headed for the kitchen. “Any other man would expect us to have some private moments before I go away,” she said without looking back.
His left hand went to the back of his neck and began rubbing, a certain sign of his frustration. If he lived to be a thousand, he’d never understand women. She didn’t want them to have an affair, so why was she suggesting that she expected them to make love before she left town?
“Hell. I sure am not going to complain,” he said to himself, digging his fingers into his scalp. “She can’t possibly want me any more than I want her.”
Caesar gazed up at him with an expression of pity on his face, and Sloan couldn’t help laughing. “I guess you’ve been there, too, boy,” he said and headed to his favorite lounge chair with Caesar right behind him. The dog made himself comfortable on the floor beside the chair, and Sloan reached down and rubbed his back.
The telephone rang, and he was about to let the answering machine take the call when he saw his parents’ telephone number in the viewing box. “Hello. Mom? Dad? What’s up?”
“How’s your toe, son?” his mother asked. “I’ve been worried that you can’t get around and you don’t have anybody to do things for you.”
“Hi, Mom. My toe’s improving. I’m away from work because the doctor doesn’t want me to take chances on hurting it again. And don’t worry about how I’m getting along. An absolutely beautiful woman is in my kitchen at this moment.”
“Really? Wonderful. When are you going to bring her home? If she knows you well enough to cook for you—”
“Slow down, Mom. I didn’t say she was cooking, but she might be. I intend to ask her to go home with me sometime this autumn. Right now, our schedules don’t permit it.”
“Are you...uh...happy, son?”
“Yes. I think she’s the one for me, but as you always say, ‘there’s many a slip between the cup and the lip.’”
“I hope there won’t be any slips this time, son, and I’ll be praying that it works out. You deserve something wonderful in your life.”
“Thanks. Where’s Dad?”
“Out on his boat, fishing. I’ll tell him you asked about him.”
“Love you. Bye.”
He looked up as Lynne walked toward him with a scowl marring the beauty of her face. “If that wasn’t your mother on the phone, I’m out of here.”
He didn’t bother trying to stifle the laugh that wanted to come out, but gave it free expression. When he could, he said, “That was my mother, and here is her phone number, so you may verify it.” He wrote the number on the pad beside the phone and handed it to her. “My mother’s name is Lucille McNeil, and if you want to talk to my dad, his name is Connor McNeil.” He threw up his hands. “I’m an honest man.”
With both hands on her hips, she stared down at him, and suddenly without a warning, she grasped the back of his chair and seated herself in his
lap. He didn’t doubt that she detected his surprise for he could feel his bottom lip drop and his eyes widen. He was glad to have her there, but he would have appreciated the opportunity to collect himself and stave off what he feared would be a full erection. He knew he was in for it when she put her hands behind his head and her parted lips to his mouth.
He kissed her quickly, and tried harder to avoid the inevitable. “You’re taking advantage of my invalidness,” he told her, seeking levity.
She leaned away from him. “Invalidness? I thought it was just your toe. I didn’t know it was...uh...” She wiggled suggestively, and he threw up his hands.
“Now you’ve done it!” he said.
A smile transformed the contours of her face. “It’s a heck of a lot better than what I was thinking. Can it wait awhile? Dinner’s getting cold.”
He wanted to tell her hell, no, that he needed relief right then and that she could reheat the supper, but what he said was, “You were a little smart-ass at the start, and nothing’s changed. Go on to the dining room. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Her smile seemed to widen, and she jumped up from his lap. “Okay, as long as you’ve got an inflator around here somewhere.”
“You bet I have, and I’m looking at her.”
“I don’t know when I’ve had such good chicken and dumplings,” he said as they ate supper. “This is one of my favorite meals. I’m going to call Thelma and tell her that, with these dumplings, she’s stuck in my heart like a leaf fossilized in rock. She’s wonderful.”
“Guess what she sent you for dessert?”
“I did already.”
McNeil's Match Page 17