Authors: Donna Richards
He stood to help her with her coat. “Maybe I should call the doctor.”
“No.” She patted his hand, suffering a little guilt over the necessary deception. “I think I just need some rest. It’s been a tough week.” With a bit of hesitation, she offered her hand again to Raymond. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Short Stuff.”
Trying not to recoil from his touch, she forced a smile then gave Stephen a kiss on the cheek before saying good night.
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Once outside, she turned full-face toward the crisp October wind, hoping the gusts that sent dried leaves skittering across the parking lot would chase away lingering traces of that man’s touch. She clutched her coat tightly to her chest and scurried across the lot. Something sinister about him made her skin crawl and her heart pound. She unlocked her car and scooted behind the wheel, turning her heater on full blast. But the coldness stayed, too deep for the heat to reach. She shivered, searching for the comfort that only a very loud dog and a very hard baseball bat could deliver.
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Saturday night. Angela shut off her car’s engine but remained behind the wheel. Taking a deep breath, she stared at the stone façade on Hank’s temporary home. A tiny thrill tripped down her spine. So this is how it felt to pull up to a man’s house all alone in the dark. It was so wanton, and yet liberating and exciting. She could practically hear both her mother and Stephen objecting. Placing her hand over her heart, she felt the steady rhythm there.
Stop this
, she scolded.
It’s not like I’m a
pubescent teenager chasing after a school crush.
Hank’s house provided more room and more privacy for dance lessons. It made sense that she come here, she reasoned. Practical. Then why did it feel so wicked? And why did feeling wicked feel so delicious?
The garage door started a slow glide up. Hank walked toward her from the well-lit bay. She pushed her car door open before he could reach it, but he pulled it wider and extended a hand to help her out.
“I thought I heard your car. I was afraid you’d change your mind.”
She wanted to say something witty, something to show she was well-accustomed to visiting men at all hours of the night, but nothing came to mind. Or nothing that she would dare say.
The sharp clean scent of pine trees surrounding the property invigorated her senses. Smoke drifted in the wind. Somewhere a cozy fire burned in a homey fireplace. The thought made her comfortable and warm.
Utilizing his offered hand for support, she left the car. He closed the door behind her, but didn’t relinquish her hand. He stood close, too close for comfort, but with the car frame at her back she had nowhere to retreat. For a brief moment, she wasn’t sure she would even if she could.
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“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
A gust of wind whispered through the tops of the pines and eddies of fallen leaves scattered across the driveway. Aided by the wind, her hair pulled free from her heavy neck scarf and blew across her face. But it was Hank’s fingers that tenderly pushed the resistant strands back behind her ear. Her nerve endings electrified under his touch and followed the trail of his fingers across her forehead and down the side of her far-too-sensitive face. Words poised on the tip of her tongue, melted and slipped away in the charged silence. Her heavy eyelids started a slow descent.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Oh, she wanted many things, like his fingertips to continue their torturous journey past her ear to the back of her neck. She wanted to close the distance between them. She wanted to tip her lips up to his advancing kiss. She wanted… Oh my God! Her eyes opened wide. What was she thinking! He was a client.
“I’m thinking…dinner?” She pulled her lips into a quick smile, thankful that the early onset of evening masked the heat radiating from her cheeks. “Maybe we should go inside?”
“Oh. Of course, yes.” He dropped her hand. “You must be cold.” She nodded, although the rapidly spreading warmth beneath her skin rendered her heavy coat and scarf superfluous. At his gesture, she led the way into the brightly lit garage and on into the house.
The enticing aromas smacked her senses like a pie-in-the-face on one of Stephen’s silent movies. “Something smells wonderful.”
“I baked,” he replied with a shrug.
“I brought some music.” She held up a stack of five CDs, then slipped out of her coat for Hank to hang in the closet. “I aimed for variety ‘cause I’m not sure exactly what kind of music they play at these things.”
He took the square jewel boxes from her hand and shuffled through them. “Rock and roll, jazz, Gershwin,” he lifted an eyebrow, “disco?
That’s quite a collection.”
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“My parents indulged me with music. They thought it was safe enough.” She turned to go into the great room, noticing he had already pushed the furniture back against the walls. A fire hissed and crackled in the fireplace. “I usually have the radio or some CD playing.”
“I thought we might eat first, then work it off in the dance lesson. If that’s all right with you?”
“My mouth is watering so bad now, I don’t think I could concentrate otherwise,” she teased, half in earnest. The inviting aromas of fresh baked bread and a roast of some kind fairly overwhelmed her.
“Then go into the dining room while I put on some music.”
She hadn’t explored the dining room the last time she was there.
Even though he had invited her to do so, it still felt uncomfortable exploring the unfamiliar room on her own. Not that it stopped her.
Her breath caught at the spaciousness. Both her mother’s tiny kitchen and dining room could fit neatly in the space of this one room. A highly polished oak table dominated the center of the room, one half covered with a crisp white tablecloth and laid with gleaming china. Two candles flickered, the light reflected in the flashing silver of the place settings and in the glass front of an immense china breakfront. The sweet vibrant notes from a violin concerto flowed into the lavish setting.
“I hope you like Beef Wellington,” he said, slipping into the room behind her. He pulled back one of the chairs. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll bring in the salad.”
“I can help,” she said quickly, suddenly hesitant at being trapped in this room, at this table. Opulence like this was meant for someone else, not Angela Blake of backwater Westerville. “Why don’t I carry something in?”
“Please sit,” he insisted. She hesitated a moment, then sat in the offered chair. He leaned close to her ear. The tiny hairs at her nape stood up and took notice. “Next time you can help, but tonight it would be my pleasure to serve you.” His soft voice and warm breath swirled around her ear and took hold deep inside. She was lost, submerged over her www.samhainpublishing.com 159
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head. But drowning in his voice and touch seemed preferable to waking from this dream.
“Would you like some wine?” He pulled a bottle from the ice bucket by the side of the table.
“No. Not for me,” she said, covering her wineglass with her hand. “It doesn’t work well with my medications.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot,” he said. Ice crunched as he reinserted the bottle. “I just forgot. Let me get those salads.”
He forgot—that meant he thought of her as normal. She relaxed in her chair. The warmth of his acceptance simmered down to her toes.
Who would believe those two words could sound so sweet.
He returned with two plates of salad and some of the yummiest rolls she had ever tasted.
“Where did you find these?” she asked, helping herself to a second one.
His dimple flashed in the candlelight. He stood and removed their empty salad plates. “I made them.”
“No,” she exclaimed. “They don’t teach this in business school.” In moments, he returned with two larger plates.
“I’m serious,” she said. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” She looked at the plate set before her, brimming with the pastry-covered beef, potatoes au gratin and asparagus. She groaned. “I can’t eat all that.”
He laughed. “I’ve got plenty of leftover takeout containers that can serve as a doggie bag.”
She sliced into the pastry-covered beef, releasing steam and meat juices. The tiny morsel of meat practically melted in her mouth in a burst of flavor. “Oreo will have to fight me to get hold of this. Delicious.”
“Thank you.” Although candlelight offered the only illumination, she thought his face brightened at her compliment. Obviously, he was proud of his culinary skills.
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“Now I wish I hadn’t eaten so many of those rolls,” she said, enjoying that her compliments lit his eyes with pleasure. She scooped a small forkful of potatoes. “Your mother must be a fabulous cook.”
He looked confused. “My mother?”
“Didn’t she teach you to cook this way?”
The light lifted from his face and receded in the dim corners of the room. “No. My mother never went into a kitchen unless it was to locate the sherry.”
She recognized the unexplored pain behind his words, but didn’t want to lose the earlier mood. “But someone had to teach you to cook like this.”
He put his fork on his plate and reached for the water goblet. “There was someone. Our family cook, Mrs. Thurgood. When I was growing up, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen. It was warm there…accepting…” He took a drink from the goblet then shrugged. “She taught me the joy of pounding dough.”
“You mean kneading?” she asked, enthralled at the changes in his expressions as he relived the past.
“Not the way I do it.” He laughed. “Eat up or we won’t have time for that dancing lesson.”
The rest of the meal passed with idle conversation. She helped clear the dishes, but he insisted the pots and pans could wait till morning. The dance lesson, he said, could not. With only one week to the big night, she agreed. She drifted out to the great room while he put away the perishables. With the furniture cleared to one side, the gleaming hardwood floors presented the perfect surface for an evening of dance.
She paused by one of the tables along the wall. Two large rectangular boxes were stacked one upon the other, the top one bearing the name MASQUE MAGIC.
“The costumes!” She reached for the top box, wanting to shake it as if it were discovered under a Christmas tree. “You didn’t tell me you had the costumes!”
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“That’s the surprise I mentioned earlier.” He crossed the floor to join her.
“What kind did you get? Is this one mine?” She didn’t give him time to answer before she slipped her fingers around the sides, jostling the top back and forth to separate it from the bottom. “You know, I have to admit, ever since you talked me into agreeing to go to this dance, I’ve been pretty excited about wearing a costume.” The top came free and she tossed it aside. But before she could explore the contents of the box, Hank put his hand on the obscuring white tissue paper.
“They didn’t have a lot to choose from,” he said with an apologetic tone. “I guess people reserve these things pretty early. I did the best I could.”
“I’m sure you did, but it doesn’t matter. I’m so excited.” Giddy with anticipation, she became the little girl she hadn’t had much of a chance to be. “I’ve never dressed up in a costume before. I could look like a frog and be happy.”
“Are you sure?”
His hesitancy gave her a moment’s discomfort, but she couldn’t restrain her enthusiasm. She tugged at his arm. “Let me see!”
He stepped back, allowing her room to dig into the box. She eagerly attacked the tissue paper. “As long as my face is covered so no one can see, that’s all I—”
Nestled within the rustling tissue paper lay a treasure of blue and gold. Her breath caught. “Oh, Hank…” She lifted the delicate costume by the shoulders. Sheer, wispy fabric petals of pale shimmering blue and translucent green unfolded from the box. Gossamer wings tipped in gold like those found on a dragonfly dripped from the back of the sparkling tunic. It was something from a dream, or at least a bedtime story, far more beautiful than anything she could have imagined.
“Is this for me?” Awe constricted her throat.
He laughed. “Do you think I could fit in that thing?”
Heat warmed her cheeks. “What is it?” she asked, surprised to hear she had spoken the words.
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“A fairy,” he said. “Or a sprite, I’m not sure I know the difference.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said with a note of wonder. And a miracle of construction. It even had a high bateau neckline that would cover her scar, just as she requested. The entire bodice was sprinkled with glittery sparkles dancing with light. “Perfect,” she added.
“I knew you’d like it. But it won’t be perfect until you try it on.” His face sparkled as if some of the fairy dust scattered on the costume had managed to get caught in his smile. That same dizzy, sinking feeling she had felt earlier resurged, but passed in her excitement.
“May I?” She clasped the garment to her chest. “I’ll need the mask.”
She quickly checked the inside of the box and found the tiny mask; elegant, sparkling, and not the least bit concealing. A lump formed in her throat. The ensemble was more beautiful than anything she had ever dreamed of wearing, but vastly inappropriate. How could she be anonymous with her face revealed? Her emotional carousel stopped.
Time to drift back to reality.
“The costume is really beautiful,” she slowly folded the material back into the box. “But, I don’t think this will—”
“Wait,” he said, pulling the second box out from under hers. “You haven’t seen the best part.”
“It doesn’t matter. It was a lovely thought, and I appreciate you picking out something so beautiful for me.” She couldn’t bear to turn around and look at him. Instead she focused on the bit of whimsy she would never get a chance to wear. She carefully folded the tissue back over the light airy petals. Tears threatened the corners of her eyes. She swiped at them before putting the top of the box back on. Another fantasy neatly contained and filed away, like so many others. “But it just won’t do,” she whispered.