Slowly she walked inside. For a
minute, unaccustomed to the bright lights, she did not notice
anything. Her gaze moved around the room; she wondered what it was
Nick wanted her to see. Then she saw it, above the
fireplace.
Suspended from the gypsum-whitewashed
wall was a gigantic blue sailfish, its streamlined body arched in
flight, its spotted tail fanned wide. It was the sailfish she had
caught in Cozumel!
“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to
go to San Ramon,” Nick said quietly behind her. “I wanted to get
you out of the house so the saiifish could be mounted in time for
Christmas.”
For someone else a mounted saiifish
for Christmas might be a letdown, but for her it showed he had must
have recalled more than once their honeymoon and that one sunny
afternoon when everything was right between them.
She turned around to face Nick, who
leaned casually against the doorway, watching her reaction. She bit
her lower lip, trying to contain the emotions that filled her. Joy,
pleasure, surprise. “Nick, I . . .” She could not find the words,
and he made no effort to help her.
Flustered and unable to restrain
herself, shee ran across the space that separated them and threw
her arms about Nick’s neck. Her lips brushed the warm hollow
beneath his jaw, and she felt the muscle there flicker in response.
“Nick,” she breathed, “I lo—” But she caught back the betraying
word in time and said, “I think it’s the most wonderful gift anyone
has ever given me.”
Nick’s hands went to her waist, and he
set her from him. He looked down into her upturned face. At last he
said, “I wanted something special for you, because you are a very
special person.”
She wanted so badly to
believe him. She wanted to believe that she was special to him.
Just for the Christmas holidays.
I will
let myself believe Nick. I won’t ask questions
. Shyly she pulled away. “I have something for you also,
Nick.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and
returned with a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. “It seems we
both had the same thing on our mind when we picked out gifts,” she
said softly as he unwrapped the box.
He took out the reel as reverently as
if he were handling some great religious artifact. “You don’t
already have one, do you?” she asked anxiously.
Nick smiled then, and she was certain
she saw pleasure in his eyes. “You won’t believe it,” he said,
slipping his hand up around her neck in an intimate gesture that
only a husband or a lover would use, “but I had a reel like this.
It was my favorite, and I dropped it in Elephant Butte Lake. I’ve
been meaning to try and find another one but just haven’t had the
chance.”
He bent over her and gently brushed
her lips with his. “Thank you, Julie – Mrs. Raffer.”
Reluctantly she stepped out of his
embrace and began to gather up the discarded Christmas paper and
wrapping. She was besieged by conflicting emotions. At one moment
she wanted Nick to make love to her again, for her skin still
burned with the ferocity of his lovemaking that afternoon. On the
other hand, each time she gave herself up to Nick, she felt as if
she were losing a part of herself. Soon she would be nothing but a
mindless puppet in his control. . . and then she would become like
the other women he had tired of so quickly. All except for Sheila
Morrison, she reminded herself.
Nick solved her dilemma for her, for
when she came out of the bathroom that evening dressed in a
shimmering white lace and satin nightgown, the lights were out, and
Nick, sprawled on his stomach on his side of the immense bed,
seemed to be asleep. She lay between the cold sheets thinking how
much better it must have been in Elizabeth’s and her own
grandmother’s day when couples were forced to sleep together in
much narrower beds, touching, feeling, hearing the soft breathing
of their loved ones. She would willingly have bet that it was
extremely difficult under those conditions to stay angry . . . or
indifferent.
Yet she could hardly call Nick
indifferent Christmas Day. If anything, he was attentive. He built
a roaring fire in the fireplace and helped in the kitchen as she
prepared the Christmas dinner. Once, as she bent over the open oven
to test the duck she was roasting, Nick’s hands encircled her waist
to pull her back against him. Her head tipped backward on his
shoulder. She was afraid to move, to break the spell, as Nick’s
teeth played gently with her ear and his hands ran slowly,
tantalizingly, over her hips to press against the taut muscles of
her abdomen.
“You know, Mrs. Raffer,” he said
lightly, “you tempt me to forgo that savory duck dinner in lieu of
other delectable treats.”
She twisted in his arms so that she
was facing him. “And you tempt me, Nick,” she said bravely. She met
his searching gaze unflinchingly. “You know you’ve made me want
you, even when I swore I didn’t. You’ve won. Isn’t that what you
wanted from me?”
“It’ll do for a start,” he said and,
taking the spatula from her hand, set it on the counter. He untied
the bow of her apron, letting the apron flutter to the floor at
their feet.
One by one his fingers loosed the
buttons of her silk print blouse. When his hands slipped around her
rib cage to free her breasts from her bra, she knew she was lost.
By the time Nick made her his, she knew he would have no doubt of
her love for him.
But I’ll make certain your brain and
body burn with the memory of our lovemaking, Nicholas Raffer, she
silently vowed.
With deliberate leisureliness, she
unbuttoned Nick’s shirt. Nick’s brows raised ques- tioningly, as
though to ask her if she understood the implications of what she
was doing.
Her hand reached for the snap of his
slacks, her fingers deftly loosening the catch. Still Nick did not
move. His eyes scorched her face. Her fingers halted at the zipper,
and she stood on tiptoe, her hands splaying against his chest for
balance, and kissed the carved lines of his lips before playfully
teasing them with her tongue.
“Dinner can wait,” Nick growled. He
reached behind her to switch off the oven, then gathered her up in
his arms. She could hear Nick’s heart thudding furiously in tempo
with her own. When he went to lay her on the bed, she pulled him
down with her. Tonight she would play the siren!
Her hands cupped the squared-off lines
of his jaw, and she drew his lips down to hers. Nick’s tongue
explored her mouth with a thoroughness that left her yearning for
more when his lips at last deserted hers to travel down the smooth
column of her neck.
Her fingers entwined in his hair as
his lips flicked the hard buttons of her breasts. “The morsels you
offer are much more tempting than the roast duck,” he whispered
against the soft mound.
The realization slowly dawned on her
that no longer was she the seducer. Nick had swiftly turned the
tables, and it was she who lay trembling, waiting for him to make
her complete. He came to her then, gently, tenderly, patiently. And
when it was over, she buried her head in the hollow of his
shoulder, so he would not see the ecstasy, the love, that she felt
surely must shine in her eyes. “Sleepy?” Nick asked, nuzzling her
temple with his chin.
She shook her head, afraid even to
speak. She wanted the intimate, loving feeling between them to
continue, to flow like a river out of their lovemaking into every
corner of their lives, the way the love her parents shared
completely filled their lives.
But the ringing of the telephone
shattered the brief, ecstatic moment, and Nick cursed beneath his
breath. He raised on one elbow and looked at her with a grin. “If
it’s that Dee Morley, I swear I’ll get a bill passed to prohibit
gossip columnists from using telephones.”
“Should we just let it ring?” she
asked uncertainly.
Nick sighed and unwillingly withdrew
his gaze from the sight of her breasts. “No,” he said, rising from
the bed; “it must be something important for whoever it is to call
on Christmas Day.”
Her eyes followed his lean, muscle-
corded body across the shadowy room. Her own body felt bereft now
that he had left her, and she mentally cursed the telephone
herself.
Nick turned to her, his eyes hard as
stones, and held out the receiver, saying, “It’s for you.” She
looked from the receiver back to him, and he added harshly, “It’s
Jim Miller.”
She gathered the rumpled sheet about
her and crossed to Nick, taking the receiver. “Hello?”
“Julie,” Jim said, “I hate to disturb
you, but I wanted to catch you before you took off for somewhere,
and I was unable to reach you yesterday. We’re going to have to do
a New Year’s special edition on ‘New Mexico—Its Wealth and Its
Waste.’ Do you think you could come in for a couple of days and
work up a piece for me on the state’s political issues?” She looked
to Nick, who was calmly shrugging into his knit shirt. Perhaps she
had mistaken the anger she had seen on his face for irritation. “Of
course, Jim, I’d love to.”
“
Great! I’ll fill you in on
the slant I want you to take tomorrow.”
She hung up the receiver. She hoped
Nick would question her about the call so she could explain to him
about Jim, but he showed no curiosity at all. “Nick,” she began
hesitantly, “Jim wants me to do some articles for the Sun. It’s a
rush job, or he wouldn’t have bothered—”
“Fine,” Nick said evenly. He kissed
her briefly on the forehead and said, “Let’s eat. I’ve got a lot of
paperwork to catch up on.”
Whatever intimacy she had hoped to
establish was gone, and Nick returned to the cool, detached man who
had rescued her and taken her to his mountain cabin. If he resented
the hours she spent working late with Jim, hedid not show it. In
fact, he seemed to stay as busy as she.
She often feared that someone else had
taken her place in Nick’s arms, for he did not seek her out at all
now. She half expected him to tell her he was ready to put an end
to their marriage and wondered if her empty threat to get even with
him through her column kept him from it.
Yet somehow she didn’t think her
threat would stop Nick if he decided to end their mockery of a
marriage. And then there was the fact that she occasionally had
caught his lazy gaze on her as she moved about the house—which gave
her hope that she still might have the power to arouse his
interest.
Late one night that same week she
awoke to the blustery roar of one of winter’s northers that would
sometimes descend on Santa Fe with sudden and rapid violence. She
lay huddled on her side of the bed, unable to sleep and wishing
fervently for the warm comfort of Nick’s arms.
The winter storm must have awakened
him also, for a few minutes later she heard him shift and saw the
flare of a match. She said nothing, but when he ground out the
cigarette stub, he turned to her and drew her into his arms,
pressing her head against his shoulder. “Try and get some sleep,
love,” he said. “The storm will soon pass by.”
She fell asleep, cradled in Nick’s
arms, with hope in her heart... a hope that was dashed the next day
when Nick told her of the invitation they had to attend a special
exhibition of one of New Mexico’s Indian artists that Sheila
Morrison was sponsoring.
Julie paused in brushing her hair. She
looked in the mirror at Nick’s reflection. “Do we have to go?” she
asked, forcing a lightness to her voice. “I really don’t know that
much about art.”
“It’d be a good chance to learn,” Nick
said, loosening the knot in his tie. “Besides, part of my platform
when I ran for senator was to support Indian involvement in our
state, and I feel it’s my duty to attend the function.”
She tried to tell herself she was
making something out of nothing . . . that until Nick came to her
and told her he no longer wanted her as his wife, she had a chance
to make him love her.
Still, it was with a sense of
foreboding that she prepared for the exhibition Saturday afternoon.
She donned a toast-colored crepe skirt with a matching blouse that
frothed about the neck and wrists. She studied her face in the
mirror as she applied a faint touch of blusher and decided she
looked attractive. But was she attractive enough to compete with
Sheila’s stunning beauty?
She dreaded so much another
confrontation with the beautiful, sophisticated woman that she was
hardly aware of the drive along Santa Fe’s historical streets. And
when Nick stopped the car in the ancient plaza for a tourist who
was photographing the Palacio, the oldest public building in the
United States, she almost pleaded a headache so that she might
forgo the dreaded meeting with Sheila.
The exhibition was being held at a
gallery located on the winding, tree-shaded Canyon Road where fine
old adobe homes rubbed elbows with art studios and quaint
restaurants. A little bell tinkled when Nick opened the door of the
two-story art gallery. Although they were early, there were already
half a dozen people viewing the artist’s paintings or milling
around the elaborately decorated table set with a punch bowl,
champagne glasses, and dishes of cheese wedges.
To her relief Sheila was nowhere in
sight, and she could only hope Nick would not want to stay long. As
usual, Nick knew several of the people there and was introducing
Julie to an older couple who shared an opera box next to his when
she saw Sheila descending the stairs. With her was the Indian
artist, Paul Htchapi.