Authors: Elizabeth Adler
By the time they reached a grassy plateau, another half hour later, her boots were gripping her swollen toes like a vise, her heavy shorts were rubbing her thighs, and she was sweating. She flung herself thankfully onto the grass, too winded even to speak.
“Enjoyed that, huh?” Harry said.
She glared up at him. “Sadist,” she gasped.
He hunkered down next to her, running his fingers over the red weals where the thick canvas shorts had rubbed her thighs. “What have you got on under there?” he asked.
“This is entirely the wrong moment for that kind of talk, detective.”
“Give me credit, Malone. I’m not making a pass at you. I asked what you’re wearing underneath because you can’t wear these ridiculous shorts on the way back down.
Unless you enjoy having your skin flayed from your bones.”
“Oh,” she said, disgruntled. “Okay. I’m wearing boxers.”
He nodded. “Then take off the shorts. But whatever you do, don’t take off your boots. You’ll never get them back on again. Here, wait a minute—let me.” He knelt in front of her and loosened the laces. The circulation started to flow again, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
He turned his back while she removed the shorts. “Okay, I’m decent,” she said in a small embarrassed voice.
He looked at her, then laughed. “Well, what do you know.
Pink
.”
“Stop it, Harry Jordan, just stop it,” she said furiously. “My underwear has nothing to do with you.”
“Right now it does, Malone. It’s your pink butt I’ll be following all the way back home.” He relented and took her hand to help her up. “Hold on to me,” he said, “it can get a bit slippery.”
Halfway back down the trail, she noticed that the sky had clouded over. Within minutes its color turned from dove gray to steel, then to graphite. The rain hit the canopy of leaves above them like rifle shots, pelting down in huge fat drops, then quickly turned into a sheet of water.
She lagged behind. Harry marched ahead, unperturbed by the sudden deluge, and beyond him Squeeze’s tail waved like a flag. She trudged on, determined not to complain. Her clothes stuck to her like wet laundry, her feet hurt, and the trail had turned into mud. She slipped and fell, then got up quickly, gritting her teeth. “You are not going to whine,” she muttered to herself. “You are definitely not going to say why the hell did you bring me on this ridiculous hike. You are most definitely
not
going to cry.”
“Just look at that, will you.” Harry stopped suddenly,
and she barged into him. He grabbed her to keep her from falling and whispered, “Look. Up in the tree.”
A family of raccoons were perched in the branches. They stared solemnly down at them, their round eyes ringed in black and white like cartoon characters—a mother, a father, and two babies. It was one of the most entrancing things Mal had ever seen. Somehow the silver sheet of rain made it even more magical.
Harry noticed the megawatt smile light up her face. She had abandoned her baseball cap, and her wet hair was plastered to her skull. Her shirt and pink boxer shorts clung affectionately to her body, spattered with mud. She must have fallen because her knees were skinned, though she had not complained.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“How much farther?” Mal hated herself for saying that—it had just sort of slipped out.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, one dark eyebrow raised. “You quittin’ on me?”
“No, I am not.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to carry you.”
She glared murderously at his back, then plodded after him, putting one foot after the other, her eyes fixed on the muddy ground. After what seemed a long, wet, painful time, he called over his shoulder, “Home at last.”
They were at the bottom of the steep incline leading up to the cabin. She stared at the slope. It looked like Mount Everest. Her thighs felt like rubber, her shins hurt, and her feet were twice their normal size. She gulped, wondering how she was going to make it.
“Not thinking of giving up now, are you, Malone?”
He was standing next to her. Her lip trembled, but she wasn’t going to be beaten. “I’ll do it even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees,” she muttered.
He shook his head, marveling at her. “There’s no need for such an act of penitence.”
“You bastard,
Harry Jordan,” she cried, limping determinedly toward the slope.
He grabbed hold of her and swung her into his arms. She fought him, but he said, “Come on, Malone. You know you’ll never make it.” It was true, even though she hated him for saying it.
He carried her into the house, across the hall, all the way up the stairs to her room. He deposited her in a chair, put a match to the logs in the grate, and strode into the bathroom.
The bastard wasn’t even winded, Mal thought bitterly. She heard water running, then the scent of lilacs filtered into the room.
The fire was crackling nicely by the time he returned. “Your bath is ready, madame,” he said. She hadn’t moved a muscle since he had put her in the chair, and his guess was that she couldn’t.
Kneeling in front of her, he unlaced her boots, easing them off as gently as he could. She groaned as he pulled off the thick socks. There was a trail of blisters across her pink toes and raw places on her heels where the boots had rubbed. He sighed, then brought a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze from the bathroom.
She was slumped in the chair with her head thrown back and her legs sticking out in front of her, like a broken doll. “This is going to sting a little,” he warned. Squatting beside her, he cleaned her grazed knees and wounded feet.
“Ouch,” she muttered without opening her eyes. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
“Okay, the worst is over. Now it’s bath time.”
She opened her eyes and looked warily at him, but he simply picked her up again and carried her into the bathroom. “I assume you are able to disrobe entirely by yourself?”
“You assume entirely correctly.” She glared furiously at him.
He smiled cheerily as he closed the door. “Oh, Malone?” He popped his head back in again and heard her groan. “I had intended to take you to the inn for dinner tonight, but I think we need to take time out for injuries. What do you say I cook up a little supper here at home?”
“You? Cook supper?” She gave a skeptical laugh.
“Wait and see, Malone, before you criticize,” he said loftily as he disappeared.
Just lying in the hot bathwater in the huge, old, lion-clawed tub was the closest thing to heaven Mal had experienced all day. With the exception of the picnic, perhaps. And the raccoon family peering at her through the rain. And the sight of Squeeze cavorting with the sheer joy of being alive.
She wallowed in the tub like a seal in surf, her achcs diminishing as the wonderful warmth seeped back into her veins. The bathwater smelled of lilacs. She noticed a new jar of bath oil on the Victorian washstand. It could not belong to Harry’s mother; it simply was not her style. Harry must have bought it specially for her.
He wasn’t going to get around her that easily, she thought, amused, not after what he had just put her through.
She climbed from the tub, wrapped herself in an enormous fluffy white towel, then limped into the bedroom. She lingered in front of the fire, drying herself, reveling in the heat. There had been a moment, there in the great outdoors, when she had thought she might never be warm again.
She brushed her hair, rubbed moisturizer into her weather-battered face, and patted soothing lotion onto her wounds. She hesitated for a second, then without stopping to think why, she sprayed herself liberally with Nocturnes.
Then she pulled on a pair of oversized blue flannel men’s pajamas, stuffed her blistered feet into white sweat-socks, and rummaged in her bag for a robe. She had forgotten to pack one. Fuming, she tugged a blue sweater over the pajamas.
Then she brushed her damp hair and inspected herself in the mirror. Her face was pink from the bath, her hair was flat, and she had no makeup on. She removed her contact lenses and put on her small gold-rimmed glasses. If Harry Jordan had had any amorous ideas, she thought, he would forget them the moment he clapped eyes on her. She looked a mess.
Good smells were coming from the kitchen as she limped stiffly down the stairs. The lamps were lit, and an enormous log burned crisply in the huge grate. One of Miffy’s ancient long-players spun a little scratchily on the record player, but the music was good: Nat King Cole singing “When I Fall in Love.” An open bottle of wine, with two plain but beautiful glasses, awaited them on the coffee table in front of the fire.
Mal sank into the sofa nearest the blaze. She put her feet up with a thankful sigh, wondering how long blisters took to heal and whether she would ever be able to get her shoes on again. The rain was still beating against the wall of glass, and the tops of the trees were tossing in the wind.
She snuggled into the depths of the sofa, feeling a sudden glow of well-being. There was something secure about being in a cozy firelit room while a storm raged outside.
“There you are.” Harry breezed in, wearing his frayed 501s and a white shirt. A blue-striped butcher’s apron was tied around his waist, and a clean white dish towel was slung over his arm, exactly like a French waiter. He poured wine into their glasses, glancing at her, taking in
the oversize pajamas, the sweater, the absence of makeup, and the little gold spectacles. “Feeling better?”
“Thank you, yes. But I’m still mad at you for that hike.”
A pained expression crossed his face. He gave her a glass of wine and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “It was those ridiculous new boots that gave you problems. In the right boots you would have been able to walk ten more miles.”
“How many miles did I walk?”
He shrugged. “Five. Six, maybe.”
“Vertically.”
“Oh, come on. The gradient was minor.”
“Minor!”
She glared at him, and then he said, reasonably, “You could have called it quits anytime on the way up. How was I supposed to know you were in pain? What are you, a martyr or something?”
She knew he was right and that it was her own stubbornness, plus her ill-fitting expensive new boots, that had been the trouble. “We’re fighting again,” she said.
Their eyes connected, and that little electric current passed between them.
“This wine’s too good to waste in a fight.”
She took a sip. “Is the food going to be as good as this?”
“The food!” He ran for the kitchen, and she smiled, relaxing. He was right—this was an evening to savor. The storm outside, the crackling log fire, the lamplight, the sweet music, the good wine. She sighed happily. It was almost worth the torture of the hike.
“Dinner is served.” He came back bearing a tray. “I thought we might eat here, in front of the fire. It’s a frittata omelette—my only claim to culinary fame.”
He put down the tray and cut a wedge from the thick,
round, slightly burned omelette. He slid it onto a green plate shaped like a lettuce leaf and set it in front of her.
“A Van Gogh omelette,” she said admiringly. He wasn’t listening—he was looking at her. “You remember, like the Matisse sandwich,” she prompted.
“I was just thinking how very pretty you look tonight. The sweater matches your eyes—sapphire blue. And I like the glasses.”
“Now you know the worst. This is the real me.” She couldn’t take him staring at her like that. Why did he have to look as if he knew more about her than she knew herself?
Harry gave her a skeptical look, but all he said was, “Eat your omelette, Malone, before it gets cold.”
She took a bite. “This is delicious. Whatever did you put in there?”
“Asparagus, potatoes, chicken—the picnic, in fact. Plus eggs, a little onion, a touch of garlic.”
“You were holding out on me. You
can
cook.”
“This is it. Usually it’s pizza and the microwave.”
She laughed. “With me it’s cornflakes. A no-cooking standby from my childhood.”
“Tell me more about that childhood.”
She took a sip of wine, looking away from him into the flames. “It’s a shame to spoil a beautiful evening talking about me.”
He shook his head, exasperated. “There you go again. Anyhow, it was in our deal, remember? I tell you my story, you tell me yours. As of now, only one of us has completed that part of the contract.”
Mal had edited her life story to such a minimum, she almost believed that was all there was to it. Great painful chunks had been lopped out, discarded with the person who used to be Mary Mallory Malone.
Her cheeks were burning as she tugged off her sweater. She fanned her face, pretending it was the heat of the
flames and not his gray eyes that were raising her temperature.
Nat King Cole ground scratchily to a halt. Harry got up and ran his finger along the stack of tides. He chose one, put it on, then turned down the dimmer and came and sat next to her.
The log shifted, sending a pretty shower of sparks up the chimney. Rain beat against the windows, and the mellow strings of Nelson Riddle swooned in back of Sinatra singing softly, “Come fly with me, Come fly, Let’s fly away ….”
Mal felt as though she were flying, suspended in time and space. There was just this cabin on the side of a mountain miles from anywhere. In fact, it was altogether too dangerously seductive.
He said, “I often come here alone. After a hard day’s hike or a bike ride, I light a fire, open some wine, put on some music …”
“Dim the lights.”
“Sure I dim the lights. That way I can see the trees outside, and the moon.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s no moon tonight.”
“I was speaking figuratively.”
She peered at him over the top of her glasses, wondering about the women he must have brought here. It was too much to expect a man like Harry to have been alone all the time. She felt that little tug of green-eyed jealousy again and told herself sternly it was none of her business. Oh, yeah, she answered herself, mockingly, then why do you want to reach out and touch him? And why can’t you take your eyes from his?
Harry couldn’t drag his eyes away from her either. Her face was flushed, and her blond hair had dried into a smooth golden helmet. Her blue eyes looked huge behind the strong lenses. He’d bet that without the glasses, she couldn’t see more than two feet in front of her.