The Snow Falcon (45 page)

She began to walk toward her car, and as she drew closer, she could see there had been some kind of commotion at Clancys. A small knot of people were milling about outside, some of them drunk, and someone was cleaning up broken glass. Whatever had happened appeared to be all over now. As she crossed the street, a figure came toward her from the shadows, and for a moment she thought it was Coop.

Michael stopped when he saw her. For most of the night he’d sat with an untouched beer, thinking about leaving, thinking about Susan. An hour ago he’d left the bar to go home, but he’d seen Susan’s Ford and guessed she was at the dance, and while he lingered in the dark, he saw Coop go past, heading toward Clancys, where it sounded as if a fight had broken out. Then he’d waited, uncertain what he should do. As he watched her draw closer, he knew he felt something he’d been holding back for a while, something he hadn’t dared admit

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to himself. He was certain she’d been in the clearing that night, and he knew that if Rachel hadn’t been there, something would have happened between him and Susan. Rachel’s words came back to him. She was right: He had used up his share of chances. Was he going to let go the last one he might ever have?

He stepped forward to meet her. “Hello,” he said.

Her step faltered, and for a second he thought she’d pass him by.

She stopped. “Hello.”

“How was the dance?”

“It was fine.” She looked back toward the hotel. “Coop had to leave.”

“Oh, right. There was trouble at the bar, I think.” She looked beyond him, refusing to meet his eye.

“Well…” She started to go past him.

“Look.” He put his hand on her arm, and for a moment they were both looking at it. He let it drop.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to say.” He wasn’t sure how to go on. Her face was a mask giving nothing away, and he was unsure of his ground.

“Go on,” she prompted.

“The night I saw you. In the clearing.”

Her mouth tightened, and he got the impression she didn’t want to be reminded of that. He went on quickly.

“The person you saw…” He looked for a way to make this better than it was going to sound. “The thing is, she was just a friend.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Wait.” He stopped her again and felt her bristle. “Why did you come over that night?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied brusquely.

Michael let go of her arm, but she didn’t leave. For what seemed like a long time they stood apart, searching each other’s expressions. He didn’t know what she was thinking, and wasn’t certain of himself, but neither of them moved. He looked at her closely, at the shape of her eyes and the shades of green they contained, at her wide mouth and soft full lips. Her face was more familiar to him than he’d known. He’d absorbed more of her detail than he’d thought. He could smell her scent, and a streetlamp threw light and shadows onto her hair. Her coat had fallen open, and he saw her shiver, saw her breasts rise

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with her breathing, and what he wanted more than anything he had ever wanted in his life was to hold her.

Susan saw his intention in his eyes before he moved. She sensed his need, and it wakened in her a yearning loneliness she’d kept buried for too long. His hands fell to her waist, and for just a brief moment she resisted.

She flinched, staring at him. He bent to kiss her and she turned her face up to meet his, and then nothing else registered except the feeling of him holding her, pressing his mouth and body against hers.

IN THE DARKNESS across the street, Coop watched unseen. His fists were balled, anger and hurt ripping his insides to shreds. He knew he’d been kidding himself all along, that Susan had never really felt anything for him. But it might have worked out. Sometimes people grow to love others slowly, and maybe that’s what would have happened if he’d had a chance. Jamie would have come around in time, and she would have, too. Somehow he knew that’s what this was all about. She was so worried for Jamie that she was confusing her emotions. He didn’t see what else it could be. Somers was a jailbird, he’d gone crazy and shot somebody, so how could Susan go for him if he hadn’t turned her head, getting Jamie all tied up with that falcon of his. He thought maybe he ought to go over there and do something about it, make her see she was making a hell of a big mistake. He had to struggle to remain where he was, knowing that getting into a fight wouldn’t solve anything. It might give him some brief satisfaction to smash his fist into Somers’s face, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere with Susan. What he had to do was keep calm and think things through. He had to figure out a way to talk to her calmly and make her see what was happening, that it was all wrong.

He stayed hidden in the shadows, and when they’d gone, driving away in their separate cars without either of them seeing him, he smashed his fist violently into the door he was standing by. He felt his knuckles crack, the tight skin split and erupt, smearing blood across the wood. Pain flashed bright like a flare in his brain and focused his anger, his hurt, and he turned and slowly walked back to the station house.

Miller looked up from his desk, where he had begun writing out

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a report on the brawl that had broken out at Clancys, and was surprised, then puzzled, to see Coop back again. “I thought you’d gone back to the hotel,” he said.

“I changed my mind.” Coop went to his desk and sat down. “Listen, it’s all quiet now, why don’t you go home?” he said.

“I was going to get this report done.” He saw Coop’s fist, shredded skin and blood beneath a hastily wrapped handkerchief that he was now unwinding. “Shit, did that happen back there?”

“Yeah,” Coop said. “Listen, the report can wait. Go on, I’ll finish up here.”

Miller got up hesitantly. “Well, okay then.”

Miller stopped at the door, suddenly unsure. Coop looked as if he’d been poleaxed or something, he had a different look about him, sort of glazed but like he was struggling to hold some deep emotion in check. Miller wondered what had happened after Coop had left Clancys.

“Listen, Coop, I don’t mind hanging around—

Coop waved him away. “Go home.”

Miller hesitated a fraction longer, then shrugged and grabbed his coat. “See you in the morning,” he said, but Coop didn’t answer.

Coop waited until he was alone, then went to a cabinet where he kept a bottle of bourbon. It was mostly full, hardly touched in the time it had been there, which was longer than Coop could remember. He sat down again and took the velvet box from his pocket and opened it. He stared at the ring while he poured a drink, then he put the ring down on the desk and swallowed a half glass in one go. He poured another. There were points of light like miniature stars in the diamond, winking in the dim light.

Coop snapped the case shut and threw it into the back of a drawer.

“PLEASE …” HER VOICE was a murmur, just a movement of her lips. She didn’t know what she was asking. Their lips brushed, then he pulled away.

They hadn’t spoken much since arriving at his house. All kinds of things had gone through her mind on the way, doubts, anxieties, but she pushed them aside. Inside they were awkward in each other’s company and with the situation.

“Would you like a drink?” Michael offered uncertainly. “I think I’ve got whiskey somewhere, or bourbon?”

She shook her head, looking around the living room. The furniture was old, the air faintly musty. Michael guessed what she was thinking.

“I don’t use this room much.” He lit a fire, more to give himself something to do than anything else, while she sat on the couch, shoulders hunched and knees drawn tightly together, hugging herself for warmth. Flames flickered and caught, and he stood up.

When he’d met her in the street, he’d been certain of what he wanted. He wanted to hold her, feel her warmth and reassuring presence. He wanted her softness, her arms around him, her lips against his ear, whispering, her legs around him drawing him close, his face in her hair, inhaling her sweet female scent. Now it seemed they were stalled. She was wrapped in herself as if she was drawing away, unsure of him. He wondered if she was thinking about him leaving, unsure why she was there and why he wanted her.

She met his eye and gave a wan smile. There was a gap between them that neither was sure how to bridge. Each sensed the other’s need, and perhaps that was their stumbling block. Perhaps each needed somebody who wasn’t weighed down with uncertainty.

Neither of them moved, and a minute went by, feeling like an hour. Then at last Susan stood. She’d been thinking of David, and his image had become grainy, his smile dissolving as he receded into her memory, where she would now hold him. She took both of Michael’s hands in hers. She searched his eyes, saw his need, her own rising in her breast. The touch of a body, a body she could love.

“I haven’t done this for a long time,” she said.

“Me neither.” He half smiled, ironically.

“I want you to know something,” she said, holding his eye. “This means something to me. It’s not something I do lightly.”

He nodded, and silence crept over them. Eventually he said, “If it makes a difference, I love you.” He watched her reaction, and in the quiet stillness of the room he felt a heavy weight he’d been carrying around lift away from him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve said those words.”

She smiled slowly, reached up, and kissed him softly. “Where’s your bedroom?”

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He led her upstairs, and they stood together beside his bed. The door was closed, and it was very dark, so dark it was like being folded into something almost tactile.

For long minutes they held each other without moving. Only now did she know how lonely she had been, and she knew he understood that better than anyone. It felt as if they could just stand there for all time, just letting that emptiness melt away from each other, just so they could feel another human breathing, another heartbeat, the smell of skin and hair and some huge swell of emotion welling from deep within. She felt tears running across her cheeks, which perplexed her because she didn’t feel sad.

She traced her fingers across his back, and moved apart from him to raise her mouth to be kissed. Their lips brushed, hesitant at first. Then their mouths met, and she felt his need like hunger and her own, too.

“Wait.” She stood back so that there was space between them, and in that absence of touch there was pleasure in denial. She could barely make out his shape in the pitch-black of his room, but she sensed that his eyes were closed. She reached toward him and, when he moved, laid a restraining hand against him. She wanted to remove his clothes, to feel him naked. There was something ritualistic about it that felt right. It had a meaning beyond merely being erotic, and he was unresisting, as if he sensed what she was feeling.

She closed her eyes, doing everything by touch. Her fingers brushed softly, trailing across his body. She took off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. When he was completely naked, she placed her hands against the sides of his head. She felt his hair, its thick wavy texture, then moved across his forehead and eyes, probing the hollows and planes of his features. She put her finger between his lips. When she moved across his chest and sides, she counted his ribs beneath lean hard flesh. She could feel his musculature beneath her fingertips. They skimmed across his belly, brushing against his erection. She was mapping his being, committing him to memory, taking sensual pleasure after the long absence of touch. She touched every part of him, making currents of air as she moved around him, her hands caressing, leaving, caressing again. Her fingers glided over his shoulders and along his arms, and she raised his hands to her mouth.

She slid her hands across his buttocks, then put her arms around him and held him. He shivered at her touch. She knelt in front of

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him so that she could explore his thighs, then moved down his legs to his feet, tracing each toe and then resting her face against his belly. He was absorbed in her cells and nerves and captured in the impulses in her brain.

When she stood, she guided his hands to her clothes.

He undressed her as she had him, by touch. Though he couldn’t see her, it was like unwrapping some precious gift, and in his mind he transformed what he touched and felt into an image of her that was more real than mere vision. She reacted, her flesh rippling almost undetectably, nerve endings shivering. When her dress fell from her body, he heard the soft sound it made. He gathered her hair from her forehead so that it fell down her back, leaving her shoulders naked except for the thin straps of her bra. He explored the delicate bones that ran from her neck to her shoulders, where the skin stretched tight, forming deep hollows beside her throat. Gently he pressed his thumbs there, thinking that if there was light, he’d see deep accentuating shadows. He slid the straps across her shoulders, pushing them down her arms, and reached around to unfasten the clasp.

Her breasts were soft and full. Rolling his thumbs across her nipples, he felt them grow hard, and he brushed them with his mouth as he knelt to take off her panties. They were cut high on her thigh, and he traced their outline across her hips and buttocks. He touched her belly, then his hand rested against the soft swell at the junction of her thighs. He guessed that she shaved herself and imagined her performing that intimate task. She stepped out of her panties, and he rose and guided her toward the bed.

Naked and shrouded by darkness, they lay down together side by side, the mattress giving way beneath them, only their arms touching. They kissed and moved closer, pressing belly and thigh, her breasts against his chest, their arms wrapping around each other. He wanted the moment to last forever. Her full wide mouth enveloped him in softness, and he felt he wanted to be sucked inside her and held there, cherished and safe. At the same time, he felt that her need was equal to his own, and he rolled above her, supporting his weight on his elbows, wanting to give back what he felt.