To See The Daises ... First (4 page)

"Exactly," he confirmed stubbornly. "And I don't imagine it will be all that long before everything comes back to you. So you can just relax and enjoy my hospitality."

***

Sunny followed Ben up the narrow staircase. The large stone mansion they had entered moments earlier must have been, at one time, a scene of nineteenth-century gracious living. Now, however, it was reduced to apartment for rent status and had not accepted the change gracefully. The patchwork division of living space sat uneasily amidst the ornate crown molding and once beautiful ceiling medallions.

At the top of the three flights of stairs, Ben inserted a key into the door while Sunny looked around her curiously. Across the hall a door squeaked slowly open and two eyes appeared on a level with her shoulders. As Ben opened his door, she wiggled her fingers in greeting to the eyes that disappeared magically when she smiled and winked.

"Well, such as it is, welcome to my castle," Ben said as he moved aside and waved her in.

The large room was saved from being dreary by huge windows, and the splashes of color, in the form of paintings and throw pillows, that had been added to the walls and furniture.

"I like it," she said, moving toward a Thomas Eakins print that hung beside one window. "It's nice."

"As compared to what—the city sewers?" he retorted.

She turned to look at him over her shoulder and grinned. "As compared to the bus station."

"Point taken," he said, answering her grin as he watched her walk around the room.

When she came to the sturdy oak desk, she paused. She studied the portable typewriter, then the crumpled paper in the wastebasket.

"Are you a writer?" she asked, intrigued at the thought of finding another flaw in the president-of-the-bank image he exuded.

"Right now I'm a hack," he said. "Someday I hope to be a writer."

"A hack?"

He sat down on the faded green sofa and indicated that she should be seated also. "I write articles for magazines that have a combined circulation of about twenty. I write about the danger of hand guns and the danger of letting the government control our lives. I write about the inadequacy of our government and the beauty of the democratic system. About how unions are upholding workers' rights and how they are ruining free enterprise. In other words, I'm a whore. They pay the money and they call the shots."

Staring at the deep lines of bitterness in his strong face, she said, "You sound very . . . disillusioned. Have you been doing this long?"

"Five months, two weeks, and three days," he said wearily, raising a hand to massage his neck. "I left the nine-to-five job, the cocktail lunches, and the neckties behind and set out to prove something to myself. I proved something all right, but it wasn't exactly what I had expected."

"What did you set out to prove?"

"A lot of things. Some of them really too nebulous to put into words. But the main thing was that I could make a living at writing."

"And are you?"

"Sure. If you can call this living."

She laughed softly at the disgust in his voice. "What's wrong with it? Are you hankering after the nice suburban house and Cadillac that went with the nine-to-five? What is it that you're lacking, except pots of money which you apparently didn't mind giving up?"

"Integrity," he said quietly. "It's what I didn't have before and what I had hoped to gain by what I'm doing. Truth was what I was looking for . . . and maybe self-worth."

"I take it the job you had before was not fulfilling." She paused as a new thought struck her. "Did a wife and the two-point-five kids go with the neckties?"

"No," he said, smiling. "But I came too close for comfort. In fact that's one of the reasons I dropped out of the whole thing. I had a wife once, about ten years ago. But when she could scarcely remember my name to introduce me to her date at a party, we decided to call it quits. Then six months ago I found that almost without my knowledge the same thing was happening all over again. I was engaged to a woman who suddenly looked like my ex-wife's clone. I'm not ashamed to say it scared the hell out of me. I could see myself bumping into her at a party ten years from now and trying to remember her name. So I chucked it all. The job, the house, the cars—everything. I wanted no reminders to detract me from the goal I had set for myself."

"And that was?"

"The usual one. To write the Great American Novel. To make what I consider an honest living, without any double-dealing or having to compromise my principles." He muttered a low, unrepeatable expletive under his breath. "God, what a laugh. I'm still compromising my principles, only now I'm doing it for substandard wages."

Sunny didn't speak for a moment. She stared across the room, thinking about what he had said. Even when he tried to be casual and blase about what had happened and was happening to him now, it was clear that he was hiding a wealth of pain. Two men seemed to be struggling for control of his mind—the man whose every movement and thought was precise and economical, and the man whose hair was a little too long and who hurt because he overlooked the daisies.

"Are you a good writer?" she asked quietly.

He stared at her for a moment. "Yes," then more emphatically, "Yes, I am. I'm a damn good writer."

"Are you writing lies?"

He gave her a quizzical look. "No, not lies exactly. There are always two sides to everything. I may believe one particular way, but that doesn't mean I can't see the opposite side. I give the truth that exists on whatever side I happen to be writing about."

"So you aren't really compromising your principles," she said. "You're simply a purveyor of facts. What's so despicable about that? The Encyclopedia Britannica does it all the time. That's not exactly shabby company to be in."

"Okay, I get your point," he said, walking across the room to the window. "But I want to do more than inform. I want to stir emotions, to sway opinions with my writing."

"You want too much, too fast," she said earnestly. "If you are truly a good writer, then all that will come. Nothing will be able to hold it back. But what makes you think you don't have to serve an apprenticeship first just like everyone else? If it were all handed to you on a platter, would it be worth very much to you? Think of the sense of accomplishment you'll feel when you reach your goal at last. Think of—I beg your pardon? Did you say something?"

"I said Sunny is the wrong name. I should have named you Pollyanna."

She laughed in delight at the wariness in his voice. "Okay. If you get your kicks out of being the world-weary cynic, don't let me stop you. I just can't see the point in saying, 'Oh, my. Oh, my. The world is going to hell in a handbasket.' There's too much in the world—in your life—that's positive to dwell on the negative." She paused, then added softly, "Remember the daisies, Ben."

As she finished speaking the same look of painful longing appeared in his gray eyes. He stared at her for a moment, then turned abruptly away to face the window. Suddenly she regretted having mentioned the incident in the cafe. She felt as though she were callously invading private territory.

His broad back was stiff and straight as the silence grew. Then, without warning, he began to laugh. The sound wasn't a hesitant chuckle, but a shout of genuinely amused laughter.

Swinging around, he took in the bewilderment on her face and spoke, his eyes sparkling. "It just hit me what's happening here. You don't know who you are or where you came from . . . and what's more, you don't care. You considered going to jail as a possible solution to your problem. You're walking around in a trench coat that's three sizes too big for you. And you're giving me advice!"

The laughter threatened to spill over again and his eyes were wide with astonishment. "I'm being psychoanalyzed by a—a loony-bird!"

Sunny began to chuckle as the truth of what he was saying sank in; then her laughter gained momentum as a new thought struck her. She leaned her head back against the sofa and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Don't you see what that means?" she gasped, holding her sides. "You're crazier than I am because"—she paused to catch her breath —"because you listened to me!"

In three strides he was standing beside her, pulling her to her feet. "Lord, what a pair we are. A will-o'-the-wisp who's trapped in the twilight zone and an overgrown fool with delusions of grandeur." He placed a companionable arm across her shoulders. "But I guess we're stuck with each other. Now, I think it's time you got some rest. You said didn't sleep much last night."

"That sounds lovely, but do you think I could have a bath first?"

"Sure. I'm afraid the shower is one of those horror-movie props you referred to, but there is usually enough hot water."

She laughed. "Actually, hot water is the last thing I need right now. Or haven't you noticed the steam rising from me?"

He gave her a contrite look. "Lord, you must be boiling in that coat. I'm sorry, Sunny. I just didn't think."

"Don't worry about it. I think I'm getting used to it," she said, smiling wryly. "Except the sweat tickles a little when it runs down my ribs."

"Come on," he said, laughing-at her rueful expression. "Ill show you where everything is and make sure you have clean towels."

The bedroom was a small echo of the living room, filled with furniture that was old and of no recognizable style. Here, too, colorful paintings had been added to the walls, and resting incongruously on the nondescript bed was a turquoise satin comforter.

Crossing the room, Ben opened the door to the bathroom. He had exaggerated the horrors of the snail, utilitarian room. Although it was plain and old—like the rest of the apartment—it was also clean and well-lit.

After laying out a clean bath towel for her, he closed the door behind him. Sunny lost no time in shedding her beige torture chamber. She had fibbed when she said the coat didn't bother her. It * was unbearable, and she would consider herself lucky if she hadn't contracted terminal heat rash.

Turning the cold water on full force, she stepped under the delicious spray with a moan of pleasure. It would take hours to cool her overheated body.

"Oh, well," she said with a sigh. "I have nowhere else to go."

As she turned her back to the water she realized with a sudden shock that she had known Ben for less than four hours. How odd that seemed. She felt she had known him all her life. Yet the life she could remember was only two days old, so maybe it wasn't so strange after all.

But that didn't explain the way he accepted her as naturally as she accepted him. The way they argued and laughed together was unusual to say the least. And there were times she felt as though they were reading each other's thoughts.

There had to be a logical reason for their instant rapport. It wasn't only that she had found Ben at the exact moment she had needed him most. In some Incomprehensible way he seemed to need her just as much. They had made contact at a crucial point in both their lives.

Or maybe it was much simpler than that. Perhaps the fact that she was a stranger to him—a stranger with no past, no prejudices, no judgments to make—allowed him to open up to her. And the same could be true of her. She trusted him, was totally at ease with him, because there was nothing in her memory that would cause her to put up walls around her emotions.

Reaching through the curtain of water, she twisted the knob to "off" and began to laugh at her thoughts. Now the loony-bird was trying to analyze the loony-bird.

She vigorously rubbed herself dry, then stood for a moment In front of the peeling full-length mirror nailed to the bathroom door. She had seen her face in the mirrors of the park restrooms, but this was the first time she had seen herself full-length.

"Not bad," she murmured, staring critically at her slim figure. "A little runty, but not bad."

The flesh of her high, rounded breasts and gently curved hips was firm and smooth. She wondered— not for the first time—how old she was. She didn't appear old, but then again she didn't feel very young. "Sunny?"

Ben's voice came through the closed door and she raised the towel to dry her hair as she answered. "Yes?"

"I don't wear pajamas, but I found a shirt I think will be soft enough for you to sleep in. Ill put it on the bed for you."

His thoughtfulness touched her and she realized again how lucky she had been in meeting him today. It was wonderful to have the certainty of Ben's caring when the rest of her life was so uncertain.

Wrapping the towel around her body sarong-style, she walked into the bedroom. "Ben," she said thoughtfully. "How old do you think I am?"

He swung around at the sound of her voice and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. As he stood there staring silently at her, the strange feeling in her stomach returned and the room suddenly seemed to be filled with electricity.

At first his gaze slid over her towel-wrapped body restlessly, never staying on one spot long before moving away. Then gradually the stunned look left his eyes and they were filled with an urgency—a growing flame of raw need.

This time his examination was a slow, sensual review. He began with her face, inspecting every minute detail, his eyes lingering in fascination on the tiny mole beside her mouth. Her lips began to tingle wildly as he prolonged the invisible caress.

When his gray gaze slid down at last, she breathed a silent sigh of relief, then caught her breath sharply as his eyes found the pulse point in her neck and she felt her blood jerk crazily in her veins, as though he had commanded her response with the white-heat of his stare.