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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Home Fires
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Deanna wasn't quite sure what drew her boldly forward to that room, whether it was the roof of the house with its steady upward slant as it spread back or whether it was the subtle thread of anticipation within herself. She moved quietly, oblivious to Mark's return and the sound of his footsteps headed toward the kitchen.
She was utterly captivated. Before her was a room as sparsely furnished and decorated as the other, with nothing but the elegance of simplicity to enhance its flavor. There was the bed. Freestanding, not far from the back wall, it was bounded on all four sides by two tiers of steps, thickly carpeted, as was all the flooring in this room. The bed was a throne, an altar. High above it the ceiling reached its apex, its slant embedded with vast skylights that transmitted the spatter of rain rather than the twinkle of stars. She felt as though she were part of the elements, yet she was safely sheltered and warm within.
Indulging in a final moment's awe, she turned and half ran to the kitchen, stopping short on its threshold to see Mark very calmly and quietly storing groceries.
“Mark!” she breathed, unable to contain her excitement even when he looked up so soberly. “It's fantastic!”
He finished placing a tin of coffee on the shelf, closed the cabinet and turned to her. “You like it?”
“Like it? It's magnificent! How could I possibly not like it?”
“You could very easily hate it if you resented my having brought you here. It may not be quite as fancy as what you're used to …”
His unsureness took her aback, but only for a minute. “I love it! I've never seen anything so … so naturally compatible with its setting!”
“Wait till you see it tomorrow. In the light of day there's a different feeling still.” Midway through the expression of his pride, his voice caught. “You … are staying, aren't you? Haven't changed your mind or gotten cold feet?”
She shook her head and offered him a hushed assurance. “No. I haven't changed my mind. I'll stay.”
“For the whole weekend?”
Touched by his softness, she stared at him. So tall and strong, independent and established, he seemed suddenly vulnerable again, depending on her as no one had ever done. Perhaps if she'd had a child to give of herself to, her protective instinct might have been slaked. But she had no child, could have no child. And she desperately wanted Mark to need her.
Something in her chest swelled, choking off sound from her throat. Covering the short distance between them, she slid her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest, pulling herself warmly against the full length of him. She heard his heartbeat, felt the muscles of his back flex at her touch. With a low groan of acknowledgment he completed the circle, engulfing her in his own embrace, but only briefly.
“Here, Deanna,” he said, setting her back and reaching
out to help her. “Let me have your coat It's wet. I'll give you the formal tour and then we can make something to eat. You did tell me you were hungry, didn't you?”
That
was when she'd assumed they'd be stopping at a restaurant. Now, with the impending exposure of her culinary ignorance, she wasn't quite sure.
“Uh, I'm all right now. It passed”
“Yours, perhaps … but come on. Let me show you around.”
As she'd half suspected, there was scarcely a convenience not deftly camouflaged behind one panel or another in the main room, which had a central pit consisting of endlessly connected sofa sections, a side work area with a drafting table and high chair, a bar, small stereo and multitudinous book shelves. Deanna guessed that there was a good foot and a half between the outer wall and this inner one to accommodate the storage space.
Similarly, in the bedroom, though there appeared to be no major furniture other than the bed, Mark revealed hidden drawers, closets and even a door she hadn't previously detected, which led to a bathroom. It, too, she was to discover, was modern and well appointed.
“Everything is so clean,” she marveled, stunned again by the difference between this and the stereotypical log cabin.
Mark chuckled as he led her full circle back to the kitchen. “That's because it's unused for days on end. And because everything's hidden behind panels. Dust can't begin to collect on what it can't reach. I hate cleaning.”
So do I
, she mused apprehensively, but said nothing as she sensed a more immediate dilemma. “Okay!” He looped his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and her pulse raced at the tautened pull across
his hips. “How about steak, fresh string beans and baked potatoes?”
Her pulse continued to race and she wasn't sure what to do about the dilemma. “Sounds fine.” She nodded, feeling decidedly fraudulent. She stood by watching as Mark extracted one ingredient after another from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. How difficult could it be—preparing this simple meal?
“How about if you prepare the beans while I put the potatoes in? They take the longest.”
“Prepare the beans,” she echoed him, keeping her mockery well in check. How dumb could she be? Why hadn't she ever gone in to give Irma a hand with dinner? How could she be so totally helpless? Prepare the beans. Fine. But what to do first … ?
“Something wrong?”
Her head snapped up and she found Mark staring at her warily. He'd guessed! What would he think of her now? She couldn't hide the self-disgust that spread across her features. But self-disgust turned to dismay when his tone chilled, then to astonishment when he spoke.
“I'm sorry, Deanna, but they don't have maid service in this neck of the woods. I know that the thought of doing for yourself must be a new one, and if it's so reprehensible, I apologize. But it's either chip in or go without.”
There was no possible way Mark could have known the hours upon hours of agonizing she'd done on the issue of her lack of experience, much less the extent of her embarrassment now. Therefore he was astonished in his turn by what appeared on the surface to be an unwarranted outburst and was actually the culmination of those long hours of worry.
“Reprehensible?” Eyes wide, she took a step back as if warding off his anger. “The only thing that's at all
reprehensible is
your
lack of faith.” Hurt, she barreled on. “I'd be glad to do whatever there is to be done—if only I knew how! Do you think I like to feel stupid … or helpless?” In the turmoil of her confession, she was unaware of his dawning understanding. Even the softening of his features was beyond her notice.
“I've never been put in this position in my entire life,” she ranted on, “and believe me, it's mortifying! If I could snap my fingers and magically turn into a French chef I would! I'd like nothing better than to cook you the most beautiful dinner … .” Her words were drowned out by his hearty guffaw. “And what's so funny?” She literally shook with humiliation and could only hope she wouldn't cry, though perversely, that was what she wanted more than anything to do. Crawl into a corner and bawl. Granted, there wasn't an overabundance of corners in this house … .
“Deanna, Deanna …” His laughter died down as he reached out and hauled her against him. She resisted, holding her body rigid.
“You're laughing at me.”
“You bet I am! That's about the fieriest I've ever seen you. And with such a confession!”
“You're laughing at me.”
“No, honey. That's relief you hear. For a minute I thought you were horrified at the idea of helping make dinner. It was wrong of me, I know, but that look of absolute disgust on your face …”
“I'm disgusted with myself!”
“But
I
didn't know that It's your own fault for not having confided in me before. Why couldn't you just say that you didn't know how to cook?”
She began to feel the beginnings of her own relief. “I feel ridiculous, Mark! What kind of woman has never cooked a meal?”
He held her back to look at her. “A woman who's
never
had
to. Most women would give anything to be in your shoes. To have never had occasion to cook—that's their greatest fantasy.”
“Some fantasy,” she snorted as she buried her face against his chest. He smelled manly and divine and she was suddenly light-headed. At least now he did know and he wasn't terribly disappointed. Perhaps she'd done him a disservice all along by assuming he wouldn't understand.
“Any more true confessions?” he asked in a deep drawl.
Giddy as she felt, Deanna sensed that there wouldn't be a better time. Her eyes apologized in advance. “I've never done the laundry or cleaned the bathroom. And I couldn't brew a pot of coffee if my life depended on it. My hair may well be unmanageable without its usual Saturday conditioning. And without a manicure my fingernails will go progressively downhill. But”—she paused, lapsing into a sweet singsong—“don't tell me I didn't warn you.”
Mark smiled and shook his head. “What you don't seem to realize is that those things don't matter to me, particularly up here. That's one of the reasons I wanted to bring you. There's no social pressure here. Just you and me. And besides”—his eyes took on a familiar gleam—“by Monday morning I intend to see a very healthy flush on your cheeks. Between the fresh outdoors … and the wild indoors … see, there it is, starting already!”
“You're impossible!” She forced out a scowl, blushing all the more.
“I'm also hungry. Come on.” He swung her to his side and brought her back to the counter. “Lesson number one. Snapping string beans.”
 
 
D
inner was as delicious a meal as Deanna had ever eaten, though with the weight of one giant burden lifted from her shoulders she would have devoured almost anything edible.
“And you said you weren't hungry,” Mark kidded her later as they sat side by side in the living room with soft music in the background, brandy snifters in their hands, contentment in the air.
“I'm really ashamed to say that I never worked in the kitchen with Irma,” she began, her tongue loosened by the heady combination of Mark and brandy. “She was always there. She usually took her time off when I had plans to go out. And on the rare occasion that I was in the suite without her I only had to call room service.”
“Some life …”
“I suppose.”
“What about before you married?”
“The same thing. The cook we had when I was a child
wouldn't
let
us into the kitchen. It was her own private domain. I'm sure I could have been more insistent but … well … I never had cause to insist”
“You don't have to make excuses, Deanna.”
“But I do. I feel absurd!”
“You just prepared a lovely meal.”
“
You
prepared the meal. I just followed your instructions. Where did you learn all you know, anyway?”
“Self-made, self-taught. Actually, it was pure survival. Don't forget that I've been a bachelor for years. I like home cooking and there are many times when I simply don't have the patience to wait for a meal in a restaurant I never go in for anything fancy, just enough to keep flesh on the bones.”
“Some flesh!” She poked playfully at his ribs and was rewarded when he dragged her under his arm. He made no attempt to kiss her, seeming content simply to hold her, and she had no complaint. Bare feet curled beneath her, she in turn curled against Mark. His strong arm curved around her shoulder, then back across her chest She was in heaven.
“Tell me about your life, Mark.”
“My life?” He roused himself from his own relaxed trance to echo the words.
“You know … what you do everyday.”
“I work.”
She felt him nestle his cheek more comfortably against the crown of her head. “And … ?”
“And come home.”
“That's all? Work and come home?”
“Usually.” He sounded exhausted “I lead a quiet existence.”
Glancing across him, she saw that he'd finished his brandy. His words weren't slurred though, simply unhurried. “What do you do for fun?”
“For fun? Work is fun. And I putter around building
things of my own. You know, improving things, renovating.”
“Did you build this place
yourself?
”
“Almost … but not quite. I had help.”
“It's fantastic, Mark. You must be so proud!”
“I enjoy it.” He paused to think. “You know, I think if I had my choice I'd be a carpenter.
There's
a feeling of pride!”
“Why don't you … be a carpenter?”
He chuckled. “Ah, the voice of the secure speaking.” His warm squeeze precluded offense. “Actually, when I reach my third million I may consider it!”
Deanna indulged herself with the image of living with Mark in the mountains forever while he built homes on the nearby peaks. It was a lovely dream, though dangerous. “Tell me about your home in Savannah,” she demanded, needing to escape the image. “Is it modern like this?”
“Not quite.” He smiled. “It's a beautiful old house on a beautiful old street. When I bought it I tore out the insides and I've done it over little by little since. It's almost complete.” His voice slowed, then faded.
“Sounds nice.”
“Ummm.”
“You really love your work, don't you?”
“Ummm.”
She angled her head so she could see his face. “Either you've run out of words … or you really are tired.”
Eyelids that had been closed lifted heavily. “I'm tired. It was a horrid week. Then, driving from Savannah to Atlanta and pacing the floors at your place for hours …”
“It wasn't hours.”
“Well, it seemed it. I was worried. From what Irma said, you don't usually just up and take off like that”
“I don't usually just up and take off like
this
either!”
“This is different. And you had an accomplice. Anyway, it's been a very long day. Now, with you here in my arms, finally, all to myself—”
“Boring you so much that you're falling asleep—”
“You're not boring me. I'm very, very content.”
Deanna felt the same way. Strange—now that they were alone, with all the freedom in the world, the only thing that mattered was sitting close like this. Anything more would shatter the beauty of the moment
“Deanna?” he murmured groggily.
“Hmmm?”
“Is it all right … I mean, would you mind … could we go to bed … to sleep … ?”
It was scary. He had to have read her mind. As many times as it had happened, it still amazed her. Soulmates. She'd always thought so.
“That'd be fine, Mark,” she whispered. “You're beat” Slipping from him, she took the glass from his hand and brought both it and her own to the kitchen sink, where she rinsed them and set them upside down to dry. When she returned to the living room he wasn't there. A rummaging sound from the bedroom caught her attention and she padded toward it.
Mark had opened one of the panels to stand before a tall set of drawers, one of which was open and in the process of being rifled. “Ahhh,” he muttered in satisfaction when he drew a particular shirt from the drawer, closed everything up, then turned to Deanna. “Here. My best red-flannel backyard logger's shirt I knew it was here somewhere. It's the softest I've got” At her blank look he explained. “Your nightgown.”
She smiled, embarrassed. “That's right I don't seem to have anything else, do I?”
“My fault, I'm afraid. This is the least I can do.” He paused. “Would you like a shower?”
“Mmmm.”
He tilted his auburn head toward the bathroom. “There are plenty of towels and extra supplies in the cabinet to the left of the sink. I'll wait until you're done.” He smiled sleepily and she wondered if he'd make it that long.
“Are you sure you wouldn't like to go first?”
He shook his head. “Go on. I'll just lie down and wait my turn.” When he turned around to do just that she acceded.
Rushing was no easy task in that luxurious backwoods bathroom, particularly given her own state of languor. She reveled in the hot spray for a blissful eternity, even deciding to wash her hair, no matter how it turned out. The supplies Mark had mentioned had turned out to include a bonanza of personal items that he must have had thrown in with the groceries that afternoon. By the time she emerged from the bathroom fresh and clean, her hair still damp but not half as bad as she'd expected and Mark's red plaid shirt buttoned down to her thighs, Mark was sound asleep.
She stood immobilized for several minutes, a step inside the bedroom, as a wave of pure adoration swept over her. He had bothered only to draw back the almond-and-brown-striped quilt before stretching out on the sheets and surrendering to exhaustion. He lay on his stomach fully dressed, one arm bent up behind his head, the other flung out in front of his face.
Deanna inched forward, feeling her love swell. It was an effort to keep her pulse steady as she mounted the steps and sank onto the bed close beside him.
“Mark?” she murmured. Much as she hated to do it, she gently shook his shoulder. “Mark? Shouldn't you get undressed?” He struggled to open his eyes without success. “Mark?” she whispered again. “Mark?” He was
obviously dead to the world, his breathing deep and even.
Acting purely on instinct and without further thought, she inched his sweater up over his back and nudged him over. His only response was a muffled grunt When she waited a moment and he still didn't waken, she assumed that he was safely beyond disturbing.
She undressed him quietly, pulling the sweater higher, then dragging each arm from its sleeve and lifting his head to ease the pullover off. His shirt was a simpler matter, easily unbuttoned and dispensed with. On the pretense of resting she paused for a moment's perusal of his chest. Its even rise and fall mesmerized her. She reached out to touch the dark feathered hazing there, but halted her hand just above it before tracing the tapering line to the snap of his jeans.
Sighing, she shimmied the denim down over his legs and off his bare feet. Then she grinned helplessly as she saw all that remained. All? The devil … he must have planned this from the start! Her gaze flew to his face, thoroughly expecting to encounter his fully awake and mischievous regard. But his dark lashes rested at the rugged height of his cheekbone and his face bore nothing but the sweet pleasure of sleep.
Satisfied that he wasn't mocking her she dared to focus again on the one item of clothing in which she'd let him sleep. And again she grinned. Red! Red briefs this time! Slung low on his hips, fitting him to perfection. His bottoms to her tops—the red coordinated perfectly.
She sat still for a minute, thinking how very much she loved him, how very happy she was to be there with him. Right now that
other
life was the unreal one, a world away and totally irrelevant This place and Mark were the only things that mattered.
Leaning over his feet, she freed the quilt and pulled it
up to cover them as she stretched out beside him. It was at this moment, when the bed was finally still, that Mark stirred.
“Deanna …?” he moaned, seeming to return from a far dream to call her.
“I'm here,” she whispered, letting herself be drawn back against him.
“You'll stay?” He seemed more asleep than awake.
“I'll stay.” She snuggled in more closely.
“Good,” he mumbled, then tightened his hold and offered a barely audible “I love you” against her hair before his breathing resumed the even cadence of sleep.
“I love you too.” She mouthed the words, knowing he couldn't hear and suspecting his confession to have been nothing more than grogginess speaking. There were so many things that seemed out of reach—a future together, even a family. If only she could give Mark a child with that same full head of auburn hair and those warm brown eyes—but enough! It was best to simply enjoy what she did have.
She fell asleep in a haze of contentment and awoke to the morning sun and Mark's melting gaze. He was propped up on an elbow, savoring every minute of her slow arousal.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured softly.
“Same to you.” She echoed the greeting as the events—or nonevents—of the evening before returned to her mind.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
She stretched and smiled contentedly. “Uh-huh. And you?”
He nodded, skimming the length of the shirt she wore. “You look great”
She felt shy, though it also felt totally natural to awaken in Mark's bed. “So do you.” Reaching spontaneously
toward his hair, she combed a wave back from his forehead. He caught first his breath, then her hand, taking it down to his lips to press her fingers there. His eyes held hers, beaming their heat into her, sending a privately coded message. Further tingles erupted along her nerve ends when he singled out her slender pinkie and sensuously sucked it.
There in the mountains they were free, stripped of the trappings of civilization. There would be no worries there, no interruptions. Deanna felt light-headed and very much in love. And the near nudity of Mark's body deeply stirred her.
She heard his name on her lips, repeated softly again and again until his mouth swallowed all sound. Reaching up to luxuriate in the rich thickness of his hair, she held him ever closer. He kissed her breathless and she was swept along, clinging to him through the realization that he was in so many ways the source of her strength. He'd given her so much, taught her so much more. With him she was a new person.
She allowed him to ease her back down on the bed and submitted to the heat of his touch as he carefully unbuttoned her shirt and slowly spread it open. He regarded her body with a kind of reverence and she knew the pride of his satisfaction. If she'd ever worried that he wouldn't be pleased, that doubt was erased now. He might have been unveiling a collection of priceless jewels and she felt prized indeed.
When his hands followed his gaze in a sensual exploration of her feminine contours she rejoiced in his softly erotic words of praise. When she moved against him in search of more he fell back, bringing her over on top of him. What commenced then was an interlude of frenzied involvement, an intense entanglement of bodies that reflected every minute of the long days and even longer
nights since they'd last made love. Deanna returned everything Mark gave and he gave fiercely. They were on his territory now and he took full initiative.

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