Homefires (63 page)

I gathered my writing paraphernalia, shoved sunglasses on my face and walked to the elevator down the hall. Inside, alone, I stared at my reflection in mirrored walls. I didn’t look as skinny in the turquoise swim suit. Just –
thin
. The two-piece was not bikini, but when I tied the string on each hip, the result was modest yet chic. I took off the shades and my eyes, though huge and sunken in my near-gaunt face didn’t look as feverish as I’d imagined. Fact was shadow and liner camouflaged fear’s glassy earmark, presenting instead a gaze shimmery and selfassured. Aloof.

Didn’t matter what I felt inside. Nobody was the wiser.

Anything was better than revealing fear.

Detached, I tilted my head and studied the total me. I looked sort of like a petite version of your high fashion model. The emaciated, mannequin kind, hat-rack hipbones and shoulders, while bright slashes of color marked drooping lids and mouth.

My little dry laugh didn’t reach my flat eyes. Fact was, I didn’t care doodly about how I looked at that moment. I’d not reached Kirk on the phone until just before I came outside. He’d been at the salon.

“Oh, honey,” he said, “It was a great hair show. There was a reception thing afterward so I stayed and chatted with folks and lost track of time. When I came in around midnight, I was so tired I fell asleep on the den sofa. I didn’t hear the phone.”

I let it go, too dispirited to do otherwise. Truth was I didn’t think I could handle the details. “I’m going to get some sun,” I told him.

“Miss you, honey,” he said huskily.

“Me, too,” I replied quite honestly, even though still miffed at him for pushing me into coming alone. And though I could manage sequestration,
forced alone
ness had never truly been my thing. Only during writing was I happy in it.

I exited the elevator and moved to the pool deck, searching for an empty lounge chair. I spotted the only remaining vacancy, next to a huddle of college age males, and made my way to it. I stretched out on the webbed seat, pulled out a pad and pen and began a poetry exercise, which usually got me going.

Within moments, I abandoned that and worked on a romance novel. But the sounds of fun coming from the young
men made my despondency more pronounced. I replaced the pad in my beach bag and shifted myself to lie flat, hoping to doze off.

Soon, the slightly uncomfortable pinch of the lounge’s wicker weave told me the beach towel had slipped beneath me. I rose to adjust the towel and only when I lay back down and shifted my sunglasses did I notice the three college guys staring openly at me.

Dully unimpressed, I flipped over on my stomach and closed my eyes. But each time I neared drowsing, a wave of memory hit me...Kirk drinking, his personality doing its chameleon thing, slithering from sweet to indifference, a mode that numbed him to everything around him, including me. Sleep danced around, eluding, seducing me and then taunting me to wakefulness.

Finally, I adjusted my seat into an upright position and noticed that only one young man remained in a nearby chair. He still stared at me but his was an openness – an innocence I likened to Toby’s.

“Hi.” I found myself smiling at him.

His face brightened. “Hi.”

I had not, until that moment, realized just how lonely I was. The realization made me hang onto that moment of human contact for just a little longer. “Where are you guys from?”

“Canada.”

“Wow. A long way from home.”

“Yeah. We go to college together. What were you writing?”

I hesitated briefly, then, “would you believe, romantic fiction?”

“Really?” He looked impressed.

“Um hmm.”

His name was Chris and he was twenty-two years old, a clean-cut, not unattractive young man. His questions, about my writing, were impressive, intelligent ones.

“What sort of hero do you usually come up with?” His blue eyes twinkled teasingly. “I mean...what does he look like?”

“Ohh,” I laughed, a little self-consciously, “I’m partial to green eyes and coppery brown hair.”

“Like mine?” he flirted charmingly.

“You could say that,” I went along with his good-natured teasing. “But sometimes, I do a complete flip-flop and create a dark, Latin hero.”

“Oh.” His demeanor did a comical collapse.

I gurgled with genuine laughter at his transparency. “Romance writers can’t be too predictable, you know.”

Our chat continued a while longer, until I felt a burning sensation creep over my skin – the side exposed to the afternoon sun.

“I really must be going inside.” I started to rise.

“Janeece,” he said so imploringly I remained seated, “you were telling me about the good live band at the Coquina Room?”

I nodded. I’d gone there for a few minutes the night before, during my restlessness, and enjoyed the music. “The band is pretty good.”

“Well...my friends will be going to another club. ButI – well,” I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, “would you come with me to the Coquina Room tonight?”

I stared at him.
Careful, girl, don’t hurt him.
I paused long moments before replying.

“Chris – I really feel flattered. But you don’t have to invite me out.”
Did he see through to my dreadful loneliness?

“But you don’t understand, Janeece.” He leaned intently and scooted to the edge of his seat. “I
want
to take you out.”

My head moved from side to side. “That’s probably – not a good idea.” He looked so hurt, I hastily added, “I mean – not as a date.”

His shoulders slumped. “If you don’t like me, just say so.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” I felt compelled to spare him from a brush-off. In light of my own rejection experience, my sympathy crescendoed. “I truly like you.”

His countenance lifted. “You’re such a beautiful woman, Janeece. I’d be proud to take you out.”

“Look,” I said gently, “If you want to come along to the Coquina Room as a sort of – escort, then do so. But only on the condition that you dance with other girls and have fun.”

“But I want to be with you,” he insisted, a sun-bleached curl falling over his forehead, “If I go, I want to sit with you,
dance with you. I can’t imagine another female being more attractive than you.”

I sighed tiredly and stared at the ocean, hands dangling between tanned knees. I’d already traded one set of problems for another. The sting of my exposed skin prompted me to my feet. “I simply must get out of the sun, Chris.” I reached for my carryall bag and briefcase.

“I’ll carry that for you.” He rose quickly, picked up my briefcase and scooped up his small ice chest and hurried to keep up with me. He was, I realized, at least a trim six feet tall. Toby’s height.

“I’m really not very good company,” I said flatly.

“I don’t see why.” He threw back broad shoulders in challenge.

I pressed the open button on the elevator. “I’m married.” From beneath lowered lashes, I saw his expression shift, then settle again.

“So? If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.” I felt his gaze rake me again as I closed the elevator doors. “You really are a beautiful woman.” His voice was edged with awe – uneducated in flattery for flattery’s sake and I felt a warmth envelope me, the striking of a chord somewhere deep within that drove back the iciness of rejection. He followed me off the elevator, so close I could hear him breathe.

Watch yourself, Janeece Crenshaw! He’s only a boy. And you’re a prime target for rebound stuff right now.
I unlocked the door to my room and the cool air-conditioning hit me deliciously in the face. “Set that over there, please.” I motioned to a corner. Chris unloaded both case and ice chest.

“Do you mind if I have a drink from my bottle?” he asked politely.

“Go ahead.” I remembered all the alcohol Kirk had imbibed, always somewhere else – away from me. I quickly pushed the troubling thoughts aside, hoping Chris would soon leave. Another part of me was glad for the company. I wasn’t alone. With him here, I wouldn’t think on all the damaging things.

“Would you like a drink?” He held the bottle out.

“Uh – no, thanks. I’ll have some diet soda.”

He looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“Certain. I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t agree with me. But you go ahead.”

Live and let live, I thought dryly. After all, what influence had my misgivings had on Kirk’s drinking? None. He failed to consider, for one moment, what effect his indulgence had on me.

There I go again. Stop it!
I scooped ice into my glass then poured Diet Coke over it.

I turned on the television and went to sit on the bed since the room’s two chairs were not very comfortable. I drew my legs up, propped against the headboard and tried to get interested in the game show. Chris lowered himself very gentlemanly onto the foot of the bed, sipping his drink and casting half-shy glances my way.

“Wanna talk?” he asked, grinning.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

Our topics ranged from cars to college curriculum. Chris lived with his divorced mother and majored in business administration. The conversation was so warm and flowed so spontaneously I barely noticed he refilled his glass several times.

“Wow!” he laughed suddenly, flopped on his back, stretching out across the bed, then propped on his elbow facing me. “I can’t
believe
this.” He slowly shook his head, grinning like a little boy.

“Can’t believe what?” I sipped my watery Coke, curious.

“That I’m doing this...
me,
Chris Jenkins in a woman’s bedroom. I’m really a shy guy, Janeece. The guys tease me all the time.”

“This is a
suite,
Chris, not – ”

“I don’t have much luck with girls.” He laughed again, oblivious to my narrowed gaze as he sat up again, shaking his head.

I sighed. “I can’t imagine why,” I said tactfully.

“Too shy.” He shrugged. “Sure you won’t have a drink?” He gestured toward the bottle.

“Absolutely sure.”

“Here.” He inched closer, his courage growing. “Have a taste.” He held the glass out to me.

I shook my head. “No. Remember? It doesn’t agree with me.”

“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” He grinned and stretched to set the glass on the floor. “I still can’t
believe it!
“ He flopped backward, laughing. “Me.
Here.
”

I tried drawing my leg up, but his shoulder pinned my ankle to the spread. Too late, the effects of his drinking became all too apparent to me as he lay on his back and swiveled his head to gaze at me. “With a beautiful woman.”

“Old enough to be your mother,” I said flatly.

His grin dissolved. “If my mom would’ve been in a situation like this with a young guy like me, she’d have already been teaching him the ropes.”

“Chris – ” I wiggled my foot from beneath his shoulder and shifted my position.

A mistake. His gaze dropped to openly study my anatomy. A bald, unblinking sweep.

“Chris. Listen to me.” He seemed hypnotized, his features slack. “
Chris.
Do you know how old I am?”

“Probably somewhere in your early thirties. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m forty-two years old.”

He got very still.

“How does that grab you?” His gaze slid downward again to my tanned skin. Suddenly, I felt absolutely naked in the bathing suit. Why hadn’t I pulled on my beach jacket?

“It doesn’t matter.” His eyes leveled with mine. “Just look at you – ” His hand arced through the air. “Your body is gorgeous.”

My heart thudded to my heels. “Chris, I have a son nearly as old as you.”

“I don’t care.” His hand had tentatively inched until it now caressed my thigh in feathery little strokes.

“Don’t, Chris.” I shifted, but he was so close it didn’t help. “I told you I’m having marital problems. You don’t need to be here.” I exhaled on a long shaky breath. “My life is a mess.
I’m
a mess.”
Such a mess I allowed loneliness to sucker me into this stupid predicament.

His glazed gaze moved up to my face and he smiled lazily. “You don’t look a mess to me.” His features sobered. “God, Janeece – you’re beautiful.”

Then in one swift movement, his arms slid fluidly around my hips and his face pressed against my exposed midriff. It took me so by surprise I gasped. I raised my hands away from him, horrified that I’d let this happen.

“Janeece,” he moaned against my flesh as he began to lose control, his hands and face climbing upward.

Dear Lord
,
help me.
I froze – I was getting aroused. “Stop, Chris – ” My words had no more effect than a fly swat against a smart gnat.

I heard a moan as his hand moved down over my abdomen. The sound had come from me. I slithered from beneath him and was on my feet, frantically adjusting my top into place. “You’ve got to leave, Chris.”