Listen to the Shadows (23 page)

“The ones that end happily?” His eyes teased her. “Here, let me take your coat. You sit and relax, and I’ll make us a little supper.”

“Oh, I couldn’t eat anything, Jonathan.”

“Some tea, then.” He led her to the Boston rocker by the window, with its velvet, burnt orange cushions. “This was my mother’s chair,” he said, and touched the lace collar of Katie’s silk, ivory-colored blouse. “Very pretty,” he said. “Suits you.” And then he was gone.

Closing her eyes, curling her stockinged feet up under her, Katie thought how peaceful it was here, how beautiful. The house smelled of varnish and something lemony. She could hear Jonathan moving about in the kitchen, and the sound was comforting. As Katie began to rock in the chair, the house seemed slowly to wrap itself around her.

Soon, she opened her eyes and looked about her, knowing that all along she’d been half-searching for some sign of Lona’s having been here. There was none visible. Lona must be neat, she thought, and the now familiar stab of jealousy made her impatient with herself.

She was studying the wall-hanging to the right of the door when Jonathan entered with a tray, which he placed on the round coffee table inset with colored, polished stones.

She trailed her fingers over the smooth surface. “Did you make this, too?”

“Yes. I got the idea when I was hauling stones for the fireplace. Do you like it?”

“Very much. I was also admiring your wall-hanging. It looks hand-woven.”

He raised his eyes to the Indian version of Madonna and Child. “It is. My mother’s work.”

“It’s beautiful.” She thought of her own rendering of Madonna and Child. It was one of the few paintings she’d been reluctant to sell.

“Yes,” he said, sliding the tray of assorted cheeses, cold meats and fruits toward her. “Have something. You’ll feel better.”

“You always seem to be feeding me,” she said, selecting a small square of cheese, nibbling at it. “Lona must really love this place,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He looked briefly surprised, then he laughed. “Lona? Lona wouldn’t be caught dead out here in ‘the sticks,’ as she calls it. No.

I’m afraid my little Lona is thoroughly citified.”

The cheese turned to chalk-dust in her mouth. “Oh, I just assumed when she called…” But Katie was remembering her own call, and how she’d hung up after hearing Lona ask Jon darling to bring her her drink.

“She was calling from my apartment in town,” he said easily, plucking a blue grape from the bunch and popping it into his mouth. “I need a place close to the hospital—or I did. Lona stays with me whenever she’s between plays—or lovers.” He grinned and shook his head. “I expect they’re both one and the same.”

Katie reached for a Ritz Cracker, stared at it and wished she could put it back. “She’s an actress, then?” she said, thoroughly confused. Between lovers? Jonathan hardly seemed the type to be so liberal-minded. But then, how well did she really know him? She ate the cracker. “Lona must really be something.”

Jonathan looked amused. “Oh, yes, she is that, all right.”

Yes, that’s what she’d heard in her voice—that phony theatrical way of speaking some actors took on, she thought, with enjoyed malice.

“And I guess you and Lona have what they call in our modern society—an open relationship?” Why was she pursuing this? She couldn’t seem to stop herself. It didn’t help her mood when Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. She writhed inwardly, wondering what he found in her question that was so damned, hilariously funny.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, seeing her shift around in the chair. “We could move to the sofa.”

“No, I’m fine.” Her smile was strained.

He brought her tea from the kitchen in a stone mug. “It’s made from a special blend of herbs. You might have to acquire a taste.”

With a thatch of dark hair fallen across his forehead, his tie gone and his shirt sleeves rolled up, he looked disturbingly handsome, and

Katie lowered her eyes to the sherry-colored tea. She sipped it, wondering if Jonathan knew she was in love with him. How often she had heard her mother say, “You can always tell when Katie’s lying; it’s written all over her face.” She hated being so obvious.

The tea tasted bitter as balsam. “It’s good,” she lied.

He was regarding her thoughtfully, seated across from her. “Drink it all, then. It’ll relax you.”

“Have you been working on the house for a long time?” she asked, anxious to return to a safer topic, and sensing that he enjoyed talking about this special place he had carved out of the forest.

“Over a year now. A couple of hours here—a few weekends there.”

In some ways, like now when talking about his house, he reminded her of a small boy—vulnerable, anxious to please, shyly proud of his accomplishment. She decided there were many sides to Jonathan Shea, much like a prism, each depending on a certain angle of light. She also suspected a dark side to Jonathan, of which, up to now, she’d only glimpsed.

She drank a little more of the tea. Oddly, it didn’t seem so bitter now. “You’ve never been married, have you?” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to pull them out of the air. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t mean to pry. I…”

He waved off her apology. “No, it’s okay. Actually, I did come close once, but the lady had dreams of being the wife of a big name psychiatrist with a fabulous, as Constance termed it, practice in Boston. Not a bad dream, I suppose, but unfortunately, not one we shared.” He speared a triangle of ham and rolled it around his fork.

“Or perhaps fortunately,” he added, before eating it.

“Did you love her very much?” Boy, she was really on a roll. She might just as well have a spotlight glaring down on the poor man’s head. Why were her lips feeling so numb? Katie drained the few remaining drops of tea, then sat the mug, which had grown too heavy to hold, down on the table. She was having some difficulty keeping her eyes open.

“I thought I did,” Jonathan said in answer to her question, seeming not to mind that she had asked it. “For a while.” He leaned forward in his chair, his face suddenly alight with enthusiasm. “Tell me,

Katherine, do you like to fish?”

“Fish?” The question caught her so by surprise, she laughed. “I really don’t know. I haven’t done any fishing.”

“Oh, but you must. It keeps one out of analysis. There’s a lovely little brook not ten minutes from here where the trout practically jump up on your hook.” Then softly, “I’d really like to take you sometime.”

For a moment Katie could think of no reply, and then she wanted to ask him if Lona liked to fish, but guessed that if she wouldn’t be caught dead “in the sticks,” it wasn’t likely she did.

“It sounds like it might be fun,” she said, blinking as Jonathan’s face swam out of focus, became two Jonathan faces, both of them smiling at her. She shook her head as if to clear it of the gauzy fog. “I can’t seem to…” A thought rose dully. “What did you put in my tea, Jonathan?” Her tongue felt thick, her words far away and strange sounding.

“It’s a secret potion,” he said, feigning mystery. “If I tell you, it’ll rain.”

“You’re making that up. It only rained when your people danced.”

“And only then when there was heavy cloud cover,” he said, laughing. When had he stood up? When had he taken her hand in his?

“Come and lie down, Katherine. You need to rest. You’re going on nothing but nerves.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. Really, Jonathan, I must go home and work on Hattie Holloway’s portrait.” Even as she spoke she saw that they were no longer in Jonathan’s living room, but in a spacious, sparsely furnished bedroom where she was being led to a big brass bed set against the far wall. While holding one arm firmly about her waist to support her, Jonathan turned down the blankets. “Hattie Holloway can damn well wait,” he said, beginning to undo her clothes.

“This is getting to be a habit,” she muttered, but was far too weak and groggy to offer any real resistance. And then she was limp and naked sitting on the edge of the bed and wondering why she felt no embarrassment or self-consciousness as Jonathan helped her into the too-big flannel striped pajamas. Instead, she felt like a little girl being taken care of, and it was a good, safe feeling.

When she was tucked in, Jonathan kissed her lightly on the forehead. His big, gentle hand smoothed her hair, and she smiled

sleepily. “I have a few phone calls to make,” she heard him say.

“You’re safe here. I’ll be only a few steps away if you should need me.”

Katie nodded, already drifting off on a soft cloud of sleep. When she heard him whisper, “Sleep well, my sweet Katherine,” she imagined she was dreaming.

Chapter 24

Katie woke from a heavy sleep sometime in the night thinking she’d heard someone cry out. She listened. Her mouth tasted woolly, the way her mind felt. Had she really heard it or had she been dreaming? She sat up, momentarily bewildered by her unfamiliar surroundings.

When she saw the figure outlined in the chair across the room, she almost screamed, sure it was the strawman. But then she saw that it was Jonathan and remembered where she was.

Outside the window, the moon bathed the land and trees in a silvery white. Katie glanced at the clock on the night table. The date and the time glowed green. Nov. 5, 4:30 a.m.

“No—no,” Jonathan cried out, and Katie’s heart jumped. She switched on the lamp. Again, he cried out, oddly like the cry of a child, filled with pain and terror. Katie quickly slipped out of bed and went to him.

It alarmed her when his body began to jerk spasmodically, his head toss wildly from side to side, yet she was afraid to startle him awake.

She touched his shoulder tentatively and barely had time to get out of the way when his arm shot out. His hair was damp on his forehead, his shirt wet, clinging to his body.

“Jonathan,” she said softly. “Wake up, Jonathan. It’s a dream—only a dream.”

His eyes flew open so suddenly, so hard did he stare at her, a small thrill of fear went through her. Then gradual recognition relaxed his features. She could almost feel the tension leaving his body. Suddenly he was on his feet, and she was in his arms, and the words broke from him like sobs. “Katherine, you’re here. Oh, thank God, you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” she said reassuringly, feeling his heart beating hard and too fast against her breasts. “You had a bad dream, Jonathan, that’s all. Just a dream.”

After a moment he drew himself away, a heavy sigh escaping him.

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Do you have these dreams very often?”

“I feel lousy,” he said, ignoring her question, tugging the damp shirt from his skin, raking his fingers almost angrily through his hair. “I’m going to take a shower. You go back to bed.”

Why hadn’t he answered her question? she wondered as she lay there listening to the water running in the bathroom. In his sleep, he had seemed so like a terrified child. And yet she had been the child last night. She only vaguely remembered Jonathan putting her to bed, fitting her into his too-large pajamas, though she recalled clearly her lovely sense of well-being. “Sleep well, my sweet Katherine,” he had said, and kissed her forehead. But had he really? She tried to piece events together, separate fact from fancy. She recalled offering, at some point, a feeble argument about having to go home and work on Hattie Holloway’s portrait. Jonathan had replied, “To hell with Hallie Holloway,” or something to that effect. She must tell Jason about her commission, she thought suddenly. He’ll be so happ…

Memory brought her up short, pressed against her heart. Jason was no longer in the world. For an instant she’d forgotten. She knew from experience that forgetting was common in the beginning. The smallest thing: a song, a book, a mere thought could send you reaching for the phone to dial a familiar number—until you remembered.

And it hurt, dammit! It hurt.

So immersed was she in her thoughts that Katie didn’t notice the water had stopped running, or that Jonathan, now clad only in a navy robe, his hair damply dark and unruly from the shower, stood watching her from the doorway. Only when he spoke did she look up.

“I thought you might have gone back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you a second time.”

“I wasn’t sleepy. Are you all right?”

“I’ve recovered. How about you?”

She said she was fine, too, and then, as their gazes remained locked, as Katie’s longing for him grew, fear and doubt crept over her like dark clouds blocking out the warmth of the sun. She thought of Lona. She thought of Jonathan telling her not to make more of their single night of love than what there was. Impatiently, she pushed the thoughts away. He loved her. She couldn’t be wrong about this. She felt it from him—felt everything she needed to know. And her heart told her to trust—to believe.

She raised her arm from the bed and held out her hand to him.

***

Later, as they lay together, bodies damp and relaxed, happy, Jonathan traced her lower lip with his fingertip. Katie felt a mixture of wonder and shyness, and thought she would be quite content to stay right here where she was for the rest of time. With perhaps the odd grape or square of cheese tossed to her from time to time for sustenance.

“I always thought magic was reserved for kids,” Jonathan said softly. “I know different now with you, Katherine.”

She smiled dreamily and nuzzled against him. “Me, too.” She raised her eyes to his. “Why do you always call me Katherine? No one has called me that since I was a little girl, and then only my aunt and my teachers.”

He kissed her fingertips. “Because you look like a Katherine.”

“Oh? And what does a Katherine look like?”

“You’re fishing?” he teased lightly.

“Yes.” She nibbled his earlobe. “You said I should learn.”

He laughed and drew her more firmly against him. “Well,” he began, “Katherine is a tall, elegant lady with eyes the color of emeralds under water, and silky brown hair that turns gold in the sunlight. She has a determined, maybe even stubborn, tilt to her chin.

She’s a woman filled with spirit and courage that was evident to me from the moment I set eyes on her in that hospital bed—so fragile, so vulnerable, yet beneath it all, strong and fiercely independent.”

“This is a wonderful story,” Katie said, grinning, a little embarrassed, but loving it all the same. “Is there more?”

“I’m serious. You really are a little girl in many ways, you know.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “That innocence and wonder of life comes through in your work, and in odd, sweet moments, in you.”

Giving her a mock leer, he added, “And Katherine is also a wanton woman, filled with fire and mystery.” He growled sexily and Katie laughed, reminding herself, lest she get carried away, that Jonathan was Irish on his father’s side and clearly more than capable of a little blarney himself. But she didn’t mind in the least.

“She sounds fascinating.”

“You are, my darling.”

It had grown light outside the window as Jonathan and Katie sat together in the bed talking and drinking the coffee Jonathan had prepared. Katie began to absent-mindedly stroke the blanket covering them. Scarlet against black, she noticed now, the two colors woven to form a bold, intricate pattern of zees.

“This is lovely,” Katie commented. “Your mother’s work?”

“My grandmother’s. I fell heir to those things precious to my mother, and in turn, to me. Lona was never very much interested in her Indian heritage.”

Hearing Lona’s name spoken so casually by Jonathan, so unexpectedly in this intimate setting, with Katie still aglow from their recent lovemaking, punctured her new-found serenity. “Lona’s Indian?” she said, unable to look at him, her stomach knotting.

“Half, like me.” There was mischief in his eyes. “Lona’s my sister.”

Katie could only stare at him. Then, a slow anger beginning to build in her, she repeated, “Your sister.”

“My kid sister, actually.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before, Jonathan Shea? Why did you let me go on thinking—a modern, open relationship. Really. You let me make a complete fool of myself.”

He set his coffee mug down on the night table to run a hand slowly down her arm. “Never for a minute. When Lona telephoned your house that night, I thought I detected just a hint of jealousy from you—but I was afraid to hope. After all, I was still operating under the belief that Drake was in the picture. So I told myself it was probably that you were just annoyed at having your phone number given out so freely, which was understandable, particularly given the circumstances.”

“Even so, you could have told me yesterday.”

The mischief was back in his eyes. “Yes,” he grinned. “I suppose I could have.”

“I hate you.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Good.” He kissed her.

When they parted, Katie asked him if Lona was unhappy, and it was wonderful to be able to say the name without feeling the old pangs of jealousy. “You said she stayed with you between plays—and lovers.”

Jonathan was thoughtful. “Unhappy? Yes, she has her moments. Lona lives life at fever pitch. She’s only really happy, or perhaps euphoric is a better word, when she’s on the threshold of a new romance, or a new play. Which fortunately,” he added, his smile one of deep fondness, “is more often than not.”

He told her with modest pride that Lona was a wonderful actress while admitting he might be slightly biased. “But she does get great reviews,” he said, “and audiences seem to love her.”

“It’s a life riddled with insecurities, though, isn’t it?”

“Anything safer would bore Lona to death. She likes to live on the edge, scaling mountain peaks, occasionally dipping into valleys of darkness, just to see if she can climb back out again.”

“I’d like to meet her sometime. She sounds interesting.”

“She is. A bit overwhelming at times, but I think you’d like her. I know she’d be crazy about you. Our mother used to worry constantly about Lona. She…” He stopped abruptly, a haunted expression coming into his eyes. He seemed to slip away from her, out of reach.

She’d seen this expression before, but now, whatever was carving away at his insides was working much closer to the surface.

“What is it, Jonathan?”

He was staring out the window where trees swayed lightly as if to music only they could hear. “Nothing,” he said.

Katie rose on one elbow and set her coffee cup beside Jonathan’s on the night table. She turned to face him. “Please don’t shut me out.

This has something to do with the dream, doesn’t it? You—called out to your mother in the dream.” She traced his arm, felt the downy dark hair beneath her fingers, felt his muscle tighten. His withdrawal from her became more total, his eyes more distant. Then Katie was above him, her breasts flattened against his chest. She tried to will him with her eyes. “Tell me, Jonathan.”

He came back to her. He smiled, but she saw the falseness there.

“Yes, I want to tell you everything,” he said, reaching up and playfully winding his fingers in her hair. “And someday I will—I promise. But I want to know about you. I want to know about the sort of things that made you cry, when you were a little girl—what made you laugh. I want to feel jealous of all the people who were in your life when I wasn’t.”

“Tell me, Jonathan.”

His hand dropped from her hair. Anger flashed in his blue eyes.

“You just keep tapping away, don’t you? Delicate little taps with you

 
Katie winced visibly.

The anger fled from his eyes, and he pulled her fiercely to him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s not just idle curiosity, you know,” she said, her face buried in the hollow of his neck, feeling the pulse there beat soft and warm against her mouth.

“Yes, I do know that, I do,” he murmured. Though she didn’t hear his sigh, she felt it throughout his body—a sigh of resignation, of defeat. “I thought I’d dealt with all of it,” he said. “Come to terms, as they say in the wacky world of psychiatry.”

She smiled and waited, sensing him needing only the gentle push of love she offered. This was agonizing for him, she knew, and she was suddenly taken with a sense of responsibility that almost frightened her. She mustn’t let him down. “Jonathan,” she prodded softly.

“It’s a long and, I’m sure, very boring story,” he said, trying to smile and failing miserably.

He gazed at her for a moment longer, then shifted his eyes to the ceiling, to the square acoustic tiles above them. His eyes snapped shut, as if in response to something he was seeing—something too painful to look at. They opened slowly, continued to stare at the ceiling. Katie had moved off him, now lay quietly at his side.

“It all happened such a long time ago,” he began haltingly. “I was twelve years old. My father was a big, outgoing Irishman. He taught school on the Indian reserve where my mother lived.” He glanced at

Katie. “I told you she was Indian.”

“Yes, but I would have guessed from looking at you that one of your parents was.” She regretted her lightness of tone at once, and prayed it didn’t put him off. She felt a moment’s tension, but thankfully her comment brought only a smile.

“Lona looks more like her. Dad often talked to Lona about Mother—in the beginning. Lona never wanted to hear, though. She said it was depressing. But I hung on his every word. I wanted to know everything about her.”

Katie nodded, sensing that something bad had happened to his mother.

“Anyway, they met and my father fell madly in love with her. She was just seventeen. He said she was lovely, like a rare and fragile flower. Apparently, too fragile,” he said more to himself than to Katie.