The Spiral Path (66 page)

I
n
a movie, Rainey would have cut away after they left the labyrinth. In
real life, high drama inevitably descended to the mundane. When they entered
the house, she asked, "Shall I heat up the spareribs Alma left?"

"Please. I'll shower while they're
warming." Scooping Honeybunny onto his shoulder, he headed for the
bathroom. He looked drained and far from happy, but the brittle tension she'd
felt seemed to have dissipated. Though the marriage might not survive, Kenzie
would, and so would she.

Feeling lighter than she had in weeks,
she enjoyed puttering in the kitchen. Besides heating the ribs, she made a
salad and set the table with candles and the checked tablecloth. Since there
was nothing elegant about spareribs, she opted for the effect of a cheerful
bistro. Several leaves and blossoms in a narrow vase completed the look.

Over a lazy dinner, she told Kenzie about
the accelerated schedule for postproduction on
The Centurion.
He knew a
lot about production, and made several shrewd suggestions that would save
precious time. If he was dismayed that the movie would receive a wider release
than originally anticipated, he didn't show it.

As they cleaned up after the meal, she
said hesitantly, "It's pretty cool now that the sun has gone down. If you
built a fire in the living room, we could both work there."

"Might as well use that mountain of
wood I've chopped," he agreed. "I'll bring some in."

She made coffee and carried it into the
living room. Outside the wide window, a rim of color edged the craggy horizon.
Not a single artificial light was visible. They were a long, long way from Los
Angeles.

Inside, Kenzie had turned on the reading
lamps placed by the leather recliners, and was adding wood to the first
crackling flames in the fireplace. "I love the smell of burning
wood," she remarked. "Piney. Tangy. The scent of the Southwest."

"Jim Grady supplied several different
woods for chopping. Cedar. Juniper. Mesquite. They tend to burn fast, but
they're wonderfully aromatic." He sipped his coffee, the firelight
flickering over his features in a ridiculously theatrical way.

"Your face might not feel like your
own," she said hesitantly. "But most of it is. Plastic surgery didn't
alter the shape of your skull or the fall of your hair or the texture of your
skin. The beautiful green eyes that got you into trouble with Nigel Stone are
certainly yours."

He stood and gazed into the circular
mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. "If I'd chosen to have plastic
surgery, it would be different. Having my face rearranged without my consent
was ... alienating. Every time I look in the mirror, I think of how helpless I
was."

"It's hell to be a kid with no
control over your life," she agreed. "That's probably true even with
wise, loving parents. But you're not helpless now, Kenzie. You're in a position
where you can work or not work, pick only projects you like, live where you want,
when you want. No one has power over you."

"No one?" He glanced at her
obliquely before intercepting Gray Guy, who was showing an unhealthy amount of
interest in the fire. After drawing the metal mesh screen across the fireplace,
he asked, "Do you have any lined yellow tablets? I might as well start on
my journal."

They spent a quiet evening working on
opposite sides of the fireplace. Rainey organized her production schedule while
Kenzie wrote. Occasionally his blue felt-tipped pen raced across page after
page. More often there were long silences while he stared into the flames, or
petted whichever kitten had settled, or rose to put wood on the fire. His
profile was like granite and he never spoke ... but he kept writing.

When she finished her planning, she
reluctantly picked up another yellow tablet to start her own journal. Where did
one begin? She gnawed on the end of her pen. Chronological? Free association?
Whatever issue bubbled to the surface?

She set pen to paper, and found herself
writing.

∗ ∗ ∗

As a child in my mother's house, I
always felt as if I was raising myself, despite the nannies and housekeepers
and hangers-on. Like Clementine, they came and went, though at least Clementine
always came back, eventually.

Lolly was my favorite nanny. She
promised me a special fifth birthday party with clowns and balloons. A week
before, she and Clementine had a big fight and Lolly was fired. I ran crying
into her room as she packed. She was crying, too, but she didn't stop packing.
She gave me a hug, told me to be a good girl, and left. No birthday party that
year. Clementine flew off to sing at a big concert in Central Park. She brought
me back a wonderful music box with a twirling ballerina on top, but on my
actual birthday, she didn't even call.

∗ ∗ ∗

Rainey stopped writing, paralyzed by a
wave of desolation. For an instant, she was five years old again, weeping alone
in her bed because no one cared that it was her birthday. She might have cried
now if Kenzie hadn't been sprawled on the sofa, writing down experiences that
had to be a hundred times worse than a forgotten birthday.

∗ ∗ ∗

No wonder I felt I was raising myself.
No one else could be relied on. I've never fully trusted anyone, have I? Well,
maybe my friends like Val and Kate and Rachel and Laurel. Those are
relationships of equals. But I didn't trust Clementine, or my grandparents, or
Kenzie. Anyone who might be assumed to have some emotional responsibility for
me.

∗ ∗ ∗

She gnawed at the end of her pen,
thinking, before she continued.

∗ ∗ ∗

I didn't trust them because I was sure
they couldn't be trusted. Trust makes you vulnerable, so don't trust.

Yet without vulnerability, there can be
no true intimacy. Being untrusting didn't mean that I escaped being hurt, but
it sure guaranteed that I'd never develop a really deep relationship. The
classic example is the way I expected the marriage not to last. A
self-fulfilling prophecy.

∗ ∗ ∗

She smiled wryly.

∗ ∗ ∗

Must work on this.

∗ ∗ ∗

The fact that she could smile was a sign
that Tom was right: The act of writing helped create a sense of distance and
control. She was no longer a desolate five-year-old, but a grown woman looking
back on her five-year-old self with compassion.

∗ ∗ ∗

Despite Clementine's failings as a
mother and the anger I've felt toward her, I loved her desperately. Sometimes
she was so very much there. Loving, playful, beautiful. So driven by her
talents and demons. Rest in peace, Mama. I know that you did your best. It's not
surprising that you couldn't run my life well, when you couldn't even run your
own.

∗ ∗ ∗

Blinking back more tears, she stroked
Honeybunny's tummy. Pets were definitely therapeutic.

She was on the verge of quitting for the
night when Kenzie rose and crossed to the fireplace. Drawing the screen open,
he knelt and began feeding pages to the flames, one at a time, his expression
unreadable. Tearing the pages from her tablet, she joined him.

"Ritual magic," he said.
"It seems to work, too."

"Thank you, Brother Tom." She
laid her journal pages on the fire at a ratio of one of hers to three or four
of Kenzie's so that they finished about the same time. As the yellow sheets
curled and blackened before exploding into flame, she felt a surprising
lightness of being. She rose, suppressing a yawn, feeling that part of her life
had been purified by fire.

Kenzie pulled the glass doors shut so
the fire could burn out safely, then followed her down the hall. She turned to
say good-night, one hand on the knob of her door, then paused, startled by his
rigid posture as he watched her. As clearly as if the thoughts were her own,
she sensed that he wanted to be with her, but wasn't sure he was ready for a
greater level of intimacy.

The relaxed mood vanished. She wanted to
be with him so much it hurt, but she'd be a fool to ask too much, too soon.

Wordlessly she extended one hand.

A muscle in his jaw jumped as his gaze
locked on her hand, but he didn't move to take it. Softly she said, "Only
to sleep. Nothing more unless it's what you want." She smiled a little.
"I'll even wear the most decent nightgown I own."

Movements jerky, he clasped her hand.
His fingers were cold. "I can't promise that I won't freak out
again."

"I understand." She lifted
their joined hands and pressed them to her cheek. "Thank you for daring to
try."

Side by side, they entered her bedroom
to risk the night.

He
awoke rested. A miracle. Or rather, the effect of having Rainey burrowed
against him, her head on his arm and her bright hair a silky cascade. It was
early, the sky not yet fully light and the air in the bedroom chilly, but under
the quilt was all the warmth a man could ever ask.

Though she'd kept her promise and wore a
cream-colored, lace-trimmed nightgown, the fabric didn't disguise her
desirability. In fact, the gown made the curves of breasts and hip more
tantalizing, riper than a few weeks earlier, when she'd been working herself to
the bone in England. Now she was relaxed and sweetly provocative.

Arousal was instantly accompanied by
stabbing images of sexual violation. He closed his eyes and held himself
absolutely still, fighting to control his frantic reaction.

Rainey's hand skimmed down his body,
familiar, deft, fully and delicately female. "Don't think anything else,
Kenzie," she said quietly as his pulse accelerated. "Only us. Only
now."

With absolute certainty, he recognized
that reclaiming his sexuality would never get easier than this moment. The more
he obsessed and worried, the more difficult physical intimacy would become.
When her hand slid inside the shorts he'd worn to bed, he surrendered to
passion, and learned that concentrating on the moment pushed the horrors of the
past to the edges of his consciousness.

All his attention was on his wife. Her
eyes, misty gray in the morning light before they drifted shut. The luscious
softness of her skin as he pulled the nightgown over her head to reveal her
dearly loved body. The beat of her blood under his lips as he kissed her
throat, her breasts, the tender curve of her waist. Her rapturous sigh as he
entered her, every muscle straining for control so he could make this joining
as wondrous for her as it was for him.

When she cried out, he let himself
dissolve into searing release. This was how lovemaking was meant to be. A
passionate joining, a bond of mist, an annihilation of self beyond the shadows.
With my body, I thee worship...