Her Name Will Be Faith (15 page)

"Really? I think I do too. What sort of music?
Classical?" He leaned eagerly across the table.

"Yes, mostly."

"CDs?"

"Oh, yes. Yours?"

"Naturally. I'd love to show you my set-up; it's
the only part of the apartment that's properly finished. Do you have half an
hour?" Then he almost visibly gasped at the thought that she might accept.

They stared at each other, both knowing the
implications of his invitation. Richard held his breath, while Jo's mind raced
through the list of
fors and againsts. But
she knew what she wanted to do. It was years since a man had looked at her like
this; come to think of it, it was hard to recall
if Michael ever had. So she might regret it... but her entire life right
now
seemed composed of regrets.

She smiled, shyly. "Yes, I
have half an hour to spare," she said, quietly
but decisively.

In the elevator, Richard apologized for the mess she
would find in his
lounge. "Guess I just
haven't gotten around to deciding what to do with
it. I'm not too hot on
interior design."

"That's because you haven't got a woman prodding
you all the time,"
she said without
thinking, and wanted to bite her tongue. But she
immediately saw what he
meant, shuddering at the hideous orange walls.

He showed her the music center and the neat cases of compact
discs. "Take your pick. Anything there you like?"

Scanning the titles, she tried to think, tried to
decide what to do if... wondered if coming here hadn't been the stupidest thing
she'd done since... since marrying Michael? Aware that he was patiently
waiting, she stammered, "I'm spoilt for choice. I love them all. How about
some Chopin?"

The reproduction was exquisite. Standing beside the
window, double-
glazed against the Manhattan
traffic, she closed her eyes, listening,
absorbing. And when she re-opened
them, he was beside her, filling her
with an
overwhelming desire to touch him – be in his arms. And he
wanted
it too; she could read it in his eyes.

Silently they moved together,
eyes locked. Jo felt herself drawn against
him
and stood trembling, wanting – yet frightened, overawed by the magnitude
of her reaction to him. Richard was not the first man to have
touched her since she'd married Michael; there had
been plenty of sly
hugs and kisses at
parties and smoochy dancing with some very attractive
men. This was
different. She was very aware of how great the gulf was between those fun
flirtations and what she felt now.

"Jo?" His voice was scarcely above a
whisper.

"Richard?" She felt his breath on her
forehead and tilted her head to
meet his
mouth with hers. Suddenly she was vibrant, alive; a great surging
joy
welled up to fill her chest, her throat, her head, leaving her gasping under
his soft kisses. His encircling arms moved up, and with fingers
threaded in her hair he held her face in both hands
and gazed at her,
smiling – the famous Connors smile. But this was
genuine.

"Darling Jo. I have dreamed of you for the past
fortnight, praying,
hoping, and fearing it
might all never happen." He crushed her against
him as Chopin's
Revolutionary Study filled the room.

The feeling of utter contentment
blotted out all reality. The fact that
she was married, irrevocably, that this love could only
be an illicit, secret
thing,
that she could never stand on the proverbial hilltop and shout it
to the world, or even admit it to her closest
confidante, was irrelevant.

All that mattered was the steady
beat of his heart against her ear,
his
arms, his love.

Love? Oh, yes, it was love. Love
like she could never remember feeling
until now. A joyous, two-way thing, transmitted between
them through
kisses,
caresses, and the way they looked. And, pressed against him,
she
knew he wanted more. As did she.
When he turned her towards the
bedroom she made no resistance, but then stared at him in consternation
as the doorbell rang.

"Oh, goddamn," he said. "Just give me a
moment."

She stood in the center of the
room, watching him as he went to the
door. Now was the moment to regain sanity and leave. But
she wasn't
going to do that. She wanted
only to have him back in her arms.

The door was open. "Hi, old
buddy," Mark Hammond said.
"
Got in
a shade earlier than I'd hoped."

"Remind me to put a bomb in
your plane next time you go on patrol,”
Richard
said.

"Come on in, Mom, it's
lovely," Owen Michael called from the swim
pool.

"It's a bit early in the
year for me," Jo replied from her lounger.

"Don't know why I bust a gut putting in solar
heating," Big Mike
groused. "No
one seems to use the pool any more often."

"We do," Tamsin shouted.

"Huh? You two used to break
the ice to get in. Hasn't made a cent of
difference
to you," their grandfather retorted.

Reluctantly, Jo heaved herself up
and went to the edge of the pool to
dip a
toe in. "Hey, that's quite warm."

"Fooled you," Big Mike
grinned. "The heating isn't even on today."

Jo dived, her slim body slicing
through the water under the children to
tickle
their feet and bring shrieks and squeaks as they splashed to get away.

"Shame Michael isn't
here," Babs murmured. "I thought he was only
going to race every other weekend?"

"Yep. Something wrong there.
You can see it in Jo's face," Big Mike
replied in a low voice. "It's my bet he means to do
the Bermuda Race
again this year."

"Oh, no! Do you really think
so, after his promise to come to Eleu
thera?"

Jo swam back to where they were
sitting, kicked her legs and bounced
up to perch on the pool edge beside them. "That's
just super. Have you
really turned off
the solar panel?"

"Not off," Mike
explained. "I've switched it to heating the house water
alone. The weather's been so warm recently the pool
hasn't needed it."

"We've had a record
spring," Babs remarked. "Temperature-wise,
anyway."

"Jo! Why's Michael up in
Newport this weekend? Is he preparing
Esmeralda
for the Bermuda race after all?" Big Mike was not
renowned
for his tact: if he had a
question he usually asked it.

Babs flushed and waited.

"Yes," Jo replied, not
looking at them. She had not meant to discuss
Michael with them – no doubt he would tell
them his plans when he was
ready.
Besides, she had not wanted to think about Michael since Thursday
afternoon. She still couldn't make up her mind
whether she was glad or
sorry that
navy flier had walked in on them. He had been as embarrassed
as they, but the ice had soon been broken, and they
had sat around
chatting and drinking
coffee and beer until four. That he had been an old
friend of Richard's had been sufficient to make
him a friend of hers. That
he was
Richard's secret source of information about the weather made him an absorbing
personality, especially when he had talked about the
long, weary hours flying over the Atlantic,
investigating every piece of
cloud
cover for signs of that circulation which would mean warm air
rising too
fast for safety.

And while he had talked, she and
Richard had glanced at each other,
the physical desire slowly subsiding, to be replaced by
what? She wasn't
sure.
When she had realized the time and hurriedly left, he had come
with her to the door. "I'm
real sorry about that," he had said. "Can we
meet again? Mark will only be here a couple of
days."

"I'll call you," she
had promised. But she hadn't yet. Mark might still
be there, and besides... it had
never occurred to her in her wildest
daydreams that she would ever cheat on her marriage. Even
if that
marriage was over? That was something
she had to be certain of.

"Oh, dear." Babs' tone
was indicative of her concern; she was well
aware
of the implications of Michael's absence.

Jo felt their eyes on her, knew
they were itching to learn if the old
wounds
had been reopened – if they only guessed at the truth they would
have a fit. But they would have to be told
something. The children were
at the
far end of the pool, racing from one side to the other, splashing
and
shouting. "Yes," she admitted. "We did have another quarrel, a
big
one, Wednesday night. When he told me
he'd decided to race after all.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner
— I thought he'd have done it himself. Maybe I was hoping he'd change his
mind back again."

"Perhaps he will," Babs ventured.

Jo shrugged her wet shoulders and said nothing.

"Well..." Mike shook his head. "You
knew he was a keen sportsman
before you
married, and if this is the way he wants it to be..." He
paused,
lamely.

"Quite. And he knew I was a
keen journalist. Only I've kept my side
of the bargain and cut back my work. So where do we go
from here?" She
wondered
if they could help her solve her dilemma, even if inadvertently.

Alarm bells were sounding in Babs'
brain. "Oh, my dear, I'm quite
sure
something can be worked out."

"What?" Mike asked.

Jo looked from one to the other. "If you can come
up with some good suggestions, I'm all ears."

"Can't you discuss it together..." Babs
started.

"We have. And it always ends in a slanging
match." When your son
doesn't actually
hit me, she thought, but she wasn't going to tell them
that.

They sat silently watching the children. The sky was
an uninterrupted blue, but for the birds which occasionally swooped from the
branches of one pine to the next. Gazanias and mesembrianthemums spread their
colorful petals to embrace the warmth while bees hummed a ballet over the
borders.

Mike rolled his feet off the lounger and stood up.
"When's he coming home? I'm going to talk to him."

"I've no idea," Jo
said. "We're not exactly communicating at the
moment. But anyway, it's a waste of time. He'll know
I've told you, and
he'll accuse me of
running up here whining to you." She tipped her weight
forward,
flopped into the pool, and swam to the far end and back, long, lazy strokes
with the minimum of splash. She leaned her arms on the coronation and looked up
at Mike and Babs, seeing the anxiety in their eyes. "I'm sorry. So sorry.
He says it's all my fault, and naturally, I think it's his. I suppose we just
have to accept that we're not compatible."

"Compatible, shit," Mike growled. "Don't
give me that. Folks are as
compatible or
incompatible as they make up their minds to be. Look..."
He sat on
the edge of the lounger again, leaning towards her. "Don't get me wrong. I
think he's behaving like a lousy son of a..." He threw Babs
an apologetic grin. "Louse, breaking his
promise, but dammit, it is his
life, and if he wants to spend all his
leisure time sailing..."

"He should never have got married in the first
place," Jo interrupted bitterly. "He's like someone who buys a puppy
to fuss over and pamper, and then abandons it when he gets bored or it proves
too much trouble. Michael is bored with marriage, with me, and with his
children."

"Oh, Jo! That's not fair!" Babs protested.

"Okay, maybe I'm wrong. But
you tell me why he wants to spend so
little
time with us?" She could feel tears starting to sting her eyes.

"Well, you know how much he loves
Esmeral..."
Babs' voice was gentle and coaxing.

"You're damned right I do. More than home,
family, children… more than anything. Maybe I should just let him get on with
it, and offer up grateful thanks to God for the few times he does spare us a
little of his company. Well, I'm sorry, folks, but that's not my idea of a
marriage. I
didn't marry Michael just to be
his maid, valet, bear him children, and
be available for his sexual
satisfaction whenever he requires it. I want a
companion, too, to share things… like our children, holidays, the fun
there
is in life doing things that
families do together." She scrambled out of the pool,
grabbed her
towel, and rushed up to the house to shower… and weep.