Honey Moon (25 page)

He laughed softly. "I don't believe it. Was this yours?"

"The perfect playhouse for a Hollywood kid. Dad had it built for me when he and Mother got divorced.

I guess it was my consolation prize."

The story-book cottage was half-timbered and made of stucco with rustic patches of brick showing through. A small chimney rose from one end of a mock thatched roof. The front held a set of diamond-paned windows framed by wooden shutters.

"The window box used to be filled with geraniums," she said, letting go of his arm and walking up to the cottage. "Daddy and I planted them together every year." She pushed the latch on the wooden double door, and the hinges creaked as it opened. "Most of the original furnishings are gone now, and the place is mainly used for pool storage. You'll have to duck."

Eric took one last drag on his cigarette before he tossed it away. Bending, he entered the cottage. The ceiling was just above his head even though he wasn't standing completely upright.

"Give me your matches."

He passed them over and heard her moving about. A few seconds ticked by and then the interior was filled with flickering amber light as she lit a pair of candles on the mantelpiece of a miniature stone fireplace.

He shook his head in wonder as he looked around. "I don't believe this place."

"Isn't it wonderful?"

The ceiling of the playhouse cottage was beamed and sloping, high enough for him to stand upright at the center but falling off at the sides. A muted but still colorful mural of elves, fairies, and forest creatures frolicked across the walls.

The muralist had painted rustic cracks along with several patches of bricks, as if the plaster had broken away in places. Even the cans of pool chemicals and the neatly stacked pile of lounge cushions didn't spoil the cottage's enchantment.

"It's a little musty, but Dad keeps the place maintained. He knows I'd kill him if he let anything happen

to it."

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. In her pale raspberry gown with her silver-blond hair and exquisite features, she looked as enchanted as the figures in the mural.

She moved a cushion from the top of the stack to the floor. Sinking down on it, she leaned back against the others. "You're too big for the place. The boys I used to bring here were a lot smaller."

He lowered himself onto the cushion next to her, propping up one knee and loosening his tie. "Were there lots of them?"

"Only two. One lived in the next house, and he was boring. All he wanted to do was move the chairs around and make forts."

There was a husky, seductive quality in her voice that intrigued him. He turned her hand over in the lap of her gown and traced a circle in her palm with his fingernail. "And the other?"

"Uhm. That would have been Paulo." She leaned her head back against the cushions, her eyes drifting shut. "His father was our gardener."

"I see."

"He came here whenever he could." She drew her hand to the bodice of her gown and laid the tips of

her fingers across her full breast.

His mouth went dry, and he knew he could no longer hold out against her.

"What did the two of you do?"

"Use your imagination."

"I think"—he toyed with her fingers—"that you were naughty."

"We played"—she caught her breath as he stroked the center of her palm—

"pretend games."

Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over the corner of her mouth. "What kind of games?"

The small, pointed tip of her tongue flicked out to lick the place he had kissed.

"Uhmm . . . The usual ones children play."

"Such as?" He slid his finger over her wrist and along her inner arm.

"I was afraid of getting a shot. Paulo told me he could fix me up so I wouldn't have to go to the doctor."

"I like the kid's style."

"I knew what he was doing, of course, but I pretended I didn't." Her breath caught as his hand slipped down along her leg and crept under the hem of her dress. "It was all pretty comic."

"But exciting, too."

"Definitely exciting."

He rubbed her leg through her shimmery stocking, gradually moving higher until his thumb rested in the small cave at the back of her knee. "I like to play games, too."

"Yes, I know."

He stroked her lower thigh and then tensed with excitement as her stockings came to an end and he touched bare skin. He should have known that she wouldn't wear anything as ordinary as panty hose.

"And do you still hate going to the doctor?" he asked.

"It's not my favorite thing." At the slight pressure he was exerting, she eased her legs apart. The insides

of her thighs were firm and warm where he stroked them.

"But what if you're sick?"

"I—I'm hardly ever sick."

She gasped as his thumb brushed her through her panties.

"I don't know about that," he said. "You feel warm."

"Do I?" she asked breathlessly.

"You might have a fever. I'd better check." He slipped his finger inside the leg opening. She made a

small, moaning sound.

"Just as I thought."

"What?"

"You're hot."

"Yes." She squirmed beneath his intimate touch.

In the candlelight her lips were parted and her face flushed. His own excitement burned more fiercely as he saw how the sweet perversion of this fantasy had aroused her. Women had never been anything more than medicine to him, an over-the-counter drug to be taken at night in hopes that he'd feel better in the morning. He had never cared about his partner's satisfaction, only his own, but now he wanted to watch Lilly shatter beneath his touch, and he knew his own satisfaction wouldn't be complete without hers.

"I'm afraid I'll have to take these off." He met no resistance as he slipped the panties down over her hips. When they were off, he reached up and touched her breast through her dress. She moaned, and her forehead puckered in a frown, as if she were upset about something, but she pushed her breast against his hand, so he didn't stop.

"Your heart rate is fast," he said.

She didn't reply.

He found the zipper at the back of her dress. Sliding it down, he lowered the bodice and then removed her bra.

She lay, half sitting, half reclining in front of him, naked except for her shimmering stockings and the pale raspberry gown bunched at her waist, knees raised, legs open, wanton. He touched her breast and then gently squeezed on her nipple. She made an animal sound deep in her throat, almost a sound of distress, while at the same time she arched against his more intimate caress below, inviting him to touch more deeply.

The mixture of conflicting emotions she was exhibiting bothered him but at the same time aroused him so fiercely he could hardly hold himself back. Her moans grew guttural in her throat, and tears began to leak from beneath her eyelids.

Alarmed, he drew back, only to have her sink her fingers into the muscles of his forearms and pull him closer. He continued his caresses, sweat dampening his shirt. As his body demanded its own release, he held back to watch the disturbing fusion of emotions that played across her face: pleasure and pain, feverish arousal and a disturbing anguish. Her passion dewed his hand, and his breathing echoed harshly in the enchanted interior of the cottage as she splintered beneath his touch.

He moaned and held her through the aftershocks. "Lilly, what's wrong?" He'd never seen a woman react with so much distress to lovemaking. When she didn't answer, he crooned softly to her. "It's all right. Everything's all right."

And then he decided he had imagined her distress because her quick hands began working at the zipper

on his trousers. When she had freed him, she grasped the loose ends of his bow tie in her fists and drew his mouth to hers, giving him her tongue. She stroked him until he lost all reason.

He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers for the foil packet he never went anywhere without and drew it to his teeth to rip it open with a shaking hand.

She brushed it away. "No. I want to feel you."

Shifting her weight, she lowered herself upon him.

He was too far gone to heed the alarms that clanged in his brain, and only after he had spilled himself inside her did he feel a chill of foreboding. He had been attracted to her because she seemed so strong, but now he wasn't sure.

She began nibbling his ear and then she insisted on running back to the house to steal some food from

the kitchen for them. Before long they were laughing together over lobster and petits fours, and his forebodings had evaporated.

The next day they went to a Wynton Marsalis concert together, and after that he continued to see her several times a week. Her beauty fascinated him, and they never ran out of conversation. They argued about art, shared a mutual passion for jazz, and could talk for hours about the theater. It was only when they climbed into bed that something was very wrong. Even as Lilly demanded that he bring her to orgasm, she almost seemed to hate him for doing it. He knew it was his fault. He was a bad lover. He

had used women for so long that he had no idea how to be unselfish.

He redoubled his efforts to make certain that she was satisfied, giving her back rubs, kissing every part

of her, caressing her until she begged him for release, but her distress continued unabated. He wanted to talk to her about the problem, but he didn't know how, and he realized that he could converse with Lilly on any topic except those intimate ones that mattered. As summer slipped into fall and nothing improved, he knew he had to put an end to it.

While he was making up his mind how to do it, she appeared unexpectedly at his house one night in early October just after he'd gotten back from the studio.

He poured two glasses of wine and held one of them out to her. She took a sip.

Once again he noticed her fingernails, bitten nearly to the quick.

"Eric, I'm pregnant."

He stared at her as a cold sense of dread crept through him. "Is this a joke?"

"I wish it were," she said bitterly.

He remembered that first night in the playhouse two months earlier when he hadn't used anything, and

his gut tightened. Fool. What a goddamned fool.

She stared into the depths of her wineglass. "I've— Tomorrow I have an appointment for an abortion."

As quickly as her words sank in, rage exploded inside him. "No!"

"Eric—"

"No, goddamnit!" The stem of his wineglass cracked in his hand.

She gazed at him miserably, her light gray eyes swimming with tears. "There isn't any other way. I don't want a baby."

"Well, you have one!" He pitched the glass into the corner where it shattered, splattering its contents everywhere. "We have one, and there won't be any abortion."

"But—"

He could see that he was scaring her, and he tried to calm his breathing. Setting aside her glass, he grasped her hands. "We'll get married, Lilly. It happens all the time."

"I—I care about you, Eric, but I don't think I'd be a very good wife."

He attempted a shaky laugh. "That's another thing we have in common, then. I don't think I'll be a very good husband, either."

She smiled tremulously. He drew her into his arms and squeezed his eyes shut while he began to make promises to her, promises of roses and sunshine, daffodils and moonbeams, everything he could think of. He didn't mean any of it, but that made no difference. She had to marry him, because no matter what, he wouldn't be responsible for the death of another innocent.

14

INTERIOR. RANCH HOUSE LIVING ROOM—DAY.

Dash and Eleanor stand in the middle of the floor, their expressions combative.

ELEANOR

I have no respect for you. You know that, don't you?

DASH

I believe I've heard you mention it before.

ELEANOR

I admire men of education and refinement. True gentlemen.

DASH

Don't forget the necktie part.

ELEANOR

What are you talking about?

DASH

The last time we had this conversation, you said you couldn't respect a man who wasn't wearing

a suit and tie at the exact moment he died.

ELEANOR

I most certainly did not say that. I simply pointed out that I could never respect a man who doesn't even own a necktie, much less wear one.

DASH

I do so own one.

ELEANOR

It has a hula girl painted on it.

DASH

Only when you look at it straight on. From the side, it's more of a flamingo.

ELEANOR

I rest my case.

DASH

So what you're saying is that we've got a doomed relationship, is that it?

ELEANOR

Absolutely.

DASH

No hope.

ELEANOR

Not a bit.

DASH

Because we're too different.

ELEANOR

Polar opposites.

DASH

(taking a step closer)

So how's come I'm getting ready to kiss you?

ELEANOR

Because you're a crude, unprincipled cowboy.

DASH

Is that so? Then how's come you're going to kiss me right back.

ELEANOR

Because—Because I'm crazy about you.

They move into each other's arms and exchange a long, satisfying kiss. The door bangs open and Janie rushes in.

JANIE

I knew it! You're doing it again. Stop it! Stop that!

DASH

(still holding Eleanor in his arms)

I fhought you were off polishing your fingernails for that Bobby character.

JANIE

His name is Robert and you should be ashamed of yourselves.

DASH

I don't see why.

JANIE

She's just using you. Ever since Blake went off to join the air force, she's been hanging onto you like a burr. She's afraid of getting old and ending up alone. She's afraid—

DASH

(moving away from Eleanor to confront Janie)

That's enough, Jane Marie.

JANIE

The minute your back is turned, she laughs at you. I've heard her. Pop. She makes fun of you on the telephone to all her New York City friends.