Banjo Man Page 11

  “I have the same trouble with those darn things—they never talk back.” Ellen’s laughing voice filtered into the kitchen from the doorway.

  “Ellen!” Laurie spun around. “I didn’t hear you!”

  “That’s because you were having an animated conversation with an olive.” She grinned as she dropped a sackful of food on the table. “Laurie O’Neill, considering it’s a dump, I think you’ve done wonderful things in here!” Her eyes flew around the apartment appreciatively.

  Laurie had spent her whole week’s salary on the apartment, but it had been worth it. Colorful throws brightened the drab furniture, and the flickering light of dozens of tiny candles grouped on the chipped mantel softened the bare ivory walls. At a flea market on Wisconsin Avenue she’d even found some huge, plump floor pillows that transformed the shadowy corners of the room into warm, inviting niches.

  Laurie beamed her thanks. “Well, I hope there’ll be enough room. Rick didn’t say how many people he’d invited.”

  Frowning, she fidgeted with a pleat at the waist of her full cotton skirt. “I can’t imagine anyone coming on such short notice, anyway. This was really a silly idea. A dumb idea. Stupid!” She tried to force a little nonchalance into her voice. “You know, my partying experience leaves a little to be desired. I’m used to a good, heated game of volleyball followed by fruit juice and cookies in the community room!”

  Ellen laughed as she began pulling chips, egg rolls, and nacho sauce out of her brown sack. “You’re wrong, Laurie. It was a great idea! I’ve met a few of Rick’s friends, and they’re very nice. They’ll love you—just like Dan did once he found out you weren’t a ghost who prowls around bedrooms—”

  “—sprinkling holy water!” Laurie laughed at the memory of her first meeting with Dan. When he had finally tumbled out of bed that day, Laurie had found in Ellen’s boyfriend a warm and witty friend. He was good for Ellen, Laurie had decided, and she almost envied the open and comfortable flow of affection between them. It seemed so much simpler, somehow, than her heated passion for Rick.

  “Well,” Laurie said with a groan, “I guess there’s no turning back now, is there? But I sure wish Rick would get here! He dropped off all this food right after the show, then disappeared again.”

  “Well, he’s back, and he’s not alone!” Ellen announced a second before his enthusiastic pounding nearly broke down the door.

  “Open, sesame!” Rick called in a deep voice that caused doors to open all down the hall. “Company’s here!”

  The first two hours were a blur to Laurie. She plastered a smile on her face and did all she could to be the gracious hostess. Rick’s friends continued to arrive, filling the tiny studio apartment with their laughter and animated conversation … and surprise gifts that stunned her. Plants and towels and place mats followed a lovely old coffee table which the producer of Rick’s show didn’t want anymore. The set designer brought a wonderful painting of old Georgetown. There were end tables, lovely handmade pots, more plants, and enough kitchen gadgets to open a store. No one came empty-handed, and Laurie was in awe of how quickly they helped turn her apartment into a home.

  A tall, thin woman with short, curly hair settled down next to Laurie, folding her blue-jean clad legs into a pretzel. “You’ve been a mystery to us, Laurie. We’ve all been speculating when Rick was going to bring you out of the woodwork.”

  The words were beginning to sound like an irritating echo; nearly every one of Rick’s friends had said the same thing! A gnawing, painful thought began to grow in Laurie’s mind. Perhaps he had been afraid she wouldn’t fit in. Afraid they’d wonder about his sanity, now that he was spending so much time on someone as … as uncolorful as Laurie O’Neill. And the saddest part of all was that she didn’t fit in.

  “Rick said you’re a teacher?” Hans Hanson, the bearded producer, turned from an animated discussion on the effect of politics on the arts and joined the conversation.

  “Yes, I taught school. In Pennsylvania.” Unable to think of anything that would add sparkle to that topic, Laurie continued, “I also worked in Pittsburgh’s inner city on Saturdays, teaching in a Head Start program.”

  That piece of information was greeted with nods and smiles, but since the whole program had dissolved from lack of funding, she again ran out of words.

  All around her Laurie heard tidbits of wonderful talk: people interested in obscure poets, people active in social causes, people discussing speeches and plays and recording artists she had never heard of. And each time Laurie pushed herself into a group, the talk slowly died as they turned their attention to her, seeking to know her better, to discover the charm that had captivated Rick Westin. And each time, Laurie fell into silence after two short, simple sentences.

  Escaping into the tiny kitchen, she buried her head in the refrigerator and agonized over her next course of action.

  Darn it, she felt as out of place in there as a penguin in Miami. But it was her apartment. She wasn’t going to be a stranger here. No! she fumed at herself. Laurie O’Neill, stand up and fight. Make yourself a part of things if it kills you! Be someone!

  Mustering up all the courage she could find, then reinforcing it with the unfamiliar taste of a huge swig of wine, she attacked the party with a vengeance.

  She spotted her first target. There was Raj, an Indian historian at the Smithsonian Institution who spoke in such lofty terms no one seemed to understand him, deep in conversation with Helene, a curvaceous actress with a cloud of blond hair. Laurie squeezed in between the two and smiled brightly.

  Raj nodded pleasantly and offered her a taste of the Indian liquor he had brought. Flushed, she took the tiny glass, offered a toast and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

  Raj stared. Helene looked on in awe. And Laurie’s eyes shot open in pained surprise. The burning sensation in her throat traveled quickly to the pit of her stomach, then shot into every single available inch of her body. Gasping for air, she took the glass of water Helene thrust into her hand and poured it down her throat.

  “Wow!” She wiped the moisture from her forehead and upper lip and smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Raj, that was interesting. Certainly not your ordinary table wine,” she joked, “but a real treat for the taste buds!”

  The story would be told many times thereafter, each time becoming a bit more dramatic, until future friends would hear about the night Laurie O’Neill single-handedly drank a jug of Raj’s strongest, most potent Indian brew—and lived to tell about it.

  “Whew!” Raj stroked his beard and looked at Laurie with new admiration. “You are quite a powerful drinker, Laurie O’Neill. Even the tribes I’ve visited did not down their liquor quite that aggressively.”

  The fire in her stomach had now subsided into a lovely warmth, and Laurie felt fine. Absolutely fine! A little light-headed, perhaps, but quite relaxed and in the swing of things—at last!

  She slipped out of her shoes and plopped down on one of the huge pillows. “Come on down, the weather’s fine!” She giggled, her face flushed and her eyes shining happily. “Now, Raj, I want to know all about your work. And yours, too, Helene. Rick has told me so much about you both.”

  “Unfair.” Helene laughed just as several others joined the lively group. “You know about us, but he’s told us nothing about you, Laurie.”

  The group noisily agreed, and Laurie suddenly wanted to draw them all into her confidence. They were such wonderful people! And, dammit, if Rick wouldn’t tell them about Laurie O’Neill, she would!

  “Well,” she started, wondering vaguely why her voice was echoing around her head; it felt like a halo, she thought, giggling at the image. “Well, there’s really quite a lot to tell, folks. Right now I’m working for Senator Murphy, up on the Hill.”

  Several voices immediately chimed into the conversation, talking about the senator and his work with various committees.

  “Yes,” Laurie broke in, not yet finished or ready to be upstaged, “and for five years before th
at I was a Sister.”

  She settled back on her folded legs and smiled sweetly, so pleased with her active part in the conversation and the warmth flowing through her that she failed to notice the stunned silence that had fallen on the entire group.

  Finally she looked around and registered their total noncomprehension.

  An intent frown wrinkled her smooth forehead. “A Sister. You know, a nun. A bride of the Church.” She slid her hand over her forehead to cover her hair and sat up very straight, her face melting into a pious, madonnalike expression. “You know, like this.” She smiled again and looked over at Helene. “It was actually a very fascinating career—for a while. Certainly nothing like acting, but interesting just the same.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rick standing behind Raj, a surprised smile on his face. She winked at him, then looked back at Helene.

  Helene’s mouth snapped open and shut, then open again. “You were a … with a hab—in the conv—”

  “Yes.” And Laurie launched into an animated, detailed, blow-by-blow account of how her hair was cut, when she began wearing the habit, how she managed to keep the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience … and what happened to feminine pride when she had to cook bacon for two hundred and fifty people, dressed in heavy serge and a veil. “The smell was there for weeks, pressed into that veil like bubble gum! To this day I have a tough time being friends with pigs!”

  She didn’t even notice that the whole room was listening now, everyone’s stunned reserve at her surprise announcement shattered into crazy laughter by the anecdotes she related with relish.

  Soon they were peppering her with questions about rules and mysterious elements of the curious life that none of them knew anything about. Laurie gulped down the hot coffee Ellen set before her, laughed and talked and shared experiences with the roomful of people until the candles were burned to their bases, the last bit of food was swallowed up, and the silvery sliver of moonlight coming through the curtainless windows caught yawns and sprawling bodies in its pathway.

  Leaning into Rick’s side, she thanked her new friends for coming and finally, through muffled yawns, managed to convince Ellen and Dan that she and Rick could manage the clean-up shift by themselves.

  Rick flicked off the overhead light and led her over to the pile of pillows on the floor. Pulling her down with him into the cushiony softness, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh that rustled the new stillness in the room.

  “Whew! What a housewarming.” He traced a single moonbeam over Laurie’s cheeks before he slipped his arm around her back and pulled her close into the heated hollow his body had made in the cushions. “Promise me one thing, sweet thing.” Pleased laughter laced his deep voice. “Promise me you’ll never audition for my job!”

  Laurie pressed closer, absorbing his delicious warmth. Her head was clear of the foggy feeling that had taken over a while back, and was filled now with a dizzying pleasure—the pleasure of having fun, of sharing, of being honest about who she was and what she’d done with her life so far.

  “ ’Fraid I’ll upstage you, Banjo Man?” she teased, tucking her head under his chin and kissing the hollow of his throat.

  Rick let his head fall back against the wall and looked at her from under his half-closed lids. “Laurie, remember when I said I was going to prove I was wonderful offstage as well as on? Well, I think tonight’s the night.”

  Eleven

  An eager desire flickered in Rick’s dark eyes.

  Laurie froze. It had been just a heartbeat since she had nuzzled under his chin for that kiss, and her hands still rested on his shoulders, her lips on his throat. But in that tiny slice of time she had felt his body change. His muscles had stretched and tensed, as if, after being restricted too long, they had been set free.

  She gulped, and tried to pull away. If she could look him in the eye and make some joke, tease him, tickle him, maybe she could get things back under control.

  But he held her tightly against him, not moving, just binding her to him by the hard strength of his hands on her back.

  “Don’t run away, darlin’.”

  His breath slid over the crown of her head and down her spine, waking shivers all along her body.

  “Rick? Rick, I think I could use a sip of something.”

  “No. All you need is me.”

  “How do you know that?” she whispered, tipping her head back, her mouth close to his ear.

  “Because all I need is you.”

  “Is that why your heart is beating so hard?”

  “Yes, that’s why. And yours?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but curved one hand around her ribs and pressed his palm under the fullness of her breast.

  She began to shake. Excitement was fizzing through her body like the bubbles in champagne. She was hot and trembly, ice-cold, and scared all at once.

  His hand was so warm, so broad; it gave her something to measure her body by. All of a sudden she liked the size of her breasts, because there was just that perfect curve beneath them for his hand. The fragile arc of her rib cage lent itself to the shape of his palm; her waist was inches wider than his hand, and her belly button just a hand-span away. And both his hands, placed thumb to thumb, could probably cover her hips, circle her thigh, stretch along her thigh from knee to … to … oh, what should she call that hot, liquid center of her body?

  Suddenly it didn’t matter; her body was not waiting to be named! It was going on without her!

  Little flames ran up her legs and over her belly. Her skin was tingling, feverish, and damp with arousal. Her pulse fluttered in her throat.

  “I can feel your heart pounding,” he whispered.

  “Oh, heavens, I can feel a lot more than that!” she gasped, her voice all aquiver.

  “Easy … easy, darlin’.” He laughed softly. “We’ll take it slow and easy.”

  “What if I can’t?” She gulped, flinging her arms around his neck and pressing her face against his chest. “Oh, Rick, I love you; I want to make love with you. But I’m so dumb about all this. What if I do it wrong? What if I don’t know how to do it at all?”

  Laughing, he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in her hair. “Oh, my sweet darlin’, this isn’t a test. All you’ve got to do is love me, though it can’t be half as much as I love you. The rest … well, the rest is easy. It’s all wonder and magic. It’s fantastic! It’s riding to the moon, baby, just you and me. Here, you just have to relax.”

  “But I can’t!” Her words were muffled against his shirt front.

  The groan torn from his throat was half laugh, half curse. Then a knowing grin tugged at his lips. “Okay, then I’ll play you a little song, darlin’.”

  With teasing sensuality he strummed his fingers across Laurie’s back, his husky voice accompanying his pretend banjo playing:

  Apples be ripe

  And nuts be brown,

  Petticoats up and

  Trousers down.

  “What kind of song is that?” she choked out, laughing, her face burning. “Rick Westin, you made that up!”

  “No, it’s an old folk ditty. Even the pioneers had fun sometimes!”

  “But that’s terrible!” She giggled, loving it.

  “No, it’s wonderful!”

  “You’re terrible!”

  “No, I’m wonderful.” His smile flashed with erotic excitement. “And you’re wonderful. And we …” he said softly, timing his words to the movement of his hands as he unbuttoned her blouse, “… and we … are about … to make … wonderful love … together.”

  He peeled her blouse off her shoulders, bent his head, and kissed the pale rise of her breast above her bra. His mouth was hot, his tongue rasping wetly across her flesh. She had never, never felt anything like it before! She wanted to close her eyes and float in the dark with nothing but this incredible feeling, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. She had to see as well as feel the thick brush of his dark hair against her ivory skin, the hard line of his
jaw against the soft curve of her breast, the imprint of his mouth against her yielding flesh.

  Washed by an unfamiliar yearning, she wriggled against him, trying to shrug free of her blouse. She managed to get one arm stuck in the sleeve.

  “Help!” she gasped, breathless, and Rick grinned, tugged it off completely, and tore off his own shirt.

  Grinning back, she wrapped her bare arms around his chest and was stunned by the flood of sensations that went through her. The tender skin of her breasts, the insides of her arms, the sensitive hollows beneath them, nothing had ever touched her in those places but the bland fabric of her own clothing. And here was the surprising heat of him, the texture of his skin and the electrifying brush of his dark, curly hair, the hardness of his muscle and the supple smoothness of his broad back. The heady musk of his scent filled her head, and she could taste him on her lips. Most incredible of all was the closeness, the unbelievable, dizzying closeness.

  “Oh, Rick,” she whispered, wanting to tell him everything she was feeling, finding no adequate words. It was all too new, too wonderful.

  He understood without words and kissed her, crushing his lips against hers in a frenzy of passion.

  His warm and tender hand stroked her body from breast to belly and up and down the ridge of her spine. Then both hands settled at the waistband of her skirt, and he unfastened the button and slipped it down over her hips.

  It all happened so fast she didn’t think to protest, and then his hands were gliding over her thighs and hips, curving lovingly around her buttocks, and it was all more wonderful than she had ever imagined! She gave herself up to the feel of his hands on her body, and felt a new flame shooting and leaping through her. She was melting, melting beneath his touch.

  And then he slipped his fingers beneath the band of her panties, and fear shot through her like an electric shock.

  “Wait … wait, please,” she said, gasping, and he stopped and cradled her in his arms, his breath torn to rags in his throat.

  “It’s all right, darlin’. I was going too fast, too fast.”