Banjo Man Page 16

  For a second she wanted to reach through the wire and strangle her little sister, or burst into tears! But she took a deep breath and replied, “I really don’t know. We haven’t seen each other this week.”

  “Are you crazy?” her sister screeched. “Listen, I’m coming back to Washington. You do need me! If you let them turn you against that wonderful man … well, that’s just the most awful, awful thing I’ve ever heard! You can’t, Laurie!”

  “Calm down, Katy,” Laurie said, her own voice wobbling with tears. “There’s no need to be hysterical. I just have some decisions to make.”

  Katy didn’t answer. She just slammed the phone down.

  So much for Tuesday night! Laurie thought, the tears starting down her cheeks. She made herself a glass of warm milk and readied herself for another endless, empty night.

  It was then, each night in the darkness, when she felt so hopeless, so lonely and unhappy, so torn apart that she wondered if she was growing and maturing, or just suffering.

  Sleepless, she paced the room, filled with yearning for Rick, wanting nothing but the look of him, the feel of him, his nearness, his love. She placed her hand where his had been, on a coffee mug, a toothbrush in the bathroom, a certain book left open on the little table next to the bed. She saw him in the mirror, grinning over the top of her head as she brushed her hair in the morning. She felt his touch … the special way he had of reaching over and laying his thumb against her cheek, like a potter’s mark, with such tenderness and love.

  And she could not bear it. She had to love him, had to spend her life with him. And she cried silently for the emptiness her life had suddenly become.

  Wednesday night Ellen called again, late, from the E.R. Laurie could barely talk, her throat was so raw from weeping.

  “Damn, I knew you weren’t sleeping. Laurie, when are you going to stop this foolishness? This stubbornness?”

  “I’m not being stubborn, Ellen,” she insisted. She wiped her face dry with the hem of her bathrobe, glad Ellen couldn’t see her. “I’m trying to be sensible. Listen, I put it all down on paper, like those T-charts we used to make: pros on one side, cons on the other. Just listen to this list. Under ‘Why not fall in love?’—need to be independent, need time, need space, need to think things through more clearly, obvious immaturity, inexperience, should travel, should look for a new job, should make other friends on my own.

  “And here. Listen to this. On the ‘Why fall in love?’ side, you know what I have? Rick.

  “That’s all, just him,” she whispered, starting to cry again.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it can’t be.” She groaned. “I mean, look, it’s nine to one!”

  “Yeah, but if the long shot comes in, you’re really a winner! Hey, I’m just teasing. The point is, I think that if you want to fool around with that silly chart, there are lots of things to add on the side of love: happiness, delight in another human being, pleasure, sharing, caring, being happy to wake up in the morning, being glad to go to bed at night … in your lover’s arms. Have I hit nine yet, or should I keep going?”

  “You’re probaby close enough, Ellen, and I understand what you’re saying. But you’ve had the experience to say it. You didn’t run off and fall in love with the first guy you met out of the convent!”

  “Maybe you’re just luckier than I, Laurie,” Ellen answered flatly. “Now I have to get back to work, but I want you to think about something. Sometimes it’s worth taking a gamble on the side of happiness.”

  So much for Wednesday! Laurie moaned, sniffing back her tears.

  When the phone rang just before midnight on Thursday, Laurie was already bordering on exhaustion. Her head was pounding with the constant, futile effort of weighing and balancing all her conflicting emotions. She was tired right down to her toes.

  She lifted the receiver and held it to her ear, her forehead propped against the palm of her other hand. “Hello?”

  “Laurie, it’s me. Rick.”

  She couldn’t answer, but just sat biting her lips hard enough to bruise them, her whole body trembling.

  “Laurie? Are you there?” She heard his voice deepen with concern. “Laurie, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I think I’m okay.”

  There was silence for a moment, then his voice, softer now, edged with pain. “I’m kind of sorry to hear that. I was hoping you were as miserable as I am.”

  She felt the hot tears slide from the corners of her eyes.

  “Laurie … it’s Thursday, Friday morning almost.” Silence, and then she heard him clear his throat, steady his voice, and she knew what this was costing him. “Laurie, have you made any decisions yet?”

  She shook her head, spilling tears in all directions, and barely whispered, “No.”

  “Good! Then let me come over. We can talk it out. We can work it out together. We can—”

  “No … No, I have to do it alone or it’s no good, Rick. Somehow I’ve got to figure it out.”

  “Figure what out, Laurie? This is our lives you’re talking about, not some math problem. Some crossword puzzle. Two down, happiness. Six across, pain. I mean … damn, either you love me as much as I love you or you don’t! What the hell is there to figure out?”

  “Me! Who I am. How I see the rest of my life! That’s what I’ve got to figure out, Rick. I need more time!”

  “I haven’t got much more time, Laurie,” he answered. “And if I did, if I said I’d wait another week, another year, would it make any difference? Or would it just prolong the agony?”

  “Rick, I wish—”

  “You know what I wish, Laurie?” He cut her off with the knife-sharp pain in his voice. “I wish I could make it as hard for you to leave me as it is for me to leave you.”

  She must have fallen asleep in the chair, because when she opened her eyes again it was morning. There was the soft patter of rain against her window, and daylight was filling the room with a pearl-gray glow.

  Stretching slowly, Laurie pulled the chair over by the window and looked out. There were a lot of things to see: the lines and angles of roofs and house fronts, the long stripes of sidewalks, the rounded leafy shapes of trees. And people hurrying to and fro, alone or in pairs, wrapped in raincoats and hidden under umbrellas.

  She was not going to work today, she decided. Instead she was going to sit here, watching the scene in her window … and she was going to take her life in her hands.

  It sounded terribly melodramatic, and she laughed softly. Oh, that felt good; she hadn’t laughed in so long, not all this week without Rick. Was that what her life would be like without him?

  And suddenly, with a shock that made her sit bolt upright in her chair, she realized that was the one thing she had not thought of! What would her life be like without Rick?

  Not just tomorrow, knowing he was leaving, knowing she’d never see him packed for the road, sleeping bag and banjo strapped across his back, helmet on, his lean, beautiful body leaning forward into the hills. She’d have no picture to carry in her head, no words of farewell, no leave-taking but this bitter ending, each alone. But it was not just tomorrow, which would pass.

  It was not just the next day and the next, sliding into weeks. She could fill that time, with a job and friends, concerts and museums, a trip somewhere and visits home. But she’d never share those moments of wonder with him: nights camped out under the stars or sleeping on someone’s feather mattress, listening to the old songs, the rich melody of voices and fiddles and a five-string banjo. But it was not just those endless weeks, which would pass.

  It was not just the next year, her first as a woman. She could get through that also, maybe, without him. But then who would laugh at her foolishness, share her joys, care about the way she grew and changed? Who would ever love her the way he did, dark eyes flashing, the connection so strong and alive between them, his every touch, his every smile encouraging, approving, nourishing her. Oh, God … he did love her! For h
er, he was the sun, and the wind and the sweet rain.

  And even if she could survive a year without him, there’d be no reason to, because the rest of her life would be empty.

  With a shout of pure joy, she leaped to her feet, then stood grinning at the empty room. Okay, Laurie O’Neill, now that we know where we’re going, let’s get there!

  The first thing she did was try to call Rick. The line was busy, and she hung up and tried again immediately, over and over, until she was bathed in a light sheen of sweat. The thought of a good, hot shower and shampoo was like a drug, and drew her away for just a few moments. She came back, wrapped head to toe in towels, and grabbed the phone. This time there was no answer. She couldn’t believe it!

  She tried again all day and evening, at the town house, at the theater, but no Rick Westin was to be found. No one had seen him since his abrupt departure from the annual farewell party for the crew at the Stage.

  It was love, and a sharp, pleasant anticipation, that kept her redialing his number. Never for a moment did she think he had left town already. No, if Rick Westin said he’d wait till Saturday, then he’d wait, even if it meant waiting in hell.

  She cleaned the apartment, distributed the plants among her startled neighbors, and asked the woman next door to keep an eye on the place. She raced out to shop, buying the few things her limited experience told her were necessities: a new pair of stone-washed jeans, already soft to the touch, a couple of T-shirts, a huge funky sweat shirt, some hiking boots, and thick woolen socks. A plastic poncho. A folding toothbrush.

  It was all so easy, as natural as breathing.

  The night grew late, and still she couldn’t get hold of Rick. And there was no one else she wanted to call, no one she wanted to tell until she had told him. So she sat with her hand on the phone, and fell asleep in the chair again, and woke to the sunlight of a clear, shimmering morning.

  This was the day! This was the true, shining start of her life!

  She called a cab, then packed her things into a light, zippered nylon backpack, slipped into a pair of khaki slacks and a crisp oxford shirt, and tied the scarf Rick had given her around her neck. And then she locked the door behind her.

  There was no one on the streets at six o’clock on a Saturday morning, and she delighted in having the city all to herself as she settled into the back seat of the cab and said good-bye to the now-familiar landmarks. She was at Rick’s door in less than fifteen minutes, and knocked loudly, not caring if she waked the entire neighborhood.

  But it was a stranger, a short, balding, round-faced man in a bathrobe, who opened the door.

  “Oh,” Laurie said with a gasp, jumping back. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’d like to see Rick Westin.”

  “Rick, well …” The man yawned. “Sorry. Rick moved out yesterday. I’m renting the place from him for the summer, and he was nice enough …” His words were stopped by another yawn, which he tried to hide behind his hand, while Laurie thought she would jump out of her skin. “Sorry. He was nice enough to let me settle in yesterday, so I’d be ready for my performance today. I’m a flautist. The flute, you know,” he added, noting the totally uncomprehending look on Laurie’s pale face.

  “How nice,” she said quickly. “But … do you know where he went?”

  “I think he said he was going to stay overnight at a friend’s, and then head out—”

  Laurie was already running, the rest of his words unheard. “A friend’s”! Who? Whom would he stay with? Hans? Raj? Ellen? Yes … Ellen’s place, where she had first laid eyes on his dear, beloved face!

  She raced down the street, looking for a cab as she ran. When the driver deposited her at Ellen’s door, she clattered up the stairs and pounded on the door.

  Dan answered. “Laurie! Hi, kid, long time no see.” He grinned sleepily.

  “Is Rick here, Dan? Please say yes!”

  “Not anymore, it looks like,” he answered, scanning the empty room, the empty couch, the one pillow and the blanket folded across the arm of the couch. “He must have left early. But Ellen’ll know where to find him; she’ll be home soon.”

  “I can’t wait! He’ll leave. He’ll think I’m not going with him!” she cried, panic beginning to tighten around her heart.

  “Are you?” Dan’s brows rose in surprise. “Hey, good for you, kiddo! Ellen had just about given up hope.”

  Laurie hugged him, laughing softly. “Well, I’m not quite hopeless. I plan to make something out of myself yet! Listen, kiss Ellen for me. Tell her I’ll call. I’m going to find Rick!”

  And she was off.

  As her feet touched the sidewalk, and the kindly cabbie waited for his next instructions, she paused. Where should she look next? Where would he be, her banjo man?

  Suddenly she knew.

  The driver traced their way back to her own front door.

  There he was, parked at the curb in front of the building, looking up at her closed and darkened window.

  He was sitting on his ’cycle, legs angled out from the machine, in jeans and a light denim jacket, his long, dark hair curling against his collar. Seen from behind like this, he did look a little wild and dangerous and unknown … and Laurie felt a tiny thrill of wildness climb up her spine.

  And then he turned, without her calling his name or saying a word, as if his whole being sensed her presence. He turned and saw her as the cab pulled up, and he smiled, a smile that erased the pain from his dark gypsy eyes and made them flash with love and promise.

  She felt the tears sting behind her lids as she slid wordlessly out of the car. What had she done to deserve such a loving smile, such a loving man?

  He flung up one arm in salute. “Come on, my brave and wonderful darlin’. Come on! We’re off!”

  Laurie hopped on behind him. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her cheek against his back and whispered, “I love you, Rick. I love you, love you …”

  “And I love you, Laurie O’Neill.”

  She felt the engine roar into life, and their journey together began.

  The Editor’s Corner

  Welcome to Loveswept!

  April might bring showers, but over at Loveswept, we’re more than happy to fill your days with sunshine and romance with this month’s irresistible original stories.

  If you’re looking for a new small-town contemporary romance, look no further than Plain Jayne, a funny, heartfelt story about best friends who reunite—only to realize that being “just friends” isn’t good enough anymore. Juliet Rosetti keeps readers swooning—and laughing—with Mazie Maguire and her hot boy toy, Ben Labeck, in the delightfully fun Tangled Thing Called Love. And Bronwen Evans delivers another scorching story in A Promise of More, the second Disgraced Lords book where a marriage rooted in convenience and revenge turns into something so much more.

  And sure to brighten any gloomy days are classic romances like Sandra Chastain’s richly sensuous tales from the Wild West: The Outlaw Bride, The Mail Order Groom and Shotgun Groom. Also deeply satisfying is Iris Johansen’s unforgettable story Man From Half Moon Bay and Karen Leabo’s sexy and thrilling The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. Linda Cajio’s Me and Mrs. Jones is another wonderful tale of passion you can’t miss. And you can never go wrong with Andrienne Staff and Sally Goldenbaum: check out the beautifully rendered Banjo Man by these two superstar writers.

  ∼Happy Romance!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  Love stories you’ll never forget

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  eOriginal Romance from Random House

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