“Hmm?” She came up from her fanciful world where success was wholly achievable, pulling her eyes from her bowl of chili and grilled cheese sandwich to find Rick laughing at her.
“Hey there, dreamy, you haven’t got Finelli’s job yet. We have a workshop to attend and pictures to take. You gonna sit there and dream in your chili all day?”
She braced her chin on a palm and smiled dimly. “I will one day—have his job, I mean. Just you watch and see.”
DURING the actual workshop cameras were set up in various lighting situations and personalized guidance given to the photographers, allowing them to experiment with newly marketed equipment and various techniques. Ideas were exchanged freely, live models wandered about, and the country’s most noted teachers of photography gave advice and inspiration.
Allison looked up to see Rick approaching after having changed his clothes. He came striding toward her in a set of clothes the likes of which she’d never seen on him before. She was stunned. He was dressed in a thick-textured sweater of pale gray with a bulky collar; dress trousers of smooth navy gabardine, slightly pleated at the waist; a small-collared button-down dress shirt of pale smoky blue; highly polished black loafers; a gold identification bracelet with a large-linked chain; and a pendant bearing his sign of the zodiac—Aries—lying just below the hollow of his throat, nestled in the pale gold hair above his open collar.
“I’m ready,” he announced quietly.
Wow, so am I! she thought, then realized her mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. He moved to the camera case to take out extra backs for the Hasselblad, while her eyes followed him like those of a hungry puppy. As he stepped close to show her how to load the several backs in advance, the scent of his aftershave set her quivering. “Each roll has only twelve shots, you know, so I thought I’d bring the extra backs. You can preload them,” he said. But it was hard for her to concentrate on the words. She watched his long fingers showing her how to line up two double dots on the back of the camera if she wanted to double expose.
With an effort Allison forced her mind from Rick Lang to the business at hand. The renowned Finelli offered advice on back-lighting the hair with a colored filter to achieve a sunset effect. She produced the color print of the book cover, showing how she’d used the same technique with blue filters to create the effect of moon glow. He complimented her, watched as she proceeded, and offered kindly, “Young lady, it looks to me like you’re wasting your time here. I’ll move along to someone who needs my advice.”
She looked up to see Rick stepping toward her. “Mind if I see that?”
She handed it to him silently, and they both studied Rick Lang leaning over Vivien Zuchinski with his hand near the side of her breast.
“It’s damn good,” he said quickly.
She looked at his temple as he studied the picture. “You’re damn good.” Before he could look into her eyes, she turned back to the camera.
By the end of the day’s workshops it was four P.M. and both Allison and Rick were exhausted, yet curiously exhilarated. Heading back toward the van, he asked, “Is this going to be one of those nights when you’re too high to sleep?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, flung her arms wide, and bubbled joyously, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He watched the back of her hair swinging as she walked a step ahead of him, so energized she seemed ready to do cartwheels up the sidewalk.
“In that case I won’t be keeping you from sleeping if I take you out to dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She turned to insist, but found her shoulder nearly colliding with his chest as he walked along, the sweater slung over his shoulder on two fingers.
“I know. I want to.”
They studied each other for a silent moment. “Yeah?” she inquired cutely.
“Yeah,” he repeated, grinning at her tilted chin and giving her a slow-motion mock punch on the jaw.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she decided. “I hardly touched my lunch, I was so off in another world. Sorry I get that way, but I can’t help it. Lord, but I’m half starved, and I just realized it when you mentioned dinner.”
“Half starved? Then how about a kiss to hold you over?”
She raised her eyes in surprise, feeling the thrill of anticipation already leaping up in the form of a blush. But he only pulled one of the paper-wrapped candy kisses from his pocket, and held it between index and middle fingers, offering it to Allison.
Their eyes met above it as they continued along the sidewalk. Her heart suddenly felt as if spring were burgeoning within it as well as in the apple, myrtle, and plum trees along the Madison streets.
“Oh, is that all?” she asked impishly. She plucked the candy from his fingers, opened it, and popped it into her mouth.
It seemed preordained that he drive again. “Where to?” he inquired, nosing the van into the busy end-of-the-day traffic near the Capitol.
“Back the way we came. There are plenty of cut-rate motels out that way.” Without another word he headed out to Washington Avenue.
They entered the lobby of the Excel Motel together, each of them signing the register separately, ignoring the assessing glances cast their way by the clerk who asked, “Smoking or nonsmoking?”
Rick and Allison gaped at each other, then at the clerk.
“What?” they asked in unison.
“We got smoking rooms and nonsmoking rooms. Which one you want?”
“Nonsmoking,” they answered, again in unison, and the clerk let his eyes drift from Allison to Rick as if to say, separate rooms, huh? He picked two keys from the wall, dropped them on the desk, and said, “Enjoy your stay.”
On their way to the van—obviously the only vehicle parked out front, obviously the vehicle in which they had arrived together, obviously the vehicle which would take them to door C and rooms 239 and 240—Allison could feel the clerk’s eyes following them.
“Do you think he believed us?” Rick asked, casting her a sidelong glance.
“Not after we both spouted out ‘Nonsmoking.’ Have you ever heard of such a thing before?”
“Never.”
“Me neither.”
They climbed into the van, and Allison couldn’t resist wagging two fingers at the desk clerk as they pulled away from the sidewalk—shades of the night watchman in days past.
In the hall, standing between the two assigned doors that were exactly opposite each other, Rick asked, “Which one do you want?”
“Where’s east?”
“That way.” He pointed to 240.
“Then that one. I like the sun in the morning.”
“Two-forty, milady,” he said with a slight bow from the waist after he’d opened the door and dropped the key into her palm. She stepped uncertainly inside. It was vaguely creepy going into the motel room alone. She poked her nose around the corner to eye the double bed, the floor, the closed draperies, then glanced over her shoulder to find Rick standing in the open doorway to his room, watching her.
“How’s yours?” he asked.
She shivered and shrugged. “Cold.”
“There’s probably a heater they leave turned off until guests are in. Just a minute.” He hung up his clothing bag on the rack in his closet and crossed the hall, moving into her room without apparent self-consciousness, while she felt as if every eye in Madison, Wisconsin, was somehow watching them on closed-circuit TV. He bent to the heater on the wall and studied its dials. Abruptly he stood up. “Nope, that’s just for air.” He came toward her, and she stood as if rooted to the floor. “Excuse me,” he said, taking her by the elbows to move her aside to adjust the thermostat behind her.
“There, it’ll warm up in a minute. Everything else okay?”
“Sure, thanks.” But suddenly she didn’t want him to go back across the hall. The room seemed too impersonal and quiet, a queer, lonely place when she faced it alone.
Rick paused in the doorway. “Would it be all right if we didn’t go
to dinner right away? I thought I’d lie down awhile and catch a nap. It was a long drive. Maybe you should do the same.”
“I don’t mind.”
“What time then?”
She shrugged again, feeling more lost and lonely than ever, realizing he was, indeed, going to leave her and close himself away in his own room. She wondered despondently if nothing more personal would come of the two days than candy kisses.
After all, she had been the one to give the May basket; the next move was up to him.
“Sixish?” she suggested now, her spirits definitely flattened.
“Six it is.” He tossed up his room key, caught it, winked at her, and said, “Pick you up at your place.” Then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
Chapter
ELEVEN
ALLISON couldn’t sleep. If the exhilaration of the day’s workshops hadn’t kept her awake, the butterflies in her stomach would have. She turned on the television and tried a cable station, but a horror movie was playing—hardly uplifting or relaxing. She flicked the TV off, flounced onto the bed, crossed her hands behind her head, and lay there like a ramrod.
Was he actually asleep over there while she lay here so keyed up over . . . over everything that it felt like she’d put a dime in the vibrator bed when she hadn’t? How could he! The unsettled situation between them was as effective as any bottled stimulant on the druggist’s shelves and getting more potent as the time for their “date” neared.
How should she act? As if she’d never shared a night of intimacy with Rick Lang that ended in near disaster? As if she had invited him to Madison, Wisconsin, solely to pose for her? As if she wasn’t dying inside as each passing hour made her doubt she had the wherewithal to attract him as she once had?
By five o’clock her nerves were strung out like taut twine, and she ran a tub full of water—something she never did at home, it seemed sinful.
Sinking into bubbles up to her neck, she eased back, closing her eyes, willing herself to relax, be natural, just be her old full-of-piss-and-vinegar self. That was the girl he’d liked once. Crack a joke. Wear a smile. Banter. Tease.
But she felt like doing none of these. She felt like telling Rick Lang she loved him more than any man on the face of the earth, and if he didn’t do something about it soon, she’d be a basket case.
She emerged from the bath wrinkled like a prune, having discovered that she had actually managed to fall asleep when she hadn’t meant to. It was twenty minutes to six!
Forsaking shampoo, she settled for a quick recurling job with the hot iron, her usual light makeup, slightly heavier on the mascara for evening wear and a deeper shade of lipstick, almost umber, which shone like quicksilver when she checked her reflection in the mirror.
Cologne! She checked her watch—four minutes left. Rummaging through her bag, she came up with her favorite perfume and spared no immodesty, lavishing it on every intimate part of her body.
A knock on the door!
Oh Lord! He was two minutes early and she didn’t have her dress on yet!
She flew to the coat rack, tore the yellow two-piece suit off the hanger, and clambered into the skirt, snatching a white eyelet blouse, trying to button up both at once.
He knocked again and called through the door, “Allison, are you awake?”
Her fingers seemed to be made of Silly Putty as she buttoned the minuscule pearl buttons of the blouse, which were round and insisted on slipping out of the holes nearly as fast as they went in.
“Allison?”
She yanked open the door, stopping his knuckles in midair as he raised them to rap again. For the second time that day his appearance brought her to a dead halt. This time he was dressed in an extremely formal vested suit of cocoa brown with an off-white shirt and Windsor-knotted tie in complementary stripes. The sight of Rick Lang in such clothing took Allison’s breath away.
Her cheeks were as pink as crabapple blossoms, her hair lying in soft feathery ruff about her shoulders. His eyes traveled downward. Her hands were behind her back, closing the button on her skirt, and the strain at the front of the blouse made the top button pop open. His eyes moved lower to her feet, in nylons but no shoes. He cocked an eyebrow.
“Everything went wrong . . . I’m sorry,” she wailed.
Dark, smiling eyes moved back to hers. “There’s not a thing wrong with what I can see.”
“I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. So I decided to take a bath, then fell asleep in the tub, of all things. And when I woke up it was nearly twenty to six already!” She turned away to rummage through her suitcase, coming up with high spike heels, all black patent-leather straps. He watched, fascinated, as she leaned to brace a hand on the bed, her back to him while she slipped the slingback pumps on one shapely heel, then the other. It was the first time he’d ever seen her in a skirt. Her legs were thin but curved, and from behind, in the flattering shoes, they totally captivated Rick’s eyes, which traveled up their shapely length to the enticing curve of her derrière as she leaned over, working on the second shoe.
He saw her check her bodice, then rebutton the top button of her blouse, her back still toward him. Leaning over her suitcase, she took out something from a tiny white box, raised her elbows, and fastened it about her neck. The scent she’d put on was everywhere in the room, and as she lifted her graceful elbows, it filled his nostrils, mesmerizing him, just as he was mesmerized by the sight of her adding these last feminine touches.
She turned. A tiny gold heart hung from a delicate chain in the hollow of her throat. The vanity mirror was just beside the door where Rick stood. She moved toward it while his eyes followed. Her bewildering, powdery scent became headier as she neared him, leaned over the vanity toward the mirror, and put tiny gold hoop earrings into her pierced ears. His eyes traveled down to where she bent at the hip. When he looked up he found Allison watching him while she put the back on the second earring. Once more the top button of her blouse had come undone. He followed her fingers in the mirror as they closed it yet again.
From the coat rack she took a yellow long-sleeved jacket that matched her skirt. He crossed the short expanse to her side, and when she turned, Allison found him at her shoulder.
“I’ll trade you,” he said, producing from behind his back a single long-stemmed red rose that suddenly seemed to be reflected in her cheeks as her startled eyes caressed it.
It occurred to Allison that while she was deriding him for calmly napping, he’d been out buying the flower. Wordlessly she took it, relinquishing the jacket to his waiting hands, closing her eyes, and breathing deeply of the flower’s fragrance while her back was turned, and he assisted her into the jacket.
When she faced him again, she held the stem of the rose in both hands, looking down at it, then up into his eyes. “Rick, I don’t deserve this.” Tears suddenly burned her eyes. “Oh God, Rick, I’m so sorry.”
His face was somber. He did not touch her. “I’m sorry, too.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I . . . I hurt you so badly. I was so unfair . . . I know that now.”
“Allison, you weren’t ready. You tried to tell me that, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“No, Rick, I was such a damn fool. But I had some growing up to do, some sorting out. I was mixed up and angry and unsure.”
“And how are you now?”
She didn’t know what to say, was afraid to admit how totally committed she’d become to making up everything to him, to letting their relationship thrive. If only he’d touch her, give her some clue to his feelings.
“I’m . . . I’m sorted out, and no longer angry, and sure.” Touch me, hold me, tell me I’m forgiven, her heart cried.
But his touch was only a brief pat on her elbow. “Let’s talk about it after dinner.” He took her elbow and guided her out the door, down the hall, and into the brisk May evening.
He drove to a restaurant called the Speakeasy where the waiters wore striped shirts and arm bands and parted their hair do
wn the middle. But neither Allison nor Rick really noticed.
The menus were the size of billboards. Still Rick managed to study her over his. She looked up. The candle put lights into his eyes, color in his cheeks, and shadows about his lips, which still did not smile. Studying his somber face, Allison wondered again what he would say if she simply told him the truth that ached to be spoken.
I love you, Rick Lang. I want you in my bed. I want you in my life.
The waiter approached, tugging her back to earth.
While they waited for swordfish and well-done filet mignon, the wine steward brought wine, flamboyantly exercising his skill in removing the cork, testing the bouquet, pouring, and offering a sample for Rick’s approval.
Rick tasted, nodded. The steward filled two glasses and faded away.
“How did I do? Was I convincing?” Rick asked.
“Very.” She brightened falsely. “I’d have sworn you were a connoisseur of . . .” She checked the label on the bottle, but could not pronounce it.
“Moonshine ’82,” Rick filled in, and they laughed at their ignorance. But the gay mood was forced.
“And I’ve never known anyone who ate filet well-done. Did you see the scowl the waiter gave you?”
She shrugged. “I feel rare enough tonight without rare steak, too.”
He leaned forward, bracing tailored sleeves on the edge of the table, blue eyes moving over hers. “Do you? Do you really?”
“Yes, I do . . . really.”
He lifted his glass in a toast. “Then here’s to a rare night.”
They drank, less of the wine than of each other across the tops of their glasses. Resting his footed goblet upon the linen cloth, Rick made small circles with it, studying it momentarily before his hand fell still and he watched her face as flickering candlelight changed its dancing shadows. Silently he reached, laid his hand, palm up, on the tabletop.
Her eyes flickered to it, then back to his, cautiously.
“Allison, if I don’t touch you soon, I’m going to go crazy,” he said quietly, only the hand reaching, the rest of him leaning back with casual grace, ankle crossed over knee as if he’d only said, “Allison, the temperature outside is seventy-two degrees,” while every atom in her body went into motion until she felt explosive.