Makin' Whoopee Read online

  It was well after ten that night when they finally relaxed in front of the huge fireplace in the lounge. While Sara went upstairs to change into a clean shirt, Charlie had built a fire. They sat on the floor absorbing its warmth and sipping hot toddies, moaning occasionally to protest aching muscles.

  "Nice, relaxing weekend," Sara said, stretching her stiff back. "Remind me to kill you when I've got more strength. No wonder El Greco was so intense. Everything's portable in Greece. Once he got to Spain, he probably had to move that grotesque furniture on a regular basis."

  Charlie chuckled. "Pop always said El Greco's jockstrap was too tight."

  Sara had never known Charlie's grandfather; he had died the year before she met Charlie. But she had heard a lot about him. He seemed to have been a real character. Charlie's mother had died when he was four, and his father had turned him over to his maternal grandfather to raise. Sara sometimes wondered if his father ever regretted missing those childhood years, because Charlie was definitely a product of the older man's raising.

  She considered briefly what it must have been like to have had the open, no-holds-barred relationship Charlie had had with his grandfather. Somehow she had always seemed on the outside in her own family. As an only child she should have been pampered, protected, and indulged. And perhaps to a certain extent she had been, but still something had been missing. Maybe it was simply that she had never had the courage to be totally honest with her parents about her feelings, her inadequacies.

  For years she had done exactly what they wanted her to do, in an attempt to draw them closer, to win their unqualified approval. The college she had attended had been their choice, as had been her becoming a legal secretary. It was only when every effort on her part failed to satisfy them that she had realized the next move would have to be for her own satisfaction. And that was when she had met Charlie.

  Pulling her thoughts back to the man beside her, she studied his face. "You still miss your grandfather, don't you?"

  He nodded. "I wish you could have known him. He was a great old man. Sometimes he knew what I was thinking before even I did." He leaned forward. "Scratch my back, would you? No, lower . . . Right there. Ahhh, bottle that and we'll make a fortune." He settled back against the couch. "I'll never forget the day Pop died. He taught me as much that day as I had learned in my entire life before that."

  He paused, smiling a gentle smile of reminiscence. "All the family was gathered in his bedroom. Some were there to pay their respects, some so they could tell everyone about the deathbed scene later. It was so dark in there you could hardly see. The smell that only comes with death was in the air. Aunt Almira was leaning against Uncle Nathan, even though she outweighed him by at least forty pounds. Three of my cousins were sitting in folding chairs, studying their fingernails as though the whole thing were terribly boring. My father was pacing as usual, and Reverend Hatcher sat beside the bed, his lips moving as he silently read the Bible. I say silently, but actually he made a kind of whistling noise because of his adenoids. It's not an easy sound to forget, because the microphone in church always picked it up, magnifying it." Charlie chuckled. "And me—I sat over in the corner thinking how much I didn't want to be there. For twenty-five years I had watched Pop live. I couldn't stand the thought of watching him die. But when he called my name I went to sit on the bed beside him.

  " 'Charlie, boy,' he said." Charlie shook his head slowly. "It hurt to hear his voice so weak—it was usually swearing loud enough to raise the roof. It was demeaning somehow. Anyway, when he called my name, I said, 'I'm here, Pop.'

  " 'Charlie, I've got to tell you

  " 'Yes, Pop?' I said.

  " 'Now—now I know.'

  " 'You know what, Pop?'

  " 'I've spent my whole life looking for answers, for the truth . . . the truth of life and death.

  Charlie glanced at Sara. "Every word was an effort for him, but I swear his eyes were sparkling. I wanted to tell him not to waste his energy, but I knew I couldn't start giving him orders, not even then.

  " 'I've finally found the truth, Charlie,' he said; then there was a long pause while he gathered his strength again. 'You're a good boy, Charlie, but you need the truth. Life is painful, Charlie. It's painful and frustrating, and you have to work hard to make

  it wonderful. That's your job on earth, to make life wonderful. But death . . .' Sara, he reached out to grab my collar and he pulled me closer, until my face was right up next to his. For a minute, with his hand on my collar, he felt almost strong again. And then loud enough for the whole room to hear he said, 'You can make life wonderful, Charlie, but death sucks.' "

  Charlie laughed aloud at the memory. "Reverend Hatcher's face went a weird shade of plum purple. And Aunt Almira nearly had apoplexy, but Pop ..." He shook his head. "Pop and I were laughing. He died laughing. It was the way he lived, and it was the way he died." Leaning back, Charlie exhaled slowly. There was a sheen of tears in his eyes. "Lord, I miss that ornery old man."

  That was another thing about Charlie, Sara thought shakily as she stared at his face. He wasn't afraid of emotion. It made her feel more inadequate than ever.

  Urged by an unfamiliar impulse, she brushed a lock of curly hair from his forehead. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  He caught her hand and brought it quickly to his lips, then he let her pull away. "That was a taking-my-temperature touch," he said, grinning. "You'd make a great mother."

  She laughed sharply. "Are you crazy?"

  "No, I mean it. Don't you read the women's magazines? Your biological time clock must be ready to blow its brains out."

  "How can you repeat that garbage?" she said scoffingly. "The only biological clock I have is the one that tells me when it's time to eat."

  "Seriously, Sara. Haven't you ever thought about having a family?"

  He couldn't know what that question did to her, she thought, clenching her hands so that her nails bit into her palms. It reminded her of the first shattering moment when she realized she could never allow herself the luxury of children. A family—children and a husband—were for those lucky women who skated through life effortlessly. Nothing that was important to Sara would ever be effortless for her. It was a struggle all the way. Once she had accepted that premise, she hadn't sat around yearning for what could never be. She had begun immediately to harden her heart and get on with her life.

  Glancing up, she saw that Charlie was still waiting for an answer."Of course I've thought of it," she said stiffly, turning to stare into the flames. "I simply decided it's not for me. Not only am I much too busy for a family, I don't get along with kids. They take one look at me and, depending on their age, either scream bloody murder or kick me in the shin." She shook her head. "But even if that weren't so, I would still be a lousy mother."

  She sensed his curious gaze. After a moment he said, "How did you come to that conclusion?"

  She shrugged in irritation. "It's simply not a natural impulse for me. I couldn't go into something like that lightly. Having a child is a big responsibility, too big for me. There are too many people who have a baby as if they were buying a puppy, because it sounds like fun or because all their friends have one. But you can't give a kid away when you get tired of playing with it. Parents are just neurosis factories. When you have a baby you decide which hang-up you're going to give it, then spend the rest of the child's life getting on with the job." She shook her head vehemently. "Not me. I refuse to screw up the life of some innocent being."

  Only as she finished did she realize how bitter she sounded. Catching a glimpse of something that could have been pity in his eyes, she shifted uncomfortably and said, "How on earth did we get off on that subject?"

  He smiled crookedly. "You were comforting me. Somehow I feel that ought to be my role now."

  She snorted. "Don't you wish." He started toward her on his hands and knees. "Charlie Sanderson, you stay away from me," she said, scooting back.

  "Just a little comfort, Sara Lovely Brown Eyes. J
ust a little." He was grinning as he stalked her.

  "Charlie, I'm warning you," she said firmly, then yelped with laughter when he started loudly nuzzling her neck. "Cut it out, you idiot."

  With one gentle shove he sent her sprawling backward, and howled as he threw himself on top of her. "Tit for tat, my Love. You comforted me. Now it's my turn."

  "No, Charlie," she gasped out, shaking with laughter as he rained fleeting kisses all over her face.

  "Yes, Sara," he said, raising his head to look at her. Then, as though life had switched into slow motion, the laughter gradually died in his eyes, and sapphire fires grew in its place.

  His gaze drifted down, and, following it, she saw that her shirt had come half undone. He stared at the golden skin of her shoulders and breasts, then slowly raised his eyes to hers. Something he saw there made him draw his breath in sharply.

  Sara became acutely aware of his hard body pressing into hers and opened her mouth to protest. But before she could even try to stop him, he trailed one finger from her neck to the rounded tops of her breasts. Without warning, his hand pushed inside the shirt and curled around one breast.

  "No," she said with a groan, but it was too late. The tautening of her nipple under his fingers had already betrayed her. Years of hard-earned self-discipline disappeared with the touch of his hand on her flesh.

  With a harsh sound he lowered his head, and Sara fell back, shaking convulsively as she felt the warm moistness of his mouth on her flesh.

  "No, no, no," she whispered feverishly. But the verbal protest didn't match what her body was telling him. Her eyes closed as a wave of acute pleasure rippled through her. When his mouth sought hers, her lips parted, hungrily accepting the kiss. Her fingers dug frantically into his shoulders as she writhed beneath him, desperate for more, so much more.

  When he moved away from her and began to take off his shirt, she felt a chilling shock. My Lord! she thought, her brain numb as she realized what was happening. She had to stop it. She had to stop it now.

  Rolling to her knees, she put distance between them. Her hands were shaking as she ran them through her hair. She could hear his raspy breathing, feel the intensity of his stare, but she didn't dare risk a glance at him. Not yet.

  She sat with her back to him as she straightened her blouse. Then, long moments later, she warily glanced over her shoulder at him. When she saw the expression on his face, pain flickered through her.

  She had to bluff her way out of it; it was the only thing to do. "You look like someone ran over you with a truck," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "Don't tell me you're going to let a little teasing throw you."

  He didn't respond with a quick retort. No light-hearted fun. His silent scrutiny became unbearable.

  "Well," he said at last, putting a wealth of feeling into that single, roughly spoken syllable. "What a strange development."

  He knew, she thought. After all this time, all the care she had taken, he knew everything that was inside her. There was nothing she could say now, so she didn't even try.

  After a moment he added, "It's weird." His voice was still sensually husky. "I'm glad," he said tentatively, as though testing the words. Then he laughed. "Glad? Hell, I'm out-of-my mind, bring-on-the-clowns, let's-see-the-fireworks ecstatic."

  "Don't be," she said harshly. "I'm not."

  He moved to sit beside her, examining her face.

  "No, I can see that." He paused, and, incredibly, she sensed he was unsure of himself. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Leaning her head back wearily, she gave a short laugh. "You've got to be kidding. What was I supposed to do—-just say, 'Oh, by the way, Charlie, I'm hot for your body.' What would have happened if I had let you know?"

  He shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know. I suppose we would have done something about it."

  She bit her lip. "That's exactly why I didn't say anything."

  "But—"

  "Look, Charlie," she said, moving away from his stifling nearness. "This is just one of those things. I've always known it, and I've avoided situations that would bring it out in the open."

  He frowned. "What do you mean, one of those things? One of what things?"

  She exhaled slowly. "Do you ever see me eating chocolate? No, you don't. I love chocolate. I love the taste of it; I love the feel of it as it slides down my throat; I love—"

  "All right," he said, holding up a hand to stop her. "I get the idea. Any more descriptions like that and you'll be flat on your back again."

  She tried to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks and continued. "The point is, although I adore chocolate, one taste and I break out in hives. I've got enough sense to stay away from it."

  "I take it I'm in the same class as chocolate," he said ironically.

  She turned to face him. "I don't want this to get out of hand, and heaven knows I don't want to bruise your ego, but you'd be bad for me, Charlie. At least have the honesty to admit that."

  He stared at her, then reached out to touch her cheek. "You can't know that," he said huskily.

  She shook her head urgently. "I do know. We're great as friends and wonderful as business partners. Anything more would be deadly for us both."

  "You're speculating," he said, edging closer as she watched in narrow-eyed wariness. "Shouldn't we at least try, Sara?" His voice was wistful as he reached out to her.

  "No!" she said explosively, jumping up. She walked several feet away. "I knew it would be this way. I should have gotten out the minute I started having the dreams."

  "Dreams? What kind of dreams?"

  She gave him an exasperated look.

  "Oh . . . those kinds of dreams," he murmured, and dropped into a chair. "Tell me about them."

  "You're crazy."

  "No, I mean it. This is obviously bothering you. If you bury it, it's in control. Facing a fear makes it impotent. Once you tell me about it, it will seem ridiculous and won't have the power to disturb you." When she still hesitated, he added, "Haven't we always helped each other work out our problems? Why should this be any different?"

  There was something wrong with his argument, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She ran her hands through her hair. "They're just your average erotic dreams, I suppose. Nothing to analyze really."

  "Let me be the judge of that. Is it a different one every time or does one recur?"

  "Usually a different one, but one pops up every so often. It's the worst."

  "So tell me about that one."

  She sat on a hassock, resting her chin in the palms of her hands. "I'm driving in the car, and I'm lost. I think in Kentucky, although I've never been to Kentucky. I stop at a gas station to ask directions, but when I get inside it turns into a . . . a—'"

  She stopped abruptly. "This is crazy. I can't tell you these things."

  "Yes, you can," he said firmly. "Forget I'm here. Just get into the dream as if it were happening right now."

  Inhaling deeply, she nodded. "I'm going to regret this, but here goes. It's a pornographic studio—like one of those places where you have your portrait done in old-fashioned costumes, but in this place you have your picture taken in erotic poses. At first I just ask directions, but something about the photographer pulls at me. He tries to convince me to pose for one of the photographs. He tells me he'll make me a special deal, but I refuse. Then he smiles this crazy, slow smile, and I can feel him staring at me as I leave the building. It's as if he knows something about me that I don't know. Outside I can't get into the car. I have to go back inside. And he's waiting for me ... as though he knew I would be back."

  She was taken over by the dream now, almost as though she were dreaming it again. "I tell him I might be interested in one of the portraits, and I want him to show me what the various poses are so I can choose." She snagged another deep breath. "All the time I know I really don't want a picture of myself, I just want to be near him. He puts his arm around my waist and starts to show me samples that are hanging on th
e walls. I'm embarrassed by the poses—they aren't in the least subtle—but I can't look away from them. His hand curves around my waist, resting just below one breast, and I can feel it burning through the fabric of my blouse." She rubbed a trembling hand across her face. "Then he takes me to see some costumes—transparent blouses and gauzy drapes."

  She paused to moisten her dry lips, her gaze fixed on a point on the opposite wall as the dream played out in her mind. "He takes one costume, a tiny blue thing that wouldn't cover anything, and holds it against my breasts to see if it will fit. Then suddenly— the way it always happens in dreams—my bra disappears and his hands are under my blouse, squeezing and fondling my breasts. His shirt is gone, too, and the hair on his chest is rough against my cheek as I lean against him. It's so vivid, I can even feel his breath on my hair. Then he touches me between— between ... He touches me and I'm burning up. He says he'll have someone else take the picture and pose with me. At this point I would agree to anything. I tell him yes and everything in the picture fades except the two of us, naked on a zebra-skin rug. I try to move against his hands, to get more of the feeling." Her nails dug into her palms to keep her hands from shaking. "And the minute I move, I wake up and it's over."

  Her breathing was harsh as she finished. Recounting the dream had almost been a physical punishment. She laughed shortly. "I never knew my subconscious had such bad taste. A zebra-skin rug, for heaven's sake."

  Hesitantly she glanced at Charlie, and was astonished to see perspiration beading his forehead, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the chair.

  After a moment he opened his eyes to look at her. "The photographer . . . Who was he?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

  "Dammit, Charlie," she said roughly.

  "Who was he?"

  "You know who it was. What do you think all this was about?"