Conquer the Memories

She raced off before he could say anything, and a slash of a smile touched his lips. Naturally, she’d darted away; she was afraid he was going to call off their cookout simply because a dozen dark, clotted clouds were rolling in low and the wind was bringing in a storm with dizzying speed. She’d misjudged him. He wasn’t about to rain on her parade; the skies were going to do that all on their own.

He had his eyes full, in the meantime. With hands loosely on his hips, he just watched her. Her breasts were clearly outlined as she walked into the wind; her steps were lithe and free. She had a way of tossing back her head as if she were vibrating with the sheer joy of being alive.

Woods bordered on the riverbank, a tall, heavy stand of pine and hardwoods. The wind tossed up the branches and crooned a whispering song through the leaves. He saw Sonia look up suddenly, and his smile died.

She loved the woods; she always had, and they were safer here than anywhere on earth. A fleeting, haunted fear still touched her features, and then the ghost of a shiver ran through her before she squared her shoulders and entered the shadowy stand of trees. That slight terror wouldn’t have passed over her before the incident in Chicago. She’d never associated isolation with vulnerability.

She hadn’t known fear before. Rarely did it show on her face, but he’d caught passing glimpses of it in the past two weeks. She’d wake up trembling in the middle of the night, or she’d be reading and all of a sudden touch her throat…They were only isolated incidents, moments. Rationally, he knew they were to be expected. She never mentioned them. But every time he saw that shadow of terror on her face he felt guilt tear at his stomach and rip straight through him.

Sonia emerged from the darkening forest, her arms loaded with twigs. She dropped them all in a haphazard pile next to him, adding a sigh and a chuckle for her efforts. “You only have to do one thing. Pick out two of those that we can use as spits. The last time I chose our makeshift spit, if you’ll recall-”

“The chickens ended up in the fire.”

A quick crackle of lightning slashed overhead. “Stop that,” Sonia ordered the sky mildly. She added several sticks to Craig’s fire, then turned to pick up the wine bottle, flicking back her hair. “What on earth have you been doing? You didn’t even open this, lazy one.” She glanced up with a teasing smile, to find Craig’s eyes, piercing dark, on hers. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You cold?”

“Nope. You?” She searched his face one more time, but the dark look was gone. His half smile was easy, very much Craig, and his eyes had possessively fixed on the second button of her blouse. The one she hadn’t fastened. No man with eyes that busy could conceivably be brooding. You will instantly stop worrying, she scolded herself. As her mother had said that afternoon, they both needed just to forget those hours in Chicago.

Twisting the corkscrew, she opened the wine with a pop. A moment later, she handed Craig his glass, licking her fingers as she grinned at him. “I love Chablis.”

“You love cherry soda pop, too,” he teased.

“I crave cherry pop,” Sonia said feelingly. “Probably because Mom refused to buy it when I was a kid. It’s so nice to be married. One can indulge in all the forbidden vices…”

“Like cherry pop.”

“That heads the list, but there are a few others. You probably think I married you for all the mature reasons, like being in love with you, wanting to have your kids, knowing I had to spend the rest of my life with you.” Sonia flopped down next to him, her hand expressively dismissing those issues as trivial. “Marrying you was strictly an indulgence, an excuse to give in to all my vices.”

“Are you calling me a vice?” Craig demanded.

“Definitely.” She regarded her vice with a critical eye. He was wearing old jeans and a shirt she’d twice tried to sneak from his closet to throw in the rag bag. He probably loved the old frayed thing because he knew it made him look like a sex object. The worn blue cotton was soft, stretching across his chest, showing off solid sinew and all that lean toughness that was part of Craig.

“I see when it really counts, talk’s cheap. I’ll cook dinner, you said, and instead you’re just standing there looking sexy and I’m bending my poor cracked ribs.”

She flushed and hurried forward, delighted he was joking about the injury. “Would you like another one or two?”

“Cracked ribs? If you’re in a wrestling mood, woman, I’m certainly not going to disappoint you.” He gave her a threatening look, all dark, thunderous brows. “I’ll go in for finger wrestling right after dinner. If I get a handicap.”

Chuckling, Sonia ordered him down to the blanket and started cooking dinner. It was pitch-dark before the fire was really crackling, shooting up tiny orange sparks to the sky as the Cornish hens crackled and browned on the makeshift spit. The wind, as Sonia had promised, died completely by the time they were both pulling off bits of succulent meat with their fingers, devouring their dinner with relish. The knives and forks she’d brought were forgotten; it was too much fun playing Tom Jones.

They rinsed their hands in the river afterward, and both sank back on the blanket, too replete to move. Total silence surrounded their mountain valley. The river picked up the reflection from the dying fire-picked it up and magnified it in a series of repeated images on its black surface.

“Why did we buy that gas grill?” Craig wondered aloud.

“I haven’t any idea. We never use it.” Sonia curled on her side with her head resting in the palm of her hand. Craig was stretched out, a second blanket bunched up beneath his head. “Everything tastes better by a fire down here,” she said contentedly.

He stretched out an arm and motioned. With a chuckle, she edged closer, careful of his battered ribs, finding a home for her cheek in the crook of his shoulder. “Are you hurting?” she whispered.

“No.”

She gave him a wry look, tilting her face up at him, her features golden by firelight. “Now, don’t get touchy. I haven’t asked you once all day.”

“You’ve tried forty-nine times. Sonia…” His thumb gently traced the line of her cheekbone, his eyes suddenly grave. “You’ve lost a pound or two, haven’t you? You’re still thinking about what happened.”

Her answer came swift and light, determined that he would stop obsessing on the subject of muggers and nightmarish encounters! And if she’d lost a pound or two worrying over him, he’d be the last person alive to know it. “I have been trying to lose a pound or two, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She shook her head, her fingers sliding loosely around his waist. “Obviously, because I was getting a little…chunky.”

“Chunky?” A rumble of laughter erupted from his chest, echoing in her ear. “You haven’t got a chunky bone in your entire body.”

“I have, too.”

“Where?” He rose up just a little, to investigate her claim. Her thighs certainly didn’t have an ounce of fat on them. Her upper arms and shoulders were slim, small-boned. Her tummy was certainly softer than butter beneath the white satin blouse, but there wasn’t an extra roll to be pinched. “I can’t find any chunks,” he murmured, “but I did find something else.” He nuzzled the top of her curly head with his chin. “You’re not wearing a bra, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“I must be.”

“I’m quite sure.”

“I’m just as sure I put one on.”

“I’m quite positive you didn’t.”

“Must have completely slipped my mind,” she said lazily, and closed her eyes. He undid a button, then another, his knuckles softly grazing her smooth flesh. Cymbal crashes and drumrolls promptly vibrated through her bloodstream.

Two weeks without that ultimate physical intimacy, she thought wistfully. Craig had been so badly hurt. She would have slept in the spare room if he’d let her, wanting him to get his rest, lovemaking the last thing on her mind.

Now, just his teasing touch was enough to make her blood pressure zoom. The problem was that she’d been spoiled. It was so nice being spoiled. Craig was still friend, husband, mate…but she missed her lover.