Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“Too esoteric,” they'd cautioned.

“Bull,” he'd retorted. “Give the audience some credit, guys.”

“Immigrant sagas don't sell,” they'd protested.

“Good stories do, though,” he'd pleasantly responded.

“Carey, fella, you're going to lose a bundle on this concept.”

“But it's my money, isn't it? We start May first. Everyone be ready.”

“There's not even a decent restaurant in that outland,” one assistant director in a foul mood and a stylish leather jacket had muttered.

Carey gave a thin smile. “I just want to remind everyone this is not a corporate decision. And to those uncertain of the structure of Golden Bear Productions, Allen will fill you in. Bon appйtit.”

T he decibel level had been rising steadily since the cocktail hour at the class reunion began. Molly was smiling at one of Marge's facetious remarks about girls' field hockey. Years ago they had all agreed that field hockey was the pits, and their opinions were unaltered by time.

It was comfortable, genial, like old home week, back with the group that had shared every bit of whispered high school gossip. The five friends had kept in touch with the usual Christmas cards, birthday cards, and birth announcements, but this was the first time in ten years they'd all been together again.

In the course of the last two hours, all the pertinent information had been exchanged: who was married, divorced, remarried, moved, working, happy, unhappy, bored, ecstatic. Husbands and ex-husbands had been thoroughly dissected. With a relaxed sigh, Molly leaned back in an antiquated leather chair in the Moose Club's old-fashioned, blatantly masculine interior. Immune to the decorating fads of the last sixty years, the board had resisted change with a stalwart stubbornness that was somehow comforting, Molly decided, gazing at a room untroubled by the passage of time.

“Molly, do I have a piece of gossip for you,” Linda, whose tennis body had remained unchanged, said with a knowing lift of her brows.

“Don't keep me in suspense, then. You know how I adore gossip,” Molly said, resting her head against the timeworn leather that had seen three generations come and go.

“Carey Fersten came into town yesterday with his film crew.”

For a stark moment the noise, the people, the reunion, and her sense of reality were all suspended. Molly was in a vacuum of arrested motion, and she saw him as she had the last time almost ten years ago, two weeks before her wedding to Bart.

Carey was leaning against the carved column of Mrs. Larsen's front porch, the night was hot like tonight, Sweet William and phlox were in bloom, their fragrance as beautiful as his dark, accusing eyes. His pale hair, rough like a dog's coat, shimmered in the moonlight, and his tall, broad-shouldered form in an old polo shirt and worn riding pants was silhouetted against the moon's glow. He'd been detached, withdrawn, his face careful to show no emotion. When she'd asked him why he still had his riding boots on, had he been riding at night, he'd enigmatically said, “Riding clears my head. It's a distraction. And,” he'd added, “Tarrytown's wild at night. I love it.” Tarrytown had been a partially trained two-year-old then, untamed and unbridled like his master.

She remembered touching him on the shoulder, feeling his sweat-damp shirt and wondering how reckless the ride had been; but a moment later he'd pulled away and stood upright, no longer casually leaning against the pillar. “What are you going to do now?” she asked, wanting to say something so their time together wouldn't end, wanting to reach the cool, remote man who stood only a foot away from her but seemed to be a world away.

“Do?” he said in a mildly astonished way, as though she'd asked him to explain the theory of relativity.

“I mean… for the rest of the summer.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Ride, I guess. Finish my film, and-” He stopped abruptly, his black eyes burning through her like a flame.

She felt the scorching heat as she always did with Carey, but he seemed so far away. This was their last night together and, other than his heated glance, he was as distant as the moon shining down on them.

“And…” she prompted, not wanting him to stop talking because then it might be over.

“And,” he said so softly the words were almost lost in the tinseled night air, “I thought I'd give you what you came for.” Putting his hand out, he touched the creamy whiteness of her cheek, his thumb sliding slowly between her quivering lips. He gently massaged the lush softness of her mouth, then the pad of his thumb probed deeper, exerting a slight pressure on her teeth, slipping past them to the wet interior of her mouth.

She licked his thumb, and he drew in a sharp breath.

With a startling abruptness he withdrew his thumb and, taking her by the wrist, started across the porch to the stairway, not caring this time whether Mrs. Larsen saw him or not. Pulling her up the stairs in a rapid ascent, he pushed her in when they reached his room, slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it.

He left her standing in the center of the room and, without a word, methodically pulled off his riding boots and stripped off his shirt. With his hand on the zipper of his pants, he looked at her and said, “I don't plan on forgetting this night.”

A moment later he undressed her with swift efficiency and took her the first time standing right there in the middle of the room. Afterward, he carried her to his familiar bed and followed her down, his hard body impatient, as if he hadn't climaxed just moments earlier. For the first time since Vietnam he made love without reserve, because when the world was being blown away, nothing mattered.

They made love like two young animals-he, aggressively with a pent-up frustration, she, with her own devouring need. It was feverish: kisses and touching and plunging madness that left their mouths and bodies burning in the desperate wildness of their passion. It was bittersweet, hours long, and a lifetime too short.

And neither ever forgot it.

Much later, lying in his arms, she'd felt the quiet words against her hair. “I'll take you away.”

Twisting in his embrace, she looked up at him, her heartbeat suddenly rapid. “Where?” she asked, hearing at last the words, however vague, she'd been waiting all summer to hear. He'd said that he loved her, adored her, needed her, but never more. “Could we get married?” she asked, her eyes dark in the moonlit room. It was a woman's question to a man she loved beyond bearing.

“Married?” he blurted out, and she saw his startled look before he quickly recovered. “Sure,” he responded hastily in the next moment, “we'll get married.” He nodded once, a swift dip of his chin, swallowed, and said, “Sure. Good idea.”

And Molly's heart sank. He didn't want to. He hadn't meant that when he'd said, “I'll take you away.” Her mother's words came back to her, the ones she'd overheard long ago when Hazel Brewer was over for tea and they were talking about the old count and his son. “Boys like that marry their own kind,” her mother had pronounced. “And don't even stay married most of the time,” she'd added. “Look at the old count. He hasn't lived with his wife in years.”

Hazel had informed in a breathy voice of disclosure, “Ethel knows everything that goes on up there because her cleaning lady knows the count's stableboy-and she says that young boy is always getting letters and calls from princesses. Can you imagine? Princesses!”

“He'll marry one of them when he's done sowing his wild oats,” her mother had replied. “They never marry young. Why should they?”

Oh, God, why hadn't he responded differently? Molly sadly thought. “It's not a good idea,” she said suddenly, sitting up and moving away. Her heart ached when Carey didn't reach for her or disagree.

“If you want it, it's a fine idea,” he said quietly.

“You don't really want to, though.”

There was a short silence before Carey replied, “I've never thought of it before, that's all.” He shrugged. “I'm not opposed.”

The shrug was too casual, the words too negligent, like saying Cheez Whiz and Hi Hos are fine when you're used to caviar. Her temper flared at her humiliation and at all the differences in their lives, suddenly magnified. “Fuck you,” she snapped.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up. “What was that for?”

“For your damn undying declaration of devotion. For your information, Carey Fersten, I don't want to marry you!”

“Only fuck me, is that it?” The hot anger in her voice sparked his own quick temper and distress. “In between visits from your wonderful fiancй. Someone has to keep your hot little body satisfied when he can't.”

“And it might as well be you, right?”

“Why not? I've got time on my hands,” he drawled, then swore under his breath and said, “Oh, hell, come here. I don't want to fight.”

She shook her head and moved off the bed, afraid that she would lose control, throw herself into his arms, and make him marry her even if he didn't want to. She had some pride. And he had his rich man's world-a world in which she didn't belong. “I'd better go,” she whispered.

“Look, we'll get married. It's okay, really.”

“It wouldn't work, Carey.”

“Why not?”

“I don't really know you. You don't know me. Not like we should.”

“Bull.”

“We don't have anything in common…”

“Jesus God, you can talk something to death.”

“That's what I mean. You don't understand me at all.”

“And Bart does?”

“We grew up together.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It's a good basis for a marriage.”

“If you're trying to convince me, you're wasting your time.”

“Anyway, it's too late. I don't have the nerve to stop it even if I wanted to.”

“You mean you don't want to,” he replied sullenly.

“I don't know…” And she didn't. She was confused, too young to single-handedly resist the full weight of parental opposition, bear the burden of Bart's disappointment, and defy the overwhelming momentum of a small-town wedding only two weeks away. “You don't really want to get married, anyway,” she declared flatly.

“It's not that.” Carey dropped back on the pillows. “It's just kind of sudden,” he explained. “Give me a day or two to get used to the idea.”

“Or a year or two.”

“Look, don't get your temper up. I'm just telling you how I feel.”

“Fear.”

“Not exactly.”

“Thanks a lot.” Damn, everything was wrong. She wanted ardent vows of love, and he stopped cold when the word “marriage” was mentioned. “It was nice this summer,” she said, moving to pick up her clothes. “Let's leave it at that.”

“I don't want to.”

She held her blouse in her hands, and it shown white against her shadowed body. “What do you want?”

“I want you.”

She knew that. There'd never been any question of his wanting her. The only question was how much, and, weighed against her marriage plans, it appeared he didn't want her enough. “I really have to go,” she said with a small sigh, slipping her arms into her blouse sleeves.

“Are you going to marry him?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know.”

“I mean,” she said with soft resignation, “I have to. I can't back out now.”

“I'm going to throw up.” His brows were drawn together in a scowl.

“Your life is different.”

“Damn right.”

Why didn't he say he couldn't live without her? He hadn't even said he loved her tonight. Maybe her mother was right; Carey's kind played around, but didn't marry.

Why did she persist in this martyrdom? he wondered. If you didn't look out for yourself, who did? He'd never known of a stable marriage, so the notion of a prescription for successful matrimony, all her talk of mutual background as the basis for stability in a marriage, seemed utterly alien. There weren't any stable marriages.

“It's under the chair,” he said to her, pointing out the shoe she couldn't see. Molly had one sandal in her hand and looked lost. Her blouse was unbuttoned, her long legs bare, the partial curve of her bottom visible beneath the hem of her shirttails. When she twisted toward him, the delicate swell of one breast was exposed, as was the supple slope of her hip where it gently flared out from her narrow waist. A waist he could almost circle his fingers around. They had shared so much pleasure and sweetness this summer. “You're going through with it?” His voice was gruff.

She nodded, and his jaw stiffened. He lay motionless and silent in the rumpled bed while she dressed, watching her with dark inscrutable eyes, the room heavy with the odor of warm bodies and sperm. He was distant, so unlike the wildly passionate man who had made love to her so recently. He made her feel like a stranger.