Night Over Water (46 page)

“There’s no telling,” he said. “That chap she’s with.... I think he’s a weed, but maybe that’s what she wants.”

Nancy nodded. The two men, Mark and Mervyn, could hardly have been more different. Mervyn was tall and imperious, with dark good looks and a blunt manner. Mark was an altogether softer person, with hazel eyes and freckles, who normally wore a mildly amused look on his round face. “I don’t go for the boyish type, but he’s attractive in his way,” she said. She was thinking: If Mervyn was my husband, I wouldn’t exchange him for Mark; but there’s no accounting for taste.

“Aye. At first I thought Diana was just being daft, but now that I’ve seen him, I’m not so sure.” Mervyn looked thoughtful for a moment, then changed the subject. “What about you? Will you fight your brother off?”

“I believe I’ve found his weakness,” she said with grim satisfaction, thinking of Danny Riley. “I’m working on it.”

He grinned. “When you look like that, I’d rather have you for a friend than an enemy.”

“It’s for my father,” she said. “I loved him dearly, and the firm is all I have left of him. It’s like a memorial to him, but better than that, because it bears the imprint of his personality in every way.”

“What was he like?”

“He was one of those men nobody ever forgets. He was tall, with black hair and a big voice, and you knew the moment you saw him that he was a powerful man. He knew the name of every man who worked for him, and if their wives were sick, and how their children were getting along in school. He paid for the education of countless sons of factory hands who are now lawyers and accountants: he understood how to win people’s loyalty. In that way he was old-fashioned—paternalistic. But he had the best business brain I ever encountered. In the depths of the Depression, when factories were closing all over New England, we were taking on men because our sales were going up! He understood the power of advertising before anyone else in the shoe industry, and he used it brilliantly. He was interested in psychology, in what makes people tick. He had the ability to throw a fresh light on any problem you brought to him. I miss him every day. I miss him almost as much as I miss my husband.” She suddenly felt very angry. “And I will not stand by and see his life’s work thrown away by my good-for-nothing brother.” She shifted in her seat restlessly, reminded of her anxieties. “I’m trying to put pressure on a key shareholder, but I won’t know how successful I’ve been until—”

She never finished the sentence. The plane flew into the most severe turbulence yet, and bucked like a wild horse. Nancy dropped her glass and grabbed the edge of the dressing table with both hands. Mervyn tried to brace himself with his feet, but he could not, and when the plane tilted sideways he rolled onto the floor, knocking the coffee table aside.

The plane steadied. Nancy reached out a hand to help Mervyn up, saying: “Are you all right?” Then the plane tossed again. She slipped, lost her handhold and tumbled to the floor on top of him.

After a moment he started to laugh.

She had been afraid she might have hurt him, but she was light and he was a big man. She was lying across him, the two of them making the shape of an X on the terra-cotta carpet. The plane steadied, and she rolled off and sat up, looking at him. Was he hysterical, or just amused?

“We must look daft,” he said, and recommenced laughing.

His laughter was infectious. For a moment she forgot the accumulated tensions of the last twenty-four hours: the treachery of her brother, the near-crash in Mervyn’s small plane, her awkward situation in the honeymoon suite, the ghastly row about Jews in the dining room, the embarrassment of Mervyn’s wife’s anger, and her fear of the storm. She suddenly realized there was also something highly comical about sitting on the floor in her nightclothes with a strange man in a wildly bucking aircraft. She, too, started to giggle.

The next lurch of the plane threw them against one another. She found herself wrapped in Mervyn’s arms, still laughing. They looked at one another.

Suddenly she kissed him.

She surprised herself totally. The thought of kissing him had never even crossed her mind. She was not even sure how much she liked him. It seemed like an impulse that came from nowhere.

He was clearly shocked, but he got over it quickly enough, and kissed her back enthusiastically. There was nothing tentative about his kiss, no slow burn: he was instantly aflame.

After a minute she pulled away from him, gasping. “What happened?” she said foolishly.

“You kissed me,” he said, looking pleased.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m glad you did, though,” he said, and he kissed her again.

She wanted to break away, but his grip was strong and her will was weak. She felt his hand steal inside her robe, and she stiffened: her breasts were so small that she was embarrassed, and afraid he would be disappointed. His large hand closed over her small round breast, and he groaned deep in his throat. His fingertips found her nipple, and she felt embarrassed all over again: she had had enormous nipples since nursing the boys. Small breasts and big nipples—she felt peculiar, almost deformed; but Mervyn showed no distaste, quite the contrary. He caressed her with surprising gentleness, and she gave herself up to the delicious sensation. It was a long time since she had felt this way.

What am I doing? she thought suddenly. I’m a respectable widow, and here I am rolling on the floor of an airplane with a man I met yesterday! What’s come over me? “Stop!” she said decisively. She pulled away and sat upright. Her negligee had ridden up over her knees. Mervyn stroked her bare thigh. “Stop,” she said again, pushing his hand away.

“Whatever you say,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be ready.”

She glanced at his lap and saw the bulge in his nightshirt made by his erection. She looked away quickly. “It was my fault,” she said, still panting from the kiss. “But it was a mistake. I’m acting like a tease, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me for years.”

“But you love your wife, don’t you?” she said bluntly.

He winced. “I thought I did. Now I’m a bit confused, to tell you the truth.”

That was exactly how Nancy felt: confused. After ten years of celibacy she now found herself aching to embrace a man she hardly knew.

But I do know him, she thought; I know him quite well. I’ve traveled a long way with him and we’ve shared our troubles. I know he’s abrasive, arrogant and proud, but also passionate and loyal and strong. I like him despite his faults. I respect him. He’s terribly attractive, even in a brown striped nightshirt. And he held my hand when I was frightened. How nice it would be to have someone to hold my hand any time I was frightened.

As if he had read her mind, he took her hand again. This time he turned it up and kissed her palm. It made her skin tingle. After a few moments he drew her to him and kissed her mouth again.

“Don’t do this,” she breathed. “If we start again we won’t be able to stop.”

“I’m just afraid that if we stop now we may never start again,” he murmured, and his voice was thick with desire.

She sensed in him a formidable passion, only just kept under control, and that inflamed her more. She had had too many dates with weak, obliging men who wanted her to give them reassurance and security— men who gave up all too easily when she resisted their demands. Mervyn was going to be insistent, powerfully so. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. She longed to surrender.

She felt his hand on her leg beneath her negligee, his fingertips stroking the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. She closed her eyes and, almost involuntarily, parted her legs a fraction. It was all the invitation he needed. A moment later his hand found her sex, and she groaned. No one had done this to her since her husband, Sean. That thought suddenly overwhelmed her with sadness. Oh, Sean, I miss you, she thought; I never let myself admit how much I miss you. Her grief was sharper than at any time since the funeral. Tears squeezed between her closed lids and ran down her face. Mervyn kissed her and tasted the tears. “What is it?” he murmured.

She opened her eyes. Through a blur of tears she saw his face, handsome and troubled; and beyond that, her negligee pushed up around her waist, and his hand between her thighs. She took his wrist and moved his hand away gently but firmly. “Please don’t be angry,” she said.

“I won’t be angry,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

“No one has touched me there since Sean died, and it made me think of him.”

“Your husband.”

She nodded.

“How long ago?”

“Ten years.”

“It’s a long time.”

“I’m loyal.” She gave a watery smile. “Like you.”

He sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been married twice, and this is the first time I’ve come close to being unfaithful. I was thinking of Diana and that chap.”

“Are we fools?” she said.

“Maybe. We should stop thinking about the past, seize the moment, live for today.”

“Perhaps we should,” she said, and she kissed him again.

The plane bucked as if it had hit something. Their faces banged together and the lights flickered. The aircraft tossed and bumped violently. Nancy forgot all about kissing and clung to Mervyn for stability.

When the turbulence eased a little she saw that his lip was bleeding. “You bit me,” he said with a rueful grin.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad. I hope there’s a scar.”

She hugged him hard, feeling a surge of affection.

They lay together on the floor while the storm raged. In the next pause, Mervyn said: “Let’s try and make it to the bunk—we’ll be more comfortable than on this carpet.”

Nancy nodded. Getting up on her hands and knees, she crawled across the floor and scrambled up onto her bunk. Mervyn followed her and lay down beside her. He put his arms around her and she snuggled up to his nightshirt.

Each time the turbulence got worse, she held him hard, like a sailor tied to the mast. When it lessened she relaxed, and he stroked her soothingly.

At some point she fell asleep.

 

She was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling: “Steward!”

She opened her eyes and realized she was lying in Mervyn’s arms. “Oh, Jesus!” she said, panicking. She sat up and looked around frenziedly.

Mervyn put a restraining hand on her shoulder and called out in a loud and authoritative tone: “Wait a moment, steward.”

A rather frightened voice replied: “Okay, sir, take your time.”

Mervyn rolled off the bed, stood up and pulled the bedclothes over Nancy. She smiled gratefully at him, then turned away, pretending to be asleep so that she would not have to look at the steward.

She heard Mervyn open the door and the steward come in. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. The smell of fresh coffee wafted into Nancy’s nostrils. “It’s nine thirty in the morning British time, four thirty in the middle of the night in New York, and six o’clock in Newfoundland.”

Mervyn said: “Did you say it’s nine thirty in Britain but six o’clock in Newfoundland? They’re three
and a half
hours behind British time?”

“Yes, sir. Newfoundland Standard Time is three and a half hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.”

“I didn’t know anyone took half hours. It must make life complicated for the people who write the airline timetables. How long until we splash down?”

“We’ll be coming down in thirty minutes, just one hour later than scheduled. The delay is because of the storm.” The steward padded out and the door closed.

Nancy turned over. Mervyn pulled up the venetian blinds. It was daylight. She watched him pour coffee, and the previous night came back to her in a series of vivid images: Mervyn holding her hand in the storm, the two of them falling on the floor, his hand on her breast, her clinging to him while the plane lurched and swayed, the way he had stroked her to sleep. Holy Jesus, she thought, I like this man a lot.

“How do you take it?” he said.

“Black, no sugar.”

“Same as me.” He handed her a cup.

She sipped it gratefully. She suddenly felt curious to know a hundred different things about Mervyn. Did he play tennis, go to the opera, enjoy shopping? Did he read much? How did he tie his tie? Did he polish his own shoes? As she watched him drinking his coffee, she found she could confidently guess a great deal. He probably did play tennis, but he did not read many novels and he definitely would not enjoy shopping. He would be a good poker player and a bad dancer.

“What are you thinking?” he said. “You’re eyeing me as if you’re wondering whether I’m a good risk for life insurance.”

She laughed. “What sort of music do you like?”

“I’m tone deaf,” he said. “When I was a lad, before the war, ragtime was all the rage in the dance halls. I liked the rhythm, although I was never much of a dancer. What about you?”

“Oh, I danced—had to. Every Saturday morning I went to dancing school in a white frilly dress and white gloves, to learn social dancing with twelve-year-old boys in suits. My mother thought it would give me the entree into the uppermost layer of Boston society. It didn’t, of course; but fortunately I didn’t care. I was more interested in Pa’s factory—much to Ma’s despair. Did you fight in the Great War?”

“Aye.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was at Ypres.” He pronounced it “Wipers.” “And I swore I’d never stand by and see another generation of young men sent to die that way. But I didn’t expect Hitler.”

She looked at him compassionately. He glanced up. They held each other’s eyes, and she knew he was also thinking of how they had kissed and petted in the night. Suddenly she felt embarrassed all over again. She looked away, toward the window, and saw land. It reminded her that when they reached Botwood she was hoping for a phone call that would change her life, one way or the other. “We’re almost there!” she said. She sprang out of bed. “I must get dressed.”