Passionate Pleasures (16 page)

“What if I can’t be like other people, Nicholas? After all, I’ve had The Channel to rely on all these years,” Kathryn said.

“Then you are doomed to a long, dull, and sexless life, I fear,” he answered her.

“You would wish that on me?” she said despairingly.

“Strange to say, my dear, I wish you nothing but happiness. It is all up to you now, Kathy,” Mr. Nicholas told her.

“Will I ever see you again?” she asked him.

He looked surprised. “Most people do not wish to see me ever,” he said.

“Religion makes everything either black or white. Good or evil,” Kathryn replied. “But I believe there are a myriad of colors in between the black and the white. And nothing is all good, or all evil. Even you, Nicholas.” She reached up and stroked his smooth cheek. “Will I ever be allowed The Channel again?”

“It is unlikely, my dear, but of course not impossible,” Mr. Nicholas told her. Then he took the hand caressing his face and kissed first the palm, and then the wrist of it.

Kathryn was surprised when a frisson of excitement raced through her. He was still a most fascinating creature. “Good-bye, Nicholas,” she said.

“Good-bye, Kathy, my dear girl,” he returned as he swept his hand gently down her face, and her eyes closed.

When she opened her eyes, she was naked and in her bed. The remote for The Channel was missing, and in its place was an ordinary television remote. She began to cry, and she continued until she cried herself into a restless sleep. She awoke early, when the dawn was just staining the eastern skies. Her head hurt, and she was thirsty. She got up and gulped two Excedrin and two Tums. Dr. Sam always told her to take the Tums with the Excedrin or aspirin. Then she fell back asleep for several more hours.

When she awoke again it was just before eleven in the morning. Kathryn lay in her bed, waking slowly. She clearly remembered what had happened last night. It was so unfair! But no one could thwart Mr. Nicholas. He had made his mind up, and she was stuck with it. Have a sex life in the real world. Was such a thing possible for her? It was going to have to be, because Kathryn St. John knew she absolutely, positively could not live without an active sex life, and Mr. Nicholas had said Timothy Blair was interested.

Of course he was, she told herself. The arm casually tossed about her in the movies yesterday. The way he had looked at her across the candlelit table when they had dinner out. She could tell too that he had wanted to kiss her good night, but had refrained because he didn’t want to offend her. She had seen the question in those blue eyes of his, and she had neatly avoided it.

Kathryn swung her legs out of the bed. She had an hour before Timothy Blair came to pick her up for the Harvest Festival. She came downstairs into her kitchen, toasted an English muffin, buttered it, and ate it with a cup of blueberry yogurt, along with some blueberry-pomegranate juice and her vitamins. Back upstairs, she showered quickly, brushed her teeth, and smeared moisturizer and sunblock on her face.

Checking the thermometer on one of her bedroom windows, she pulled on a pair of white silk panties and pale gray slacks. Taking the white wool and cashmere sweater she had been dressed in last evening in Nicholas’s office, she fitted her boobs into a underwire lace bra before donning the sweater. Thank God she wasn’t sagging noticeably yet. Socks and the low black suede boots finished the ensemble.

Brushing her hair, she pulled it back into a horse’s tail and fastened a band about it to hold it. She slipped on a pair of silver-and-turquoise clip-on earrings, a silver bangle on one arm, and her watch on the other. A little bit of green eye shadow for her green eyes, a touch of bronze lipstick, and she was presentable. Kathryn pulled a small shoulder bag from a drawer and put in her cell, her keys, and her lipstick. She was ready.

But for what? Reality, Egret Pointe style? It was going to be her life, now that she had been banned from The Channel. She still couldn’t believe Nicholas had done such a thing to her, but her special remote was gone. And so now were her fantasies. Unless she decided to make some real ones. Did she dare? She heard the door knocker fall on her front door, and taking a deep breath Kathryn St. John, went downstairs to answer it.

H
e was wearing jeans, a striped rugby shirt, a bomber jacket. “Hi,” he said.

Briefly she felt breathless. “Hi,” she said back.

“Ready to go?”

“Where’s Rowdy?”

“In the car, since I was only going to be a few moments. Window is open,” he said.

She laughed. “I know you don’t mistreat your dog now,” she said. “I’ve got tickets for the Harvest Supper tonight. Come on, Tim, and see small-town America at its absolute best.” She stepped through her door, reaching back to pull it shut.

They walked through the library garden. It was a sunny day.

“Who did this garden?” he asked. “It’s gorgeous, just like an English cottage garden. You’ve still got dahlias.”

“We haven’t had a hard frost yet,” Kathryn said. “The garden was begun by Miss Victoria, and added to by Miss Lucretia. I just pay the gardener to come in and keep it. I’m afraid I have a black thumb. Not at all like a proper St. John. My sister-in-law is English, and she comes now and again to do a bit of gardening and make suggestions.”

“Your cottage, the library garden. It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” he said.

He opened the passenger door of the Contour, and helped her in. Rowdy was waiting.

“How old is this car?” she asked him as the dog wagged himself in welcome.

“Twelve years old, but I keep it in good running order,” he said. “If you take proper care of your car, you don’t need to replace it for twenty or more years.”

“You’re a frugal man,” she noted as he slid behind the wheel, fastened his safety belt, and they got under way. “I like frugal.”

“No necessity to waste money,” he said.

“But you have money,” she replied casually.

He was a bit startled, but then he remembered it was a small town. “Yeah, I inherited a little from my folks.” He had actually inherited a lot from his parents. “Makes it easier for me on an educator’s salary. Where are we going?”

“It’s a field outside of town that belongs to a local farmer. He loans it to us every autumn for the festival,” Kathryn told him. “You drive, and I’ll navigate.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” he said, and following her directions, they quickly reached the site of Egret Pointe’s Harvest Festival.

The field was obviously a meadow the rest of the year. It had been mowed short to accommodate the fund-raiser. Men from the local volunteer fire department were directing the festival goers to the designated parking area on one side of the field. It was crowded, and parking was already at a premium.

“There! There!” Kathryn pointed to a vacant space.

Tim quickly pulled in, just beating out another car.

“Tourists,” Kathryn said. “Too bad.”

He chuckled.

They got out. Tim took Rowdy’s lead, and they walked back to where the little pavilions and booths were set up. The afternoon seemed to speed by. There was a livestock exhibit with sheep, goats, and poultry. Tim was fascinated by a cage of green-legged hens from Poland. There was a dog show with prizes for prettiest, ugliest, biggest, smallest, hairiest, and most obedient, among other silly categories. Every kid in Egret Pointe had brought his dog, and everyone got a ribbon to take home. The entry fee for each dog was one dollar. The money had to be honestly earned, and could not be given by a parent.

It went to the hospital as part of the fund-raiser.

“What a terrific idea,” Tim said as Kathryn explained it to him. “It teaches the kids the the act of giving of oneself. Whoever thought this up was a genius.”

“Thank you,” Kathryn said. “It was my idea. If you don’t teach children how to give of themselves, how will they learn?”

“I know,” he said. “I thought next year we would direct all of our school fund-raisers to Heifer International. The kids can decide how they want the money distributed, whether it be for a cow, a flock of ducks, whatever. I want them to see how money can be used for the good, to really help less fortunate people.”

“Now that is real genius,” Kathryn told him.

In mid-afternoon he admitted to hunger as they approached a stand selling food.

She cautioned him not to eat too much as they had the Harvest Supper at six. He gobbled two hot dogs smothered in chili and cheese while she ate a corn dog. They shared a drink, passing it back and forth, laughing together. And Kathryn realized she was having fun. Real fun. They ran into her brother, his very pregnant wife, and their children.

Hallock was positively jovial. “Have supper with us!” he invited.

“We’d be delighted,” Tim replied before she could refuse.

“Excellent! We’ll send the kids home so we can have a little grown-up time,” Hallock St. John said. “See you in the tent at six. No more cotton candy, Coralyn!”

He moved off with his family.

“You really are kissing up to my brother, aren’t you?” Kathryn teased.

“I figure if I’m going to do some old-fashioned courting of his little sister I had better be on his good side,” Tim replied. “Isn’t that what you do in small-town America when you decide to court a lady? Make friends of her family?”

She laughed. “You’re kidding, of course.” But her heart was beating a little faster than it usually did.

“Nope, I’m not kidding. Since Phoebe died, there hasn’t been a woman who attracted me enough that I wanted to see more of her, get involved with her. Until now,” Tim told her. “The moment I laid eyes on you I knew you were someone I wanted to know better, spend time with. You’ve been pretty standoffish, Kathy, until recently.”

“It didn’t seem to discourage you,” Kathryn said softly.

“No, it didn’t. Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I’m still a man who, when he sees something he wants, goes after it full bore,” Tim answered. “I think that you like me, and if you like me, then unless there is some other reason for avoiding me, I’d like to see you on a regular basis, for dinner, a movie, a walk in the woods, or along the beach, and maybe more if we decide we want more. Any thoughts on this?”

She realized they hadn’t moved from the spot where her brother had greeted them. And he was looking down at her. Kathryn St. John raised her head to look at him. “Yes,” she said. “I would very much like to have some kind of a relationship with you. Relationship? Is that the word they use today? Dinner, a movie, walks. Yes. Let’s see where it takes us, Tim. And now, before everyone in town wonders why we continue to stand here looking at each other, let’s go say hi to Emilie Shann, the novelist. She signs books for us to raise money for the hospital.”

They walked down a row of booths selling homemade jams, preserves, and fudge.

Ashley Kimborough Mulcahy, owner of
Lacy Nothings,
had a booth selling edible underpants in a variety of flavors—pumpkin, cinnamon, and chocolate being favorites—along with some cute flannel nightgowns for both men and women, with matching nightcaps. She waved at Kathryn and raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, noting her escort.

“We’re distant cousins,” Kathryn said. “She’s married to the famous restorer.”

“Sit with us at supper, Kathy,” Ashley called.

“Can’t. We’re with Hallock and Debora,” she said back.

“Save two places for Ryan and me,” Ashley replied.

“Okay,” Kathryn agreed. At least she’d have someone interesting to talk with at the table.

“R and R? Yes, they did some work for my parents,” Tim said. “She’s cute, and obviously preggers.”

“They have one little boy, Benjamin, after her brother. He was killed in Desert Storm, along with my . . .” Kathryn stopped, unable to say his name. “Mavis’s brother,” she finally got out.

Tim noticed, and saw the sudden sadness in her eyes. He didn’t ask. One day he would, but not today. “Hey,” he said, “look at the long line of women up ahead. Must be your friend the romance author.” His eyes lit on Emily Shanski Devlin, known to her public as Emilie Shann. “She’s cute, and she’s pregnant too. Is there something in the water that I should be warned about, Kathy?”

She had recovered from her momentary sorrow, and laughed. “They both married in their thirties to men who love them madly,” Kathryn explained.

“And obviously often,” he responded drolly.

She giggled. She couldn’t help it. He saw the funny side of life, and she liked that about him. “Wait till you see Mick Devlin and Ryan Mulcahy,” she told him. “They are both hunkish. Is that a word, Tim?
Hunkish
?”

“Hunk, hunkish, hunkley,” he replied. “Yes, I believe it’s a word group.” Then he grinned at her. “Modern colloquialisms. Don’t know if it’s made the
Oxford Dictionary
yet, however.”

Emily saw them. She waved, and they waved back. The readers waiting for autographs turned eagerly to see who the wave was for, but seeing Kathryn St. John and Tim Blair they turned away. “It’s just the town librarian and the Middle School principal,” they heard a woman say quite distinctly.