Spring Collection (16 page)

In the kitchen Aiden discovered that Mrs. Brady had made a large pot of Irish stew that only needed to be reheated. He put the pot in the big warming oven so that he wouldn’t have to worry about it burning and started looking around in his liquor cabinet. Justine seemed to have recovered from her fit of whatever it was in the taxi, he thought. Buyer’s remorse, probably, he’d felt it himself. But now, when she’d finally taken that damn cap off, standing in the firelight, and ruffled up her hair with both hands, he’d just about fallen down at the sight of so much of what must be unself-conscious beauty, because no woman with any vanity would have worn a cap like that no matter how cold she was. Wasn’t vanity one of the ruling principles in women? Maybe when you’ve had all your life to look at yourself, even Justine could get bored. Hard to imagine.

He found a tray and some good-sized glasses, a bucket of ice, an unopened bottle of tequila someone had given him for Christmas two years ago, and a container of fresh orange juice. He thought for a minute, added a bottle of maraschino cherries, and carried the tray into the living room where he deposited it on the coffee table in front of the fire, and sat back on the big leather sofa.

“What’s that?” Justine asked as she slid down next to him wearing heavy white gym socks, bright pink
tights and an oversized white turtleneck sweater bearing the legend “New York Giants” on it.

“It’s nothing yet but it’s going to be what I promised you, a Tequila Sunrise.”

“Hmmm,” she said noncommittally, reserving judgment.

“Yeah,” he said, “watch this. First I put in the ice, now I open the tequila and add generously, then I stingily pour orange juice until it looks exactly like sunlight and finally I carefully position a cherry in each glass to represent the rising sun. Here, have one.”

“But the sun is only red at sunset,” she said, taking the glass.

“Not in Hawaii.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. So this was what a Tequila Sunrise looked like. Not that different from a screwdriver, what was all the fuss about?

“I have a funny feeling,” Justine whispered suddenly. “A bad feeling.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s someone in here besides us,” she breathed softly in a frightened voice. “There’s someone watching us. Don’t move, pretend you don’t know.”

“Rufus, come on out,” Aiden said, “she’s okay.”

A giant white Persian cat materialized majestically from behind a tall stack of logs and stalked slowly toward them with an offended air, his tail straight up in the air. He was an extraordinarily beautiful animal, even in a race in which there is no genuine ugliness possible. The cat took over the room.

“My God!” Justine exclaimed.

“He’d agree with that sentiment. Rufus is shy with women. He’s a one-man cat. Actually he thinks he’s a dog. Maybe because he’s been neutered, but you can’t keep a tom in the city. Come on up here, kid, and meet Justine. You’re not a cat-hater, are you? Or allergic?”

“Not at all,” Justine answered truthfully. She adored cats and she knew exactly how to attract them. She sat absolutely still, as if she were totally indifferent, ignoring the very existence of Rufus, refusing to even
attempt eye contact. They could take anything but lack of attention, the lovely, paradoxical, unknowable beasts.

Rufus levitated into Aiden’s lap and rolled over, his four feet in the air. Aiden tickled his stomach. “Ever see a cat do that?”

“Amazing,” Justine agreed. “Do you have any others? Did you know that Hemingway had thirty cats? Apparently even Picasso appreciated them, he said that God invented the giraffe, the elephant and the cat … he didn’t mention humans.”

“Rufus wouldn’t like me to get another cat, he’s jealous by nature. That’s why he’s pretending not to notice you, but he’s really seeing you through his closed eyelids. He thinks of you as a threat to his life with me.”

“Poor deluded creature. Tell him not to worry,” Justine smiled. Rufus had already peeped at her curiously. It was only a question of time. She’d keep a cat herself but an unmarried woman with a cat was a cliché whereas a man with a cat merely seemed sensitive.

“Is that sweater just decorative or does it mean you’re a Giants fan?” Aiden asked carefully.

“A fan, of course. Isn’t everyone? I mean, the Jets are pretty piss-poor, but naturally you have to watch both teams if you call yourself any kind of New Yorker. The problem is they’re both playing this weekend, at the same time, the Jets in Buffalo and the Giants in Dallas.”

Justine looked at him and they shook their heads in shared disbelief. “I’ve been furious all week about it,” she continued. “I still can’t believe they’d schedule games like that! Cretins! I’d like to knock their heads together. I particularly adore watching guys play in a blizzard. The suffering! The slipping and sliding! Buffalo! The perfect thing would be to have two television sets, side by side, and watch them both.”

“That could be arranged.”

“Oh, Aiden, really?”

“I happen to have it all set up,” he said smugly. “You’re not the only sports fan in this place.”

“Maybe they’ll both win! What’s wrong with expecting a miracle?”

“Let’s drink to that.”

“Oh, yes! Hmmm … this is really … an experience. Smooth, sultry and incredibly … civilized.”

“I believe it’s quite powerful.”

“Not if you eat the cherry.”

“Oh, Justine.…” he said longingly, watching the cherry disappear into her mouth.

“Yes …?” She smiled innocently. His eyes were such a deep blue, almost a secret blue, so dark that they could be another color until he looked at you. There was an exuberance in his gaze, like a breeze off the ocean.

“Here,” he said hastily, “have another cherry, they’re small.”

“You do know how to treat a lady.” He had promised not to lay a finger on her, Justine reflected. And he’d keep his promise. That was the trouble with some men. But too many scruples were better than too few. Somewhere there should be a happy medium. She relaxed on the sofa, suddenly confident that she would find a way to work out this ethical dilemma. She half-closed her eyes, looking at Aiden through her eyelashes and wondering what he’d be like to kiss, really kiss, not the brush of his lips on her cheek of last night.

It would be like opening a fresh blue tin of Malosol Beluga caviar and digging in gently with a mother-of-pearl spoon, Justine thought. Just a small exploratory taste, but the best taste you ever had in your life. Then you look around and you discover you’re all alone in the room with the whole tin, fourteen Russian ounces, theoretically more than anybody can eat in one sitting, right there in front of you. You tip your spoon directly into the center of the shining surface of the caviar and you take your second taste, a slightly bigger one than the first. It’s even better than you’d realized … now the thirst starts, the galloping guilty caviar thirst that’s like
none other, and your third spoonful is shamelessly heaping, filling your mouth. You keep eating, one sinfully large spoonful after another, every taste bud aflame with caviar, because there’s absolutely more than enough and nobody to share it with, eating as quickly as you choose, or as slowly, depending on your mood, until you’ve had enough, which is almost impossible with caviar, but happens eventually. And then you stop, after one last taste, but not because you have to, but because you want to. You’ve been utterly satisfied, and somehow you know that the tin will still be there later tonight, waiting in the fridge, as full as ever, for that inevitable moment when you have to have caviar again and if you don’t brush your teeth right away there’s a bonus of the aftertaste of the supreme grey eggs that lingers lusciously in your mouth for at least a half hour, almost as good as the caviar itself.

Jesus!
Justine opened her eyes quickly. This drink was like magic mushrooms or something, she’d never had a hallucination like that before. She’d never had a magic mushroom either, losing control wasn’t her style. She sat silently, taking only cautious sips of this dangerous potion.

Aiden looked into the fire and acted as a cat cushion, suddenly glad that Rufus was there as a chaperone. Justine, in her fiendishly alluring gym socks and that sweater that both concealed and beckoned, was too much for any man to risk being alone with. Was she a devilishly clever vamp or an angel? He was totally confused. But a promise was a promise. Was a promise.

“Hungry?” he asked, getting up and rousing himself hastily. He had to change his center of gravity.

“Starving.”

They devoured the savory stew and warm French bread with a minimum of conversation. Rufus seemed to sleep under the table after he’d had his fill of milk and tuna fish, although occasionally Justine felt a slight, tentative nudge of his haughty head against her ankle. How easy it would be to slip him a sliver of meat without being noticed, she thought, tempted, but
decided that bribery was beneath her. This cat was one tough number but she’d win him over fairly or not at all.

But any feline seduction would have to wait for another time. Justine felt so exhausted, all of a sudden, from the combination of the long, emotional day at the office, the furnace fiasco and the awful trip downtown that she got up from the table before Aiden could make coffee and trailed off wearily to her room, barely able to change into the silk long johns she wore as pajamas on cold nights, before she sank into a profound slumber.

Sometime during the night Justine became aware, as she was aroused from a state of total unconsciousness, that something was
kneading
her. To her sleep-dazed mind there was a nightmare impression of a large snake winding itself sinuously and silently around her chest. She lay very still, holding her breath in terror, trying desperately to figure out where she was. Someplace hideously quiet, someplace where there was absolutely no normal background sound, no city noises, no light, no clue to what kind of supernatural force was attacking her.

“Help,” she squeaked softly, afraid to frighten the snake. “Help me, someone.” The snake slid horribly, with relentless stealth, up her chest until it approached her throat. She was going to let herself be strangled alive without even making an effort, she thought in frozen immobility. She forced herself to open her mouth to scream, only to be tickled by the touch of a small cold nose and wooed by a friendly cat noise.

“Bastard!” she exploded, grabbing Rufus, and holding him high over her head. “How
dare
you!
Now
you want to sleep with me?
Now
you want to be friends? When Aiden can’t see what a flirt you are, huh? Well, you’ve chosen the wrong time, you sneaky little son of a bitch. You’re going back where you came from, you imp from hell.” She put the cat down on the bed and pushed him roughly off onto the floor. “Out, and
don’t come back!” she ordered. Rufus jumped lightly up and started walking on her, from her feet to her chest, where he stopped and sat with all his densely concentrated fifteen pounds, prepared to remain, an immovable object if ever she’d met one. And it wasn’t even her fault, Justine told herself righteously, it wasn’t as if she’d lured him on with food.

“Go away! Scat!” she hissed ferociously, wishing she knew which human commands he might recognize and obey. “Down! Off! Floor! Out! Bad cat!” Finally he moved, leaping lightly up to her pillow and pushing his nose into her neck with interest. She’d said the wrong word, but she didn’t know which one it was, Justine thought as she pushed him away. He nipped lightly on her fingers in a friendly, familiar fashion. This could go on all night, she realized. Physically neutered though he was, Rufus still had his memories.

There was only one thing that made sense and that involved the unthinkable. As she received more of Rufus’ interested attentions the unthinkable became the necessary, and Justine reached for the flashlight she remembered had been on the table by the bed. She turned it on and got out of bed, putting her feet into her fleece-lined booties. She couldn’t find her bathrobe so she took the blanket from the bed and slung it over her shoulders and staggered over to the window. She pulled back the blackout shades and saw nothing, not even streetlamps, through the thick scrim of falling snow. She could be in a mountain cabin deep in the dark wild woods, Justine thought. A mini-vacation indeed. Rufus followed, twining around her legs and nudging her to the door.

“Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Justine grumbled, lighting her way to the kitchen. She took the milk out of the fridge and poured it into the bowl that stood on the floor nearby. Rufus lapped quickly. “Say thank you, Justine,” she said to the busy animal.

Totally occupied with his milk, he didn’t hear her. Now to make her getaway. Moving with steps so tiny
and smooth that nothing betrayed her, not even a vibration of the air, Justine began to back away from the loudly lapping cat. She’d just reached the door and was about to streak for her room when Rufus, without preparation, was upon her again, purring loudly, and treating her legs to a tangle of furry hugs. He had trained her, Justine realized. She had made the wrong decision and now that he had her where he wanted her, he was in the mood to play with his new blond mouse.

“You’re going to your boss,” she said, picking the cat up by his middle and clutching him to her bosom so that he couldn’t get away. By the light of a few glowing embers Justine padded softly across the great barn. She opened the door to Aiden’s bedroom without making a sound and tried to pick Rufus up and throw him inside. But this cat, she discovered, could not be thrown when he didn’t care to be thrown. His clipped claws had become entangled in the fine silk mesh of her long-sleeved top and no sooner had she plucked one away than others fastened onto her as if the animal was climbing a rope ladder. Never clutch a cat, Justine thought, unless you plan to keep it.

She stood in the open doorway trying to decide what to do. She could hear Aiden breathing softly and by the light of his electric clock she could see exactly where he was lying under his quilt. He was sleeping deeply, without movement of any kind. She’d lost her blanket somewhere in the struggle with the cat. She could either take Rufus back to her room and let him keep her up all night, or she could return him to Aiden. Perhaps, she thought, if she brought the cat farther into the room he’d smell his lord and master and abandon her for his regular sleeping partner. Some faithful one-man cat he’d turned out to be.