A Proposal for Christmas. Lindsay McKenna
had no choice but to do exactly that. She then adjusted her answering machine to pick up on the first ring. If Skyler chose to call again, he would be cordially invited to leave his name, number and message. If he felt called upon to deliver a lecture, he would get only an electronic whirring sound in reply.
Holly was at the sink when David returned to the kitchen; though she didn’t hear him, not consciously at least, she was aware of him in every sense. She stiffened as he came toward her, his boots making a melodic sound on the hard brick floor.
“Holly?”
She turned to face him. She couldn’t keep her fingers from clenching the counter behind her.
David stopped, looking stricken. “You’re afraid of me.”
“Y-yes.”
“Why?”
How could she explain, when she didn’t understand it herself? She was afraid of David Goddard, and yet his nearness was causing every nerve ending in her body to jump and crackle like naked electrical wire. Not even Ben—tender, laughing, lost Ben—had ever affected her in quite that way.
“Holly?” he prompted.
Holly felt very silly and not a little old-maidish. She blushed and gave a nervous, shaky laugh. “It’s not as though I think you’re...I mean...I know you’re not—”
He was closer now. Holly could feel the heat and the strength of him. He was not yet touching her, but God help her, she wanted him to. She wanted him to hold her and kiss her and— He did. He kissed her. He cupped his gentle, strong hands, one on each side of her flushed face, bent his head, and kissed her. His lips were soft and cautious, making no demands.
A strange warmth filled Holly, stabbing her in some places, soothing her in others. She trembled when his tongue persuaded her lips to part for him and she moaned at his thorough, masterful yet entirely tender conquering.
And his body was warm and hard against Holly’s, pressing, igniting licking flames of unfamiliar, unexpected passion. It hadn’t been like this with Ben, she reflected frantically. Not even when they actually made love.
David drew back suddenly, with an obvious effort. “I’d better leave,” he said in a hoarse voice, his eyes not quite linking with Holly’s.
She was wounded and still breathless. “David—”
At last he looked at her, and she saw anguish in the depths of his eyes, along with a cold, self-directed anger. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, reaching for his jacket.
Holly wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, except make love to David Goddard and have him make love to her. And that wasn’t possible, of course, because they’d only known each other for a day and because Toby was sleeping upstairs. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t I?” he asked, speaking more to himself, it seemed, than to Holly.
Holly couldn’t believe the crazy things that were going on inside her, the aching, melting sensations. The howling hunger. And her breasts. Her breasts quivered with a need to be fondled, their tips still at eager attention. What was happening to her?
“Will you come and have dinner with Toby and me tomorrow night, David?” she heard herself ask.
A log fell in the fireplace, sparks snapping. The silence was terrible and so was Holly’s suspense. Which would be worse: his refusal or his acceptance?
“Yes,” he said finally, and with some reluctance. “I know better, but I’ll do it.”
“Seven?” Holly asked with a calmness that amazed her. “We could go on to class afterward.”
David wasn’t looking at her; it seemed that he couldn’t. The telephone jangled but the answering machine picked up instantly. The silence was heavy, pulsing.
“Seven,” he said hoarsely, and then he was leaving, striding away from Holly with determined motions.
After she’d heard the front door close and the engine of his car start up with a fierce, revving sound, she could move again. She locked the house and turned out the few lights that still burned, then made her way upstairs.
Her bed looked as it always had—the same Pennsylvania Dutch quilt covered the practical flannel sheets beneath. The same brass headboard glistened in the light from the lamp on her dresser. The same two pillows waited, neither having ever borne the weight of a man’s head. Not Skyler’s certainly. Not even Ben’s.
The bed was unchanged, but Holly’s feelings about sharing it were vastly different. Tonight it looked lonely and cold rather than spacious.
Shaking her head, she went into the small bathroom adjoining her room, washed her face, brushed her teeth, stripped off the black slacks and red sweater she had worn that night, and finally the wispy panties and bra underneath.
Holly stood naked before the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. She saw a well-proportioned if unremarkable body, curved in some places, hollowed in others.
She permitted herself to remember that long-ago summer, between high school and college, when she and Ben had given in to the dizzying, constant demands of their youthful bodies. She had not soared, as books and movies had led her to believe she would, but she had not been traumatized, either. Ben’s lovemaking had been gentle and pleasant, if not truly fulfilling.
But now, as the result of one brief kiss, Holly knew that, with David Goddard, her body would respond with abandon. It would sing. It would quiver.
The prospect was completely alarming.
With flouncing motions, Holly stormed over to her dresser, wrenched open a drawer and pulled out a long T-shirt-style gown. She quickly put the garment on, as though that would dispel the crazy hungers, the yearnings, that had lain dormant until one particular man had kissed her.
Determinedly, she got into bed and settled into the warmth of the soft flannel sheets. Unable to sleep, she tossed this way and that, plumping her pillows, lying down and sitting back up again.
After almost twenty minutes of this, Holly faced a very disturbing fact. Sure as the sun would rise in the morning, sure as the December snows would fall, David Goddard was going to make love to her. It was inevitable; it was inescapable. The self-control she needed in order to feel strong and safe would desert her.
Tears burned in Holly’s eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She would be changed forever and then she would be left because David was not what he seemed to be, not what he claimed to be.
All her instincts warned that this was true and yet she could feel herself sliding toward him, careening down some steep psychological hill. And there was nothing to grasp, nothing to break her fall.
She rolled over and sniffled, tucking both hands under her face the way she had as a little girl. Skyler. She would think of Skyler and everything would be all right.
What did Skyler look like? She couldn’t remember. After dating the man for months, she couldn’t remember!
“Oh, damn!” Holly cried into the quilt edge that was bunched in her hands. Again she tried to summon Skyler’s face to her mind but it wouldn’t come; instead, she saw David’s dark hair, David’s strong jawline, David’s ferociously blue eyes.
“Who are you, David Goddard?” Holly wailed inwardly, her mind full of shimmering tangles of fear and joy, happiness and dread. Who are you?
Except for the wild, thunderous beating of her own heart, there was no answer.
4
David bent and tapped the side of the glass fishbowl with an impatient index finger. The two goldfish floated, one above the other, just staring at him, their shimmering fan-shaped tails barely moving.
“You guys are really boring, you know that?” he complained in an undertone.