A bright full moon splashed an alabaster radiance over Enid, Oklahoma, and onto the shingled roof of a red brick, single-story house on Oak Street. Moonbeams skittered over immaculately landscaped beds of pink petunias, purple periwinkles, scarlet roses, and danced on the roof of the patio across the back of the house. Just beyond the shadowy patio, shades were drawn on a south bedroom window. Inside, the faint red glow from a radio dial added orange tint to the old-fashioned maple furniture. In the hushed silence of midnight, a slumberous, baritone voice, husky and full-bodied, whispered, “Darlin’, I’ve missed you. It’s been so lonely …”
Charity Jane Webster stretched, her head rubbing the pillow, slender arms and legs brushing pale, cool sheets while the deep male voice sent a frothy tickle down her spine. She ran her fingers through the tangle of yellow curls that capped her head, a sigh of yearning escaping her full, curved lips. The radio dial’s red glow kissed her wide cheekbones and her thick golden eyelashes.
“Darlin’, here’s one just for you, an oldie, ‘Days of Wine and Roses.’ ”
She listened to the music, waiting for it to end to hear the velvety masculine voice that would strum over her quivering nerves. She was so lonesome. The late-night hours were the worst time of all. During the day she was busy, too busy to want someone, to really need someone else, but the long, empty nights were torment. She had found on station KKZF a latenight program of mood music called “Nighttime,” with a disc jockey who had a golden voice, a rich, resonant baritone that floated into the bedroom, as tangible as a touch, nuzzling her senses, eliminating a fraction of her loneliness. Rory Craig Runyon. Each night she attempted to picture a face to go with that sexy, sensational voice.
He came on again, a lazy, raspy tiger’s purr, rumbling up from his chest. “Darlin’, did you like that? I hope so. It’s one of my favorites. Now, darlin’, it’s your turn.” He said the last in a breathy timbre that spooned hot liquid syrup down her spine and into her bloodstream. Each word in his special voice, like the notes of a cello, brushed a nebulous stroke over her flesh, a caress, making her tingle and ache, yet not feel so empty and alone. “It’s your turn …” The words, said in Rory Runyon’s voice, held innuendo, implied intimacy.
“Darlin’, let me know what you’d like to hear. Come on, give me a call. You know my number. It’s eight four three …”
Charity blinked in the darkness. Each number sank into her brain, keyed in permanently. Her hand drifted to the phone, then hesitated. Feeling ridiculous, she frowned at the radio dial. Should she call or not? The only answer was Rory Craig Runyon’s thick, torrid voice pulsing slowly into her being. “Come on, darlin’. Let me know what you want to hear.”
A phone buzzed on the program. Then Rory Runyon’s marvelous voice whispered, “Hi, there.” Pause. “Nancy, darlin’, I thought you’d never call.” Another pause. Charity wished she had called. “Sure. I’ll play, ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,’ ” he promised in a plaintive, hushed tone. “I’ll play it, Nancy, just for you. Hang on there, darlin’, and we’ll listen together.” Music came on and the voice went off.
Next time, she would call in. What harm would there be in a phone call? What harm would there be in calling a DJ and requesting a song? She looked at the door. She shouldn’t be lonesome with her great-aunt down the hall, but Aunt Mattie was little company at night. Charity rubbed her forehead. What a muddle life could become! A year ago she had graduated from college with a degree in landscape architecture, had started her own small firm with money from her grandfather’s brother. Uncle Hubert, and had been dating Ted Farnsworth. Now her business had failed, she had broken up with Ted months ago, and Uncle Hubert had died. With Uncle Hubert gone. Charity had only two relatives—Uncle Hubert’s wife, Aunt Mattie, who was actually a great-aunt by marriage, and her mother’s sister, Aunt Ziza. And whatever husband Ziza had at the moment. The mere thought of Ziza made Charity frown. She had lived with Ziza the first year after her parents’ death, while Ziza divorced Roger, husband number five, and married Wendell, husband number six. Charity gave a small prayer of thanks she didn’t have to take care of Ziza. All she had to worry about were her debts, her employment, and Aunt Mattie. Charity moaned, but then her glum thoughts were interrupted by Rory Runyon. “Did you like that, Nancy? Good. Call again, darlin’. ’Night.”
“ ’Night.” It became two syllables in his soft midwestern drawl. Nii-aight. She envisioned sky-blue eyes, curly black hair, a black-haired Tom Selleck. Her sigh was audible.
“Here’s another goodie for a balmy Sunday night. Have you been outside tonight? It’s great. Stars like diamonds on black satin, spread across the heavens as far as you can see. There’s a little breeze running across the prairie, racing over ripe wheat fields, just a soft touch of warm May wind. A night for love, a night to hold your hand … Let’s add a little music to the magic of the evening. Let a spring breeze carry this song to your heart, darlin’. Straight from me to you.”
Charity blinked and swallowed hard. A song began playing, a haunting melody that relaxed Charity’s tense muscles. The melodic voice singing the ballad wasn’t as enticing as the DJ who put on the record. The voice sang, “… tied up in red ribbons and blue paper …”
She blinked. Paper. She wished she hadn’t heard that word. The troubles of the day came rushing back. She had inherited Uncle Hubert’s house, the care of Aunt Mattie, his newspaper. The Enid Times, and a bushel of trouble. She didn’t know anything about running a paper. She could sell it. There was a buyer. He lived right behind Uncle Hubert and Aunt Mattie’s. His yard backed up to theirs, but she hadn’t met him or looked over the high board fence that separated the two yards. Mr. O. O. Brown. It dawned on her suddenly that Mr. Brown was Rory Craig Runyon’s boss. O. O. Brown owned the radio station and wanted to own the newspaper. But did she really want to sell? What would she do with the house and Aunt Mattie? What about her debts from her company?
She rolled onto her stomach to stare at the red glow from the radio. The music stopped. The inviting, lulling, sensuous voice came on again. “Now, darlin’, it’s your turn. Call me, I want to talk to you. Let me know what you like. Do you remember my number…?”
How could she forget? She sat up, covers dropping around her hips as she dialed swiftly, hoping she would get the call through before the line was tied up.
The cottony words came through the telephone receiver into her ear, into her system. Something happened to Charity’s heart. It stopped for a breathless minute. Dummy, she chided herself. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. “Hi, Rory, this is …” She paused. Why hadn’t her parents given her a sexy, contemporary woman’s name? Something like Raquel or Brooke or Stephanie? She said, “This is Charity.” It came out a squeak. She shook her head. What was the matter with her? Loneliness had unhinged her!
“Charity, darlin’.”
Never, never in her life, not with Ted or anyone else, had her name been said in such a manner by such a voice. She melted into warm butter that could barely cling to the phone. She sank down in the bed feeling hot, idiotic, ten years younger than twenty-four, and she loved every second of it!
“Did you just catch the program or are you a regular?”
“I’m a regular. I love your program,” she said softly, in a daze. A regular. All six nights since she had arrived in Enid.
He chuckled. Delicious tingles tickled nerves she didn’t know existed. “That’s good to hear. Thanks, darlin’. I feel better knowin’ you’re out there. What’s your favorite tune. Charity?”
Just your voice, she thought. Wildly she racked her brain. Why hadn’t she thought of a tune before she dialed? She couldn’t think of any song except “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “Oh, my favorite …” Help! Brain, think! “ The Way We Were.’ ” She collapsed with relief.
“ ‘The Way We Were,’ ” he said, and she wished fervently it were true. “Hang on, darlin’, while I put the music on.” She would hang on forever. Where did she get this terrific loneliness? She hadn’t even realized she was lonely until this last week. Maybe it was just leaving her friends and apartment in Tulsa, going to Enid, where she had lived with her great-aunt and uncle during three years of high school after her parents’ death. The music began, and visions of Robert Redford danced into her mind. Maybe Rory Craig Runyon looked like the actor, thick blond hair, very clear blue eyes, flashing white teeth. That sexy, sensual voice could easily belong to someone who looked like Robert Redford.
And then he was back on the line, the music playing in the background.
“I’m not on the air now, darlin’, the music is. There’s your song. For lonely moments, moments of love.”
“Thanks, Rory.”
“Don’t hang up. I’m lonesome tonight, darlin’. We’ll say a few words on the air after the song. I’ll play ‘The Way We Were’ again tonight. Will you be listening later?”
“Yes.” She would listen until dawn after this conversation.
“Good. I’m glad to know my audience. Charity’s a beautiful name.”
“It’s a little old-fashioned.” She didn’t know what she was saying. Blue eyes danced in front of her. Blue eyes and bronzed, tanned skin. The man just had to have blue eyes. But, then again, they might be midnight-black, that lustrous darkness that was so mysterious, so … exciting.
“Rory …”
“Yes, darlin’?”
There went her heart again. Oh, my! Enid was becoming more interesting. Maybe she wouldn’t rush into selling the paper and returning to Tulsa. Into the phone she said, “What …” She hesitated, then reminded herself the call was anonymous. All he knew was her first name. She wouldn’t meet him in person, so why worry about what he thought, or about being more forward than she had ever been in her life?
“What color eyes do you have?” She blushed furiously.
“My eyes? They’re light-colored.”
She knew it. Blue. “I thought so. And your hair’s black,” she murmured dreamily, visions dancing before her.
He chuckled. “You want my hair to be black? Let me guess the color of yours. Charity. With a name like Charity …”
She held her breath, thankful he couldn’t see her. Her mop of curls would hardly inspire a response. She looked like Miss Milkmaid of Smalltown, U.S.A.
“Charity—long, silky blond hair.”
“How’d you guess!” she gasped, and her cheeks burned at the lie. Well, he was a fraction correct. It was blond.
“Ah, sweet Charity.” She wriggled beneath the covers. How could a voice be so wonderful? So like a touch?
“Darlin’, we’re going back on the air.”
He said it softly, almost apologetically. He added, “Call me again, will you?”
“Yes, Rory.” In about two minutes.
“How’d you like that, Charity, darlin’?” she heard in her ear and over the radio.
“I loved it!” she said with absolute sincerity.
He chuckled. “I’m so glad! Keep in touch, darlin’. Thanks for calling me. ’Night.”
“ ’Nii-aight.” She drew hers out just as much as he had. She didn’t want to hang up the phone, to break the tenuous connection with Rory Craig Runyon. Blue eyes, black hair. Reluctantly she replaced the receiver and sank down, misty-eyed, melting beneath the covers to listen as he continued. “We’re halfway into the first hour of a new day. But it’s not day yet. It’s still night, magic night, with stars and wind and dreams. Here’s a song about the night. See if you like it.”
Music wafted into the room, and Charity floated with it, carried by the sensuous voice of Rory Runyon. She replayed in her mind the way he had said her name. Charity, darlin’. Tingles coursed through her and she sighed. She touched her lips, then the small brown radio. “ ’Night, Rory,” she whispered, and closed her eyes to let Rory Craig Runyon’s seductive voice lull her to sleep.
At about seven o’clock the next morning, Charity’s eyes opened. She flung aside the covers, rose, stretched a body that was all rounded curves and softness, pale-skinned in the dusky room. When she raised the shades, she blinked as sunlight struck her eyes. Along with the sun she was hit in the face by the deluge of problems. Sorting through them, she decided to take one thing at a time, and the first thing was to continue helping Aunt Mattie dispense with Uncle Hubert’s things.
She gazed at her plants filling the patio. They were the last remnants of her unsuccessful landscaping company. Pots of ferns, ivy, philodendrons, palms, the healthy, vigorous banana plant, airplane plants, a cactus, and dieffenbachia lined the patio across from the sturdy wooden porch swing. The swing was suspended from the ceiling and near the two old wooden rockers that had been used for years by her aunt and uncle.
Her gaze moved past the patio over the perfect yard. She knew where she had gotten her love of flowers and landscaping. It had come in the years she had lived in this house, the short time that she had learned to grow flowers, when she’d watched Uncle Hubert putter with the beds, keeping the smallest offending weed out of the neat rows of flowers. Two cardinals dipped in the birdbath, their red wings fluttering, flinging crystal drops into the still morning air. At the back of the yard crepe myrtle blooms waved, glorious pink, purple, and fuchsia banners fluttering in an armada of green bushes. Flanking them was the high top of a weathered brown board fence separating the Webster yard from Mr. O. O. Brown’s. Sycamore, mulberry, hackberry, and elm trees lined his side of the fence in a tangle of green limbs.
Knowing she’d have to start the day sometime. Charity quickly dressed in faded cut-offs, a yellow knit shirt, and sneakers, brushed her unruly mop of hair, and went down the hall to the kitchen to fix breakfast.
As she set the skillet on the stove, Aunt Mattie appeared. In a blue voile dress that clung to her thin shoulders, she looked as if she were headed for church. Trifocals slipping down her nose, she smiled at Charity.
“ ’Morning, Charity.”
“ ’Morning, Aunt Mattie. How about scrambled eggs?”
“Won’t your legs get cold, dear?” Her aunt took a loaf of bread out of the breadbox.
“No, I’m fine.” Charity raised her voice. “Would you like scrambled eggs?”
“As soon as we eat, I want to work on the garage. For a man who loved neatness in his yard, Hubert had so much clutter in the house.”
Charity shouted, “Do you have on your hearing aid?”
Her aunt smiled. “Yes, it’s lovely out this morning.”
Charity took a deep breath, shouting as loudly as possible. “Aunt Mattie! Where’s your hearing aid?”
“What’s that, dear?”
Charity pointed at her ear. “Hearing aid!”
“Oh, that dreadful thing. It makes me feel old, like a senior citizen. I don’t want to wear it. Just raise your voice a little.”
Frustrated, Charity cracked three eggs into a bowl and stirred vigorously. Even though Aunt Mattie was in her eighties, she didn’t care to acknowledge that she might be beyond youth. Senior citizen. In her aunt’s mind that classification must be reserved for those over one hundred.
Charity poured the eggs into the skillet, trying to push aside the problems, the worries about Aunt Mattie’s care, as she cooked.
After breakfast she cleaned the kitchen, then joined Aunt Mattie to tackle the garage. As they went through boxes, she found two insurance policies that should have been filed for safekeeping. She carried them to her room to place them in the dresser drawer, hesitating as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She had put on a white cotton sailor’s cap to keep the dust and cobwebs out of her curls. It made her look younger. She leaned forward to brush a smudge of dust off her cheek and saw something out of the corner of her eye. A slight movement. Her gaze shifted and froze. She looked into the reflection of two black eyes at the patio window.
Her heart stopped. In the sunny glare outside, through the blur of the screen, two black eyes had peered at her, then dropped down out of sight. A window-peeper? At ten o’clock in the morning? A prowler? She had caught the barest glimpse, but there had definitely been two dark eyes at the window. Her heart thudded, and she couldn’t move. She thought of Aunt Mattie in the garage. She tiptoed across the room to a window. Holding her breath, she leaned forward cautiously and peered out onto the patio.