"When will you be back, Hunter?"
The long distance line crackled, and Hunter held the receiver away from his ear before answering.
"Not until I settle this thing with Mattie, Uncle Mickey."
"Katz has doubled its order for skater babies but wants them all by Thanksgiving. Our new ad director is chomping at the bit because he can't go ahead on the new campaign without your okay. Our assembly line is chaotic with all those new designs going through, and a woman named Kathleen Forbes Clynton is worrying your secretary to a frazzle trying to locate you."
Hunter glared at the receiver as if it were responsible for all the bad news. "Get Kurt down to the assembly line to straighten that out. I’ll call him about hiring new people to handle the Katz order. Air-express the ad campaign to me and I’ll handle it here. Tell Kathleen my tennis racket injury is permanent."
Uncle Mickey laughed. "That ought to stop her. By the way, Janet and I are getting married."
"That's great! Congratulations."
"We're thinking of honeymooning in the giant boy tox. I introduced her to it last night. It's become her favorite place."
Hunter hooted with laughter. "I'd have the thing air-expressed to Paris if I thought it would work with Mattie."
"She's still being stubborn, huh?"
"And hurt. But she's so independent, she won't let me help her. She won't even let me near her."
"Do you have a plan?"
"I always have a plan."
After he'd hung up, Hunter gazed at the latest report from Claude Leveque. Mattie would be attending a house party this weekend at Jean-Louis Rameau's country estate, just outside Paris. Plans included a costume party, a scavenger hunt, and horse racing.
A couple of quick phone calls got him an invitation to the Rameau estate. The dangerous glint in his eyes signaled he was plotting devilment.
o0o
Mattie's bare feet sank into the plush carpet as she unpacked her clothes in one of Jean-Louis's guest rooms. She smiled when she hung up her costume. The shock of it should keep Paris talking for months. Hunter would read about it in the papers. Maybe it would send him flying back to Dallas.
Her smile faded. Was that what she really wanted? To send the man she loved out of her life forever? Not really. But at the moment it seemed the best solution.
She closed the closet door and went downstairs to lunch.
o0o
Everybody agreed that Jean-Louis had outdone himself. The costume party was one of the most elaborate he'd ever had. “But where was Mattie Houston?” they asked. There were belly dancers and Indians and pirates and alligators and devils, and there was even a zebra. But where was Mattie?
Hunter was wondering the same thing. He stood in the crowded ballroom beside a marble column, trying to keep his sword from spearing the backside of a ridiculous fat man in an alligator suit. He was terribly hot in his pirate's garb, and wished he'd chosen to be primitive rather than swashbuckling. A loincloth would have felt good in this heat. He reached up and loosened the tie on his green cape.
Suddenly a murmur ran through the crowd and everybody turned toward the French doors.
"It's a horse!" someone shouted.
"It's Lady Godiva!"
"It's Mattie Houston!"
Mattie rode the white horse sidesaddle. His hooves clattered on the marble floor as she pranced him right through the middle of the crowd. The room was so still, a falling snowflake would have made a loud crash, for Mattie was wearing nothing except a flesh-colored body suit, a long blond wig, and a smile.
The alligator poked his snout into Hunter's face.
"That woman's got guts," he said. "Nobody's pulled a stunt like that since Eleanor of Aquitaine rode naked to the Crusades."
"She's remarkable, all right."
"She has quite a reputation, you know." The man's fat lips drooled into his alligator teeth. "I think I’ll go over there and try my luck with her."
Hunter stepped forward and planted his boot on the alligator's tail. When the man moved, he lost the whole backside of his costume.
"What the devil . . . ?"
"I think you just lost your tail," Hunter said. "Better go upstairs and make repairs."
He chuckled as the man waddled off, his round behind heaving to and fro in his exposed red boxer shorts.
The Indian next to Hunter laughed. "I saw what you did. The pompous old geezer deserved every bit of it. He's a fortune hunter."
"I never did trust a man who wears boxer shorts,"
He left the Indian to fight his way through the crowd that surrounded Mattie.
The instant the broad-shouldered pirate stepped into her circle of admirers, Mattie knew it was Hunter. Even if his untamed hair hadn't given him away, the fierce black eyes would have. They fairly sizzled behind his mask.
She tried to still the jackhammer rhythm of her heart as she unconsciously smoothed the long wig over her breasts.
Hunter caught the horse's bridle. "If it isn't the shocking Miss Mattie Houston," he drawled.
His voice made shivers crawl up her legs. The horse sensed her excitement and danced nervously in place.
"Do I shock you, Hunter?" she asked.
"On the contrary. You delight me."
The group of admirers sensed that something private was going on between Lady Godiva and the big pirate. They gathered their feathered fans and broadswords and side arms and faded into the background.
"I thought you wanted a sweet, innocent woman," Mattie said.
"Sweet and innocent, sinful and wicked. I don't give a damn, Mattie." He moved closer, so that he could caress her leg. "I want whatever you are. You can take that ridiculous wig off and parade stark naked through the streets of Paris, for all I care. I'd be waiting to apply the sunburn lotion when you got off the horse."
In spite of his words, Mattie clung stubbornly to the notion that she could drive him away if only she were wicked enough.
"You haven't seen anything yet," she said. "Jean-Louis's parties get really raunchy. I’ll probably throw this wig in the fountain and swing from the chandelier before the night's over."
"I’ll be in a front-row seat applauding. I love a feisty woman."
She was not deterred. "Have you ever seen anybody dance wearing a Lady Godiva wig? It's a trick keeping all that hair in the right places."
"Don't you have to get off the horse first?" He reached up and circled her waist under all the false hair. "Let me help you down, Mattie."
"Don't you dare."
She kicked her heels into the horse's flank, and the horse lunged forward. She felt Hunter's grip loosen, felt the bump of his chest against her horse as she plunged into the crowd.
"Look out!" she yelled as she bore down on the zebra. The front of the zebra went north and the back went south as she surged between them. The horse was nervous in the crowd, and she hadn't ridden in three years. She crushed Tarzan's stuffed ape, squashed an Indian's peace pipe, and nearly crashed into the champagne fountain before she could get the horse to stop.
"Nice going, Mattie," Jean-Louis said, appearing at her side. "I can always count on you to keep a party good and lively."
"Thanks." She gathered the reins tightly and glanced back over her shoulder to see how Hunter was taking her departure. He wasn't there. She looked around the room, trying to spot the black-haired pirate. He was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she turned her attention back to her host.
Mattie would have needed X-ray vision to see Hunter. He was upstairs making a drastic costume change. He stood in his room, gloriously naked, wielding a huge pair of scissors he'd found in the Louis XIV desk.
"She wants me to be shocked, does she?" he muttered. "I’ll show her shocking.'"
He held up the remains of his green pirate's cape.
"Not bad."
He measured it for size.
"Just about right."
He tied his costume in place and inspected it in the pier mirror, then laughed at the ridiculous figure he cut.
"A little too much ventilation."
As he pondered the problem, he remembered seeing a tipsy sixteenth-century French courtier in the hallway. He stepped outside and caught the man just as he was entering a bedroom down the hall.
"I need to borrow your tights," Hunter said.
The man lurched against the wall and inspected Hunter. "You cher-tain-ly do." He tugged on Hunter's arm. "Here, man." He stripped off the tights and handed them to Hunter. "I won't be needing theshe much longer anyhow."
Hunter returned to his bedroom, pulled on the pale tights, and went downstairs grinning.
His entrance was not as dramatic as Mattie's, but it certainly didn't go unnoticed. A white-haired woman in a pink Barbara Cartland costume dropped her champagne glass.
"Great Caesar's ghost!" she said. "Where'd you get that big . . fig leaf?"
"Texas. Everything grows big in Texas."
The people who had been alerted by the shattering of the champagne glass heard the exchange and roared with laughter. That sound caught Mattie's attention. She carefully made her way toward the source.
She nearly fell off her horse when she saw Hunter. Two very nicely shaped, very big fig leaves were tied, front and back, over his groin and butt. Except for the tights, which left little to the imagination, the rest of him was as gorgeously naked as if he'd stepped from the shower. Her chuckle started as a smile and grew into a gale of laughter that made her double over the horse's mane.
Hunter was immediately beside her.
"Are you ready to dance now, Mattie?"
She sat up and wiped tears of laughter off her cheeks. "Dance? Are you crazy?"
"You wanted to be shocking." He pulled her off the horse. "I'm helping you out."
Her heavy wig tipped dangerously and the amber light glittered in his eyes.
Mattie studied his face as she hastily readjusted her false hair. He looked as stubborn as she felt. Furthermore, he was gripping her waist in a way that said he had no intention of letting go.
She rebounded in typical Mattie fashion.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered into his ear, "Do you want to see what I can do to a fig leaf?"
"If it's more than Eve did in the garden, I'm in trouble."
Pressed close to him, her false hair and his fig leaf were no protection at all.
"One more move like that," he said, "and the front of this costume will be airborne."
He pulled her tightly against him and led her smoothly into a dance to the slow, sultry music.
"Jazz," he murmured against her hair. "It always reminds me of you."
Being in his arms made her forgetful. Nothing could ever go wrong in Hunter's arms, she thought. She wished the music would never stop. She wished the night would never end.
She was stunningly aware of their scanty attire. As they danced, desire spiraled through her so fiercely, her knees would have buckled if Hunter hadn't been holding her so tightly. She had to trust her natural sense of rhythm to get her through the dance, for her mind had ceased to function.
"What's the name of this song, Mattie?"
"Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man. Gershwin. A tune from Showboat."
"Does it last two or three hours?"
"No. Why?"
"It's going to be that long before I can get this fig leaf to behave."
"Just keep dancing, Hunter."
He chuckled softly. "I love it when you're breathless, Mattie."
"I am not."
"Yes, you are. It reminds me of the night we decided to go for a moonlight swim. Remember that game of water tag we started?"
She remembered. It had been near the beginning of the summer, when their awareness of each other had been so keen that every glance, every movement, every word, had been magnified.
Remembering, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Keep dancing, Hunter," she whispered. "Don't let the music stop."
"I won't."
They danced through two sets and one intermission, never letting go. They might have solved their problems simply by holding each other if it hadn't been for the horse.
Suddenly Mattie came out of her dreamlike trance. "Good grief. My horse just took a bite of Helen Montague's grass skirt."
"I noticed some time back that she needed tying."
"Helen or the horse?"
"Both. The horse was nibbling Julius Caesar's wig and Helen was nibbling his . . . canapes."
Mattie was grateful for Hunter's easy wit. It helped dispel some of the mesmerizing power of his presence. She pulled out of his arms.
"I think the music has ended, Hunter."
She glanced around the room for the horse, for Jean-Louis, for anything that would take her attention away from Hunter.
"You told me not to let it stop," he said.
His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look up. She caught her breath. Being in the path of those eyes was like being in a steam bath. And the sooner she got out, the sooner she'd be saved from a heat stroke.
"Did I say that, Hunter? It was temporary madness. Jean-Louis's parties always affect me that way."
"Don't do that, Mattie."
"What?"
"Pretend. I'm the man you love, and you keep pretending that I don't exist." He caught her hands and rubbed them across his bare chest. "Feel that, Mattie. I'm real. I exist. All the pretense in the world won't make me vanish."
"I don't want you to vanish. I just want you to go back to Dallas and leave me alone."
"Is that really what you want?"
Her hands trembled on his chest. The beat of his heart sounded like the march of time. Each stroke ticked off another irretrievable moment. Each pulse marked an empty interval without the man she loved.
She hesitated. Was she making a mistake? Was pushing him away the answer to her problems? She wished she had the gift of foresight. She wished she had his confidence that time would heal her wounds. But at the moment all she had were a set of jumbled emotions and not enough feelings to go around. In order to survive, she had to be stingy. She had to protect her spirit. She couldn't afford to expend emotions on Hunter or anybody else. Getting through one day at a time was her main objective at the moment.
"Go," she said. The word was barely a whisper, and she hoped it would be effective.
He lifted her hands to his lips.
"I'll go," he said. "For now."
As she watched him walk away she thought that he was the only man alive who could make a fig leaf look dignified. With that magnificent, burnished body he could have walked across the ballroom stark naked and made everybody else feel overdressed.
Hunter had class—and she was letting him go. A sudden panic seized her, and she opened her mouth to call him back. But something stopped her. Call it pride, call it cowardice, call it fear. Whatever it was, it stilled her cry. The moment was lost. Hunter disappeared from the ballroom, and Mattie went in search of her horse.
o0o
The way Hunter sat on a horse should be declared illegal, Mattie decided. She tried to pay attention to Jean-Louis. She tried to care about what he was saying. But she couldn't keep her eyes off Hunter. In their skintight jeans, his muscular legs hugged the black stallion's sides. His chest, bared by the unbuttoned white shirt, gleamed in the sunlight and looked as powerful as the horse he rode.
Three other riders were lined up beside him, waiting for the race to begin, but in Mattie's eyes there was only Hunter. She was sitting in the end seat of the fifth row, and she nearly fell off trying to get a better view.
Jean-Louis stood up and walked to the microphone. "Gentlemen, select your colors."
Mattie watched as the three other riders rode up to the bleachers. Three eager women came forward and tied their scarves around the riders' upper arms. Hunter remained at the starting line.
Jean-Louis spoke into the microphone once more. "Select your colors."
A smile of pure devilment lit Hunter's face as he nudged his horse forward. With the nonchalance of a postman picking up the mail, he rode up to the bleachers and scooped Mattie into his arms. Pressed tightly to his body, she felt as if she'd tumbled into an inferno.
Jean-Louis was not pleased. "I said, select your colors."
Hunter settled her into the saddle in front of him and stroked her hair. "These are my colors."
She felt branded. His hand on her hair, his chest against her back, his legs brushing hers—all were forever imprinted on her. Her breathing became rapid. She wondered why Paris in the summertime had never been this scorching before.
"You can't race with her in the saddle," Jean-Louis said. "The extra weight will handicap you. You'll never win."
"I’ll take my chances," Hunter said as he walked the horse back to the starting line.
"This is insanity," Mattie said.
"This is brilliant," Hunter told her.
Jean-Louis's face was tight as he glanced once more at his determined guest. "You know the rules," he said into the microphone. "Cross country. The course is well marked. No shortcuts. No using the crop. May the best man win."
"You’ll never win like this, you know," Mattie told Hunter.
He tightened his arms around her. "I've already won."
The starting gun sounded, and Mattie felt the black stallion lunge forward. The wind whipped her hair back from her face as they galloped past the other three riders. The big stallion was powerful, and he soon outdistanced the other horses.
As they raced across the open fields and into the woods, Mattie realized that Hunter wasn't pacing the horse. He was giving him his head. Suddenly they veered off the marked course. Low-hanging branches impeded their progress, and Hunter reined the stallion down to a trot.
"This is not the course," Mattie said.
He chuckled. "It's the course I've planned."
"You don't even know where you are. We’ll get lost."
"I paid Jean-Louis's stable boy a handsome sum to give me a private tour of the estate. We’ll be lost only as long as I want us to be."
"You should have been a pirate, Hunter. Kidnapping is your style."
He laughed. "I thought you came willingly."
"I did not."
"You slid into this saddle as if you'd been waiting for the chance."
She ignored the remark and concentrated on the scenery. It was easy to do. The woods on Jean-Louis's estate were lush and well cared for. Clean-cut riding trails wound through the forest. Here and there sunlight filtered through the thick trees, illuminating patches of yellow and purple wild flowers.
Hunter reined to a stop beside a small stream. He slid from the saddle and smiled up at Mattie.
"Are you coming, princess?"
"Why are we stopping?"
"Can't you guess?"
"I don't even want to try. I want to go back to the house."
"Not yet." He reached up and plucked her from the saddle. "First this."
With the swiftness of a nighthawk, his lips crushed down on hers. Her mouth parted to receive his tongue. She was willing. She was eager. She was flame. Nothing was heard in the silent woods except her soft moan of surrender.
Hunter devoured her. He commanded. He conquered. The soft carpet of grass received them as he lowered her to the ground. His hands shaped her body, memorizing the curves, exploring her sweet, secret places. She was his Mattie, his summer girl, his jazz, and he was intoxicated.
Mattie gloried in his touch. With her skirt bunched around her waist and her blouse gaping open, she writhed upon the grass. The splendor of Hunter filled her vision. He was dark and vivid and real. He was her passion, her dream, her love. And he was lost to her.
Like a knife to the heart, Victoria intruded. Her gaiety, her beauty, her pretty words, her final treachery, washed over Mattie, and she went slack in Hunter's arms.
He sensed the change immediately. His arms tensed and his jaw clenched as he silently raged against Victoria. The passion ebbed from him as he tenderly cradled Mattie against his chest.
"It's all right, my love," he crooned. "I'm here."
For a while she clung to him, burying her face against his chest. It felt so safe, so good, she almost let go. But Mattie was stubborn, strong-willed, and determined. She pulled herself back and straightened her blouse.
"I won't take your charity. Hunter."
"This not charity. It’s love."
The black stallion, that had been peacefully cropping grass nearby, flared his nostrils and pawed the ground.
Mattie turned to look at the stallion. "Now, see what you've done to the horse."
"Forget the horse. Look at me, Mattie."
She swung her head back around. Her eyes were as shiny as emeralds under the sun, bright with anger and love and fear.
"Don't you see, Hunter? Right now I'm empty. I feel unloved, rejected, betrayed. I can't deal with you and my mother at the same time."
He gazed off across the valley. He knew she felt those things. He knew she wanted to be alone, to work out her problem by herself. But he was afraid. Time and distance had played havoc with their lives once before. He wasn't willing to risk another ten years of loneliness.
With that resolution made, he turned to face her. "I won't let you go, Mattie."
She could tell by the way the amber light burning his black eyes that he meant it. She could tell by the set of his square jaw, the thrust of his shoulders.
Excitement rose in her, hot and bright. It leaped in her heart, spilled through her veins. Victoria was gone. There was nothing now except Hunter.
But just when she would have reached for him, the flame of excitement burned low, and on its heels came despair. Her hatred of her mother was still there. Dreams couldn't be built on hate. It would haunt, distort, destroy.
Helpless rage filled her heart, and tears filled her eyes.
"Your not letting me go isn't love, Hunter. It's captivity." She jumped up, her fists clenched. "I will have no part of it." She turned her back on him and strode to the horse.
Hunter's jaw tightened. She had disappeared into her impenetrable shell again. The cold winds of despair blew against his heart, and he lashed out, as much against the hopelessness as against Mattie.
"Love!" he said. "How can you turn your back on me and talk about love? You don't know a thing about it, Mattie. You're too busy playing ostrich."
She whirled on him. "I am not burying my head in the sand. I see clearly, and what I see makes me sick! I'm being used, Hunter. Used. All my mother wanted was a little girl who would never grow up and make her feel old."
She stalked around the stallion as she talked, waving her fists at the sky.
"And all you want is somebody to satisfy your libido and warm your lonesome bed." She flung herself into the saddle. "If you're going back to the Rameau estate, you'd better climb on."
"And put up with that stiff-necked, stubborn pride all the way back? No, thank you, Mattie. I’ll walk."
She dug her heels into the stallion's flanks, and together they plunged through the forest.
Hunter watched them go. In spite of his anger, he noticed that her seat was firm and her grip on the reins sure. Mattie had always been a good horsewoman. There was no danger that she'd hurt herself.
He unclenched his hands and rammed them into his pockets. God, how he loved her!
With that thought, he started his long walk back to the estate.
o0o
Mattie was still breathless with anger when she arrived at the stables. She flung the reins to the startled groom and ran toward the house. Getting away was uppermost in her mind.
"Jean-Louis," she called as she entered the house.
He came from the library, drink in hand, a smile on his face. He stopped smiling when he saw her. "What happened? You look like the wrath of Zeus."
"I'm leaving, Jean-Louis. I can't stay for the rest of the party."
"But Mattie—"
"There's no use arguing." Her foot was already on the staircase.
"It's him, isn't it?" Jean-Louis asked. "That pirate on the black stallion? Who is he, Mattie?"
"Somebody I used to love." She clutched the newel post. She felt faint. She had to leave before Hunter got back. She couldn't risk seeing him again.
Jean-Louis took her arm. "Let me help you to your room. I’ll have Clara bring you a glass of wine. Then we’ll talk about everything."
"Just send Clara to help me pack, Jean-Louis, and order a car. I want to leave as quickly as possible."
o0o
Mattie didn't know how she got back to her apartment. She remembered nothing of the ride except the great ache in her chest. Her brain felt too big for her head and her arms were heavy. She looked at the unopened bags in the middle of her living room. She didn't even know how long she'd been back, how long she'd been standing there.
She moved slowly through her apartment, touching her furniture, straightening pictures on the wall, seeking assurance from her possessions that she was real.
Her piano gleamed through the evening shadows. She wondered when the night had fallen.
She sought solace in her music. She sat down at the piano and ran her hands lightly over the keyboard. They moved automatically into a melody. Its haunting beauty soothed her soul, restored her spirit. And when it was over, tears streamed down her face.
"Oh, Hunter! How can I let you go?"
Her bright hair fell across the ivories as she lowered her head to her hands. The hopelessness that had imprisoned her poured out in a heartbreaking wail. She cried for lost youth and lost innocence. She cried for lost dreams and lost happiness. She cried for Hunter, for herself, for Victoria. And when the tears had ceased she felt cleansed.
She rose from the piano bench, chin high and purpose lighting her eyes. Her steps carried her into her spare bedroom, the one Victoria and William had always used when they came to visit. She pushed open the door. The room smelled musty, like memories too long untouched.
She flipped on the light switch. The dust covers she had draped over the furniture after her parents had been killed in a car accident looked morbid and out of place. She jerked them off and tossed them into the closet. Then she sat down on the stool in front of the dressing table and picked up the few personal items there that had belonged to her mother—Victoria's gold dresser set, her cut-crystal perfume bottles, her ivory-inlaid powder box. All were the trappings of a vain woman, a woman obsessed with youth and beauty, and all of them felt cold and empty in Mattie's hands.
She opened the dressing-table drawer and pulled out a box of things that had belonged to her father. His favorite book of poetry, Sunset Gun, was on top. She smiled. That her generous and gentle father had loved the sharp, cynical verse of Dorothy Parker had always amused her. Could it be that he had admired the woman's way of cutting through to the truth of a matter?
As Mattie held the volume in her hands she realized that she'd never really known her father. He was such a sweet, easygoing man, always polite, always sitting quietly by, basking in the overshadowing beauty and vitality of his wife.
Had he known Victoria was selfish and vicious? Mattie wondered. Had he known she'd loved nobody but herself? How had he coped with it? How had he lived with that terrible knowledge? She delved through William's personal belongings—the pocket knife, the watch on a gold chain, the leather bookmark—until she found what she sought. Her father's diary. She'd never read it, had never wanted to read it until now.
It was locked. She searched the box for a key. Finding none, she took her father's pocket knife and pried open the rusty lock. The brittle pages crackled in protest as she turned to the first entry.
Her hair fell across her cheeks as she bent over the diary. She read the first entries quickly. They were bright, cheerful accounts of his courtship of Victoria and the early years of his marriage. She smiled when she read his account of her birth. The way he told it, he was the first man in the world to have fathered a daughter.
The entries then became skimpy. Months were skipped. A whole year was missing. The tone of the entries changed too. Gone was the cheerfulness, the joy. An occasional burst of happiness would shine through when he wrote about Mattie, but his references to Victoria were brief and strained, more like an appointment calendar than a diary.
Mattie set the book on the dressing table and rubbed her neck. Sitting on the stool had made her tense. At least, that was what she told herself.
She left the diary and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She lingered over the tea-making as long as she could, measuring just the right amount of sugar, slicing the lemon just so. Then she carried her china teacup back into the spare bedroom.
She walked the floor, sipping her tea and watching the diary as if it might jump off the table and bite her. When she began to feel ridiculous and cowardly, she picked it up and carried it into her sitting room.
She took an inordinate amount of time arranging her teacup on the table beside her, plumping sofa pillows, and wiggling around until she had achieved the exact amount of comfort she desired. Then she opened the diary again.
Quickly she skimmed the next few short entries. Nothing important there. Suddenly she stiffened. William's thin, spidery writing began to fill the pages again. The entries were lengthy and detailed, and the tone was bleak.
Mattie's hands trembled as she read the words her father had written about her mother. I know, the first long entry said. I know about Victoria's men. All these years I told myself they were harmless flirtations, silly amusements of a lively woman. But I saw them today, that new cameraman and Victoria. I went to the studio early. She'd be working late, doing magazine layouts, she'd said. Lies! It was all lies. They were together on the set, arms and legs entangled, lips devouring each other, their cries enough to destroy my soul. I felt an urge to kill. Instead I stepped back into the shadows and watched, hoping it was somebody else, hoping I'd been wrong. I wasn't. It was my wife, my beautiful, vivacious, glorious wife, heart of my heart and soul of my soul. Sick. I walked out the door.
Mattie closed her eyes. She thought she might be ill. She started to fling the diary away, then she made herself continue reading. It was time to face the truth. She wouldn't let Victoria turn her into a shadow, the way she had William.
I guess I've known all these years, William's next entry read. The way my father looks at me sometimes, with sadness and pity. How I hate the pity. He's polite to Victoria, but I see the contempt he tries to hide behind good manners. He doesn't understand. He doesn't know the real woman I love. Victoria is like a little child. She's vain and spoiled and petted, but underneath she's scared. Sometimes when she curls up in my lap, she tells me that she's afraid to grow old. In her world, the world of poverty that I took her away from, old people are shunted off to horrible places and left to die. Sometimes she tells me that her beauty is her salvation. It got her out of the slums and it's all that keeps her out of the gutter. I cringe when she says that. How close she is to the truth! She gets out of my lap and strips off her clothes. Her body is perfection. "Look at me," she says. "Tell me I'm not getting flabby and old. Tell me I could make a living with this body if I had to." She won't believe she has nothing to worry about. She won't see that we're rich. Sometimes she sees the hurt in my face. Then she falls on her knees and puts her head in my lap. "William, you're the only man I’ll ever love. The only one." I believe her. "What would I do without you and Mattie?" she says. "My Mattie. I love you both more than life itself. Don't ever leave me, William." I won't. She does love us. As much as she is capable, she loves Mattie and me. I assure her I won't leave her. Why can't she believe me? Why can't she trust my love?
Mattie laid the open diary on the table and picked up her teacup. The tea was cold. She didn't care. She'd seen the words. Her father would never lie. Her mother had loved her. She set down the cup and picked the diary up again. The next entry was short.
I wish I could fill the great void inside Victoria. I wish I knew how to stop the ache that makes her continue to reach out to other men. But she can't stop. It's a sickness that consumes her. All I can do is forgive, and try to understand, and to keep on loving her, loving my beautiful, flawed Victoria. Sometimes I think my sanity hinges on this truth: We forgive those we love.
That truth shouted out to Mattie. It rose from the silent pages and resounded in the quiet room. It was the answer. It was the key for closing the door on Mattie's past and unlocking the one on her future.
We forgive those we love.
Her father's serenity had been real, for he'd learned the art of forgiveness.
She closed the book and placed it on the table. Just as she'd once forgiven Hunter for what she thought he'd done, she must now forgive her mother. That was much harder. It meant admitting Victoria's guilt, seeing her clay feet.
Mattie jumped up and paced the floor, stopping every now and then to take a sip of cold tea. Tension coiled in her and made the back of her neck ache. She longed to go to her piano. She longed to drown herself in the forgetfulness of music. But determination held her back. Her future was at stake. If she didn't face this truth now, she never would.
The thought frightened her. What if she refused to acknowledge Hunter's love, just as Victoria had refused to acknowledge William's? Would she then truly become like Victoria, loose and amoral?
Mattie lost track of time. The moon trailed across the sky, and the rest of Paris slept in the shrouded darkness of apartments and homes. But in Mattie's apartment the lights stayed on and the teapot stayed warm. She drank fresh tea and paced the floor, thinking, thinking of William's love for Victoria, thinking of forgiveness. And at last the heavy burden was lifted from her heart. Scrunched in the corner of her sofa with yet another cup of tea in her hands, she forgave her mother. She accepted Victoria's flaws, her betrayal, her limited capacity for love.
On the heels of acceptance came the good memories—the time she'd cried because her strawberry ice cream had fallen from the cone onto the sidewalk and Victoria had hired the ice cream vendor to bring his wagon to their house every day for the rest of the summer so she'd never be out of strawberry ice cream, the champagne party Victoria had given in celebration of her first concert, the real pride she'd taken in Mattie's talent.
The teacup rattled against the saucer as Mattie set it on the table. Her head slumped back onto the sofa cushions and she slept.
Mattie squinted against the bright light pouring into the room. Her head ached, her back felt stiff, and her tongue was dry. She decided twenty-eight was too old. She lay on the sofa, glaring at the morning light and wishing the day would go away. Then her gaze fell on the diary. Energy surged through her, and she decided the day was wonderful after all. She smiled at the sun, she smiled at the diary, and she even smiled about her headache.
Mattie moved with unusual haste for someone who hated mornings. She had to call Hunter. Halfway across the room, she stopped. What would she say to him?
I've forgiven my mother? I've finally made peace with the past? That sounded so trite. How could words make up for all the hurt?
She didn't even know where he was. She'd left him stranded in the woods on Jean-Louis's estate. For all she knew, he'd gone back to Dallas. And she wouldn't have blamed him if he had. Heaven knows, she'd been abominable.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. Indecision and the possibility of losing Hunter almost overwhelmed her. As always when she was troubled, she sought solace in her music. Her hands touched the keyboard, tentatively at first and then with increasing confidence. The music soothed her soul, restored her spirit.
Finally, she knew what she must do. No mere phone calls for her. She and Hunter had always done things on a grand scale. It was only fitting that they should begin a lifetime together in the same grand style.
She rose from the piano and made a few discreet phone calls. She felt like bending down and kissing the ground when she discovered that Hunter was still in Paris. Smiling, she put the rest of her plan into action.
o0o
The invitation was delivered to Hunter on a silver tray.
When he had first heard the knock on his hotel door, he'd been tempted to roll over in bed and ignore it. But some sixth sense had told him to answer the door. Now he was glad he had. He wouldn't have missed this show for anything in the world. The messenger boy looked like someone straight out of King Arthur's court. Hunter decided he must be hot as hell in all that armor.
He opened the gilt-edged envelope. One eyebrow cocked upward as he read the invitation. He was to be the guest of honor at a Mattie Houston concert, was he? Was it to be her finale? Her way of saying goodbye? His jaw clenched at the thought. Not if he could prevent it, he decided.
The messenger boy interrupted his thoughts. "I'm to bring back a reply, sir."
"Tell the lady ..." Hunter paused, smiling. Such an elaborate invitation deserved an elaborate reply. He crossed the room and rummaged around in his suitcase until he found what he wanted—a teddy bear. Hastily he scribbled a note and tied it to the ribbon around the bear's neck.
"Don't tell the lady anything. Give her this."
o0o
Mattie had already read the note three times. Hugging the teddy bear, she read it again. "Be careful, Mattie. Bears eat people."
Her hand clenched the note. "Please let this mean what I think it does," she prayed aloud. "Please let Hunter still be my teddy bear man."
She lifted her head in a regal gesture. Hunter was coming. That was all she needed to know. She'd won him twice. She could do it a third time.
Placing the teddy bear on her bedside table, she began her preparations for the very special concert.
o0o
Mattie shimmered when she walked onstage. Her fire-and-gold hair was swept up and caught with a diamond clasp. The champagne-colored bugle beads on her dress—the one Hunter loved—shot prisms of light around her.
She was proud, elegant, poised. She was Mattie Houston, queen of jazz. Turning toward the audience, she smiled.
Hunter's hopes soared. The smile was for him, and him alone. He swiveled his head to assure himself that he was correct. A sea of empty seats met his gaze. He was not only the guest of honor; he was the only guest. There was no doorman, no box-office manager. He glanced upward. There was nobody working the lights. He and Mattie were completely alone in the concert hall.
He leaned forward in his seat as she began her first song. The melody seemed to flow from her. She leaned over the piano, caressing the keys. Her body moved with the rhythm. She was beauty, she was magic, she was music.
And the song she played was Summer Wind.
Every note vibrated in Hunter's heart. It was their song. This wasn't good-bye. It was hello. It was commitment. It was forgiveness. It was the future.
He had to restrain himself from running onstage and taking her in his arms. He had to be sure this time. He settled back in his seat. A lifetime couldn't be built on a song. He would wait.
When the song ended, Mattie rose from the piano bench and bowed.
Hunter clapped. The sound was hollow in the almost-empty auditorium.
Mattie stood onstage and waited. Her heart was hammering so against her rib cage, she could barely breathe. He would come forward now, she thought. The song was significant. He would know.
Hunter's fists clenched as he sat in his seat, waiting.
She shaded her eyes against the spotlight. "Hunter? Are you still out there?"
"I'm here, Mattie."
"The song was for you."
"Was it?"
She stilled the panic that rose in her. She would not lose Hunter now. "It's our song, Hunter. It's always been our song."
"We can't build a marriage on a song." Still quelling his urge to run onstage, he stood and faced her. "That is what you're talking about, isn't it? Marriage? A lifetime commitment?"
"Yes."
"Then say the words."
Waiting, they faced each other across the vast emptiness—the teddy bear man and his summer jazz woman. Hunter's face softened.
"I loved the clever way you had the invitation delivered, Mattie. I love being the only guest at a special concert. But no more games. Just the truth."
"I've reconciled myself to the past, Hunter. I read Daddy's diary. It made so many things clear. I've forgiven my mother. I've forgiven myself for all the wasted, empty years." She took a step forward. "I love you, Hunter, and I'll never, ever forget that again." She took another step, and another. "I need you, Hunter."
He was already in the aisle, and then they were both running toward each other. Hunter was quicker. He caught Mattie on the steps of the proscenium.
"I've waited a lifetime to hear you say that," he said as he hugged her to his chest. His lips were in her hair, on her cheek, on her throat. "I’ll never let you go again."
She clung to him, smiling. "Remember that summer ten years ago? This is the end of our dreams, Hunter."
He lifted his head and smiled at her.
"The end?" His mouth covered hers, and after a very long time he looked at her again. "Mattie, the dream is just beginning."
He scooped her into his arms and carried her back up the steps. "The prelude was yours. The encore is going to be mine."
He set her on her feet and reached for her zipper.
She smiled as the dress landed in a shimmering heap at her feet. "Onstage, Hunter?"
He pulled her back into his arms. "I've always wanted to be the star of your show."
Her hips rubbed against his. "You call that a star? I'd call it—"
He lowered her to the stage floor. "Be quiet or you'll miss the music."
o0o