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“I know. Here, blow your nose.”
Freddie complied, then settled her head on Natasha’s breast. She sighed, finding it pleasantly different from her father’s hard chest or Vera’s cushy one. “I went to the doctor and got medicine, so I can’t go to my Brownie meeting tomorrow.”
“There’ll be other meetings, as soon as the medicine makes you well.”
“I have chicken pox,” Freddie announced, torn between discomfort and pride. “And I’m hot and itchy.”
“It’s a silly thing, the chicken pox,” Natasha said soothingly. She tucked Freddie’s tousled hair behind one ear. “I don’t think chickens get it at all.”
Freddie’s lips turned up, just a little. “JoBeth had it last week, and so did Mikey. Now I can’t have a birthday party.”
“You’ll have a party later, when everyone’s well again.”
“That’s what Daddy said.” A fresh tear trailed down her cheek. “It’s not the same.”
“No, but sometimes not the same is even better.”
Curious, Freddie watched the light glint off the gold hoop in Natasha’s ear. “How?”
“It gives you more time to think about how much fun you’ll have. Would you like to rock?”
“I’m too big to rock.”
“I’m not.” Wrapping Freddie in a blanket, Natasha carried her to the white wicker rocker. She cleared it of stuffed animals, then tucked one particularly worn rabbit in Freddie’s arms. “When I was a little girl and I was sick, my mother would always rock me in this big, squeaky chair we had by the window. She would sing me songs. No matter how bad I felt, when she rocked me I felt better.”
“My mother didn’t rock me.” Freddie’s head was aching, and she wanted badly to pop a comforting thumb into her mouth. She knew she was too old for that. “She didn’t like me.”
“That’s not true.” Natasha instinctively tightened her arms around the child. “I’m sure she loved you very much.”
“She wanted my daddy to send me away.”
At a loss, Natasha lowered her cheek to the top of Freddie’s head. What could she say now? Freddie’s words had been too matter-of-fact to dismiss as a fantasy. “People sometimes say things they don’t mean, and that they regret very much. Did your daddy send you away?”
“No.”
“There, you see?”
“Do you like me?”
“Of course I do.” She rocked gently, to and fro. “I like you very much.”
The movement, the soft female scent and voice lulled Freddie. “Why don’t you have a little girl?”
The pain was there, deep and dull. Natasha closed her eyes against it. “Perhaps one day I will.”
Freddie tangled her fingers in Natasha’s hair, comforted. “Will you sing, like your mother did?”
“Yes. And you try to sleep.”
“Don’t go.”
“No, I’ll stay awhile.”
Spence watched them from the doorway. In the shadowed light they looked achingly beautiful, the tiny, flaxen-haired child in the arms of the dark, golden-skinned woman. The rocker whispered as it moved back and forth while Natasha sang some old Ukrainian folk song from her own childhood.
It moved him as completely, as uniquely as holding the woman in his own arms had moved him. And yet so differently, so quietly that he wanted to stand just as he was, watching through the night.
Natasha looked up and saw him. He looked so frazzled that she had to smile.
“She’s sleeping now.”
If his legs were weak, he hoped it was because he’d climbed up and down the stairs countless times in the last twenty-four hours. Giving in to them, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
He studied his daughter’s flushed face, nestled peacefully in the crook of Natasha’s arm. “It’s supposed to get worse before it gets better.”
“Yes, it does.” She stroked a hand down Freddie’s hair. “We all had it when we were children. Amazingly, we all survived.”
He blew out a long breath. “I guess I’m being an idiot.”
“No, you’re very sweet.” She watched him as she continued to rock, wondering how difficult it had been for him to raise a baby without a mother’s love. Difficult enough, she decided, that he deserved credit for seeing that his daughter was happy, secure and unafraid to love. She smiled again.
“Whenever one of us was sick as children, and still today, my father would badger the doctor, then he would go to church to light candles. After that he would say this old gypsy chant he’d learned from his grandmother. It’s covering all the bases.”
“So far I’ve badgered the doctor.” Spence managed a smile of his own. “You wouldn’t happen to remember that chant?”
“I’ll say it for you.” Carefully she rose, lifting Freddie in her arms. “Should I lay her down?”
“Thanks.” Together they tucked in the blankets. “I mean it.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked over the sleeping child, and though her smile was easy, she was beginning to feel awkward. “I should go. Parents of sick children need their rest.”
“At least I can offer you a drink.” He held up the glass. “How about some Kool Aid? It’s the blue kind.”
“I think I’ll pass.” She moved around the bed toward the door. “When the fever breaks, she’ll be bored. Then you’ll really have your work cut out for you.”
“How about some pointers?” He took Natasha’s hand as they started down the steps.
“Crayons. New ones. The best is usually the simplest.”
“How is it someone like you doesn’t have a horde of children of her own?” He didn’t have to feel her stiffen to know he’d said the wrong thing. He could see the sorrow come and go in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No need.” Recovered, she picked up her coat from where she’d laid it on the newel post. “I’d like to come and see Freddie again, if it’s all right.”
He took her coat and set it down again. “If you won’t take the blue stuff, how about some tea? I could use the company.”
“All right.”
“I’ll just—” He turned and nearly collided with Vera.
“I will fix the tea,” she said after a last look at Natasha.
“Your housekeeper thinks I have designs on you.”
“I hope you won’t disappoint her,” Spence said as he led Natasha into the music room.
“I’m afraid I must disappoint both of you.” Then she laughed and wandered to the piano. “But you should be very busy. All the young women in college talk about Dr. Kimball.” She tucked her tongue into her cheek. “You’re a hunk, Spence. Popular opinion is equally divided between you and the captain of the football team.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. But it’s fun to embarrass you.” She sat and ran her fingers over the keys. “Do you compose here?”
“I did once.”
“It’s wrong of you not to write.” She played a series of chords. “Art’s more than a privilege. It’s a responsibility.” She searched for the melody, then with a sound of impatience shook her head. “I can’t play. I was too old when I tried to learn.”
He liked the way she looked sitting there, her hair falling over her shoulders, half curtaining her face, her fingers resting lightly on the keys of the piano he had played since childhood.
“If you want to learn, I’ll teach you.”
“I’d rather you write a song.” It was more than impulse, she thought. Tonight he looked as though he needed a friend. She smiled and held out a hand. “Here, with me.”
He glanced up as Vera carried in a tray. “Just set it there, Vera. Thank you.”
“You will want something else?”
He looked back at Natasha. Yes, he would want something else. He wanted it very much. “No. Good night.” He listened to the housekeeper’s shuffling steps. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you need to laugh. Come, write a song for me. It doesn’t have to be good.”
He did laugh. “You want me to write a bad song for you?”
“It can be a terrible song. When you play it for Freddie, she’ll hold her ears and giggle.”
“A bad song’s about all I can do these days.” But he was amused enough to sit down beside her. “If I do this, I have to have your solemn oath that it won’t be repeated for any of my students.”
“Cross my heart.”
He began to noodle with the keys, Natasha breaking in now and then to add her inspiration. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, Spence considered as he ran through some chords. No one would call it brilliant, but it had a certain primitive charm.
“Let me try.” Tossing back her hair, Natasha struggled to repeat the notes.
“Here.” As he sometimes did with his daughter, he put his hands over Natasha’s to guide them. The feeling, he realized, was entirely different. “Relax.” His murmur whispered beside her ear.
She only wished she could. “I hate to do poorly at anything,” she managed. With his palms firmly over her hands, she struggled to concentrate on the music.
“You’re doing fine.” Her hair, soft and fragrant, brushed his cheek.
As they bent over the keys, it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t played with the piano in years. Oh, he had played—Beethoven, Gershwin, Mozart and Bernstein, but hardly for fun…. It had been much too long since he had sat before the keys for entertainment.
“No, no, an A minor maybe.”
Natasha stubbornly hit a B major again. “I like this better.”
“It throws it off.”
“That’s the point.”
He grinned at her. “Want to collaborate?”
“You do better without me.”
“I don’t think so.” His grin faded; he cupped her face in one hand. “I really don’t think so.”
This wasn’t what she had intended. She had wanted to lighten his mood, to be his friend. She hadn’t wanted to stir these feelings in both of them, feelings they would be wiser to ignore. But they were there, pulsing. No matter how strong her will, she couldn’t deny them. Even the light touch of his fingers on her face made her ache, made her yearn, made her remember.
“The tea’s getting cold.” But she didn’t pull away, didn’t try to stand. When he leaned over to touch his mouth to hers, she only shut her eyes. “This can’t go anywhere,” she murmured.
“It already has.” His hand moved up her back, strong, possessive, in contrast with the light play of his lips. “I think about you all the time, about being with you, touching you. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.” Slowly he ran a hand down her throat, over her shoulder, along her arm until their fingers linked over the piano keys. “It’s like a thirst, Natasha, a constant thirst. And when I’m with you like this, I know it’s the same for you.”
She wanted to deny it, but his mouth was roaming hungrily over her face, taunting hers to tremble with need. And she did need, to be held like this, wanted like this. It had been easy in the past to pretend that being desired wasn’t necessary. No, she hadn’t had to pretend. Until now, until him, it had been true.
Now, suddenly, like a door opening, like a light being switched on, everything had changed. She yearned for him, and her blood swam faster, just knowing he wanted her. Even for a moment, she told herself as her hands clutched at his hair to pull his mouth to hers. Even for this moment.
It was there again, that whirlwind of sensation that erupted the instant they came together. Too fast, too hot, too real to be borne. Too stunning to be resisted.
It was as though he were the first, though he was not. It was as though he were the only one, though that could never be. As she poured herself into the kiss, she wished desperately that her life could begin again in that moment, with him.
There was more than passion here. The emotions that swirled inside her nearly swallowed him. There was desperation, fear and a bottomless generosity that left him dazed. Nothing would ever be simple again. Knowing it, a part of him tried to pull back, to think, to reason. But the taste of her, hot, potent, only drew him closer to the flame.
“Wait.” For the first time she admitted her own weakness and let her head rest against his shoulder. “This is too fast.”
“No.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “It’s taken years already.”
“Spence.” Struggling for balance, she straightened. “I don’t know what to do,” she said slowly, watching him. “It’s important for me to know what to do.”
“I think we can figure it out.” But when he reached for her again, she rose quickly and stepped away.
“This isn’t simple for me.” Unnerved, she pushed back her hair with both hands. “I know it might seem so, because of the way I respond to you. I know that it’s easier for men, less personal somehow.”
He rose very carefully, very deliberately. “Why don’t you explain that?”
“I only mean that I know that men find things like this less difficult to justify.”
“Justify,” he repeated, rocking back on his heels. How could he be angry so quickly, after being so bewitched? “You make this sound like some kind of crime.”
“I don’t always find the right words,” she snapped. “I’m not a college professor. I didn’t speak English until I was eight, couldn’t read it for longer than that.”
He checked his temper as he studied her. Her eyes were dark with something more than anger. She was standing stiffly, head up, but he couldn’t tell if her stand was one of pride or self-defense. “What does that have to do with anything?”
