Chapter 3
The next few days passed without incident. A curious stalemate was in force between Ken and Diana at home; there was the usual thought-blitzing flurry of activity at school. The night after the passionate typhoon between him and his wife he'd pressed for an encore. But Diana had shrugged him off, sent him a withering smile, said, "Really, Ken, I thought I took care of you for awhile. You're being greedy. Don't you know that's better for waiting?"
The old bitterness had been instantly rekindled.
"Damn," he snapped, "you act like it was some kind of reward you're handing out." He mocked her: " 'You've been such a good little boy lately, Kenny, I think I'll give you some tonight.' "
"Now stop," Diane had shot back, her eyes narrowing to hateful slits. "You know I don't like that kind of talk."
"Damn," he'd persisted, "What is wrong with you? I don't understand you at all. You treat me like some kind of stranger for months on end, and then for once in your life you really let loose. And that's the end all of a sudden." His voice softened. "You were so wonderful, darling. Can you blame me for wanting more of you? We were just like honeymooners again. Please, Diane...."
"I don't understand myself either, Ken. I've tried, but I can't. But I do know that's something I just can't bring up on command." She'd twisted away. "And also I know I don't enjoy post-mortems. Love is something you do, not talk about. If you could understand how you rile a woman when you men start to talking, talk-mg.. .
She'd got up from the davenport then, leaving Ken to his choking frustration while she got ready for bed.
Ken had sat watching TV for fifteen minutes more. He'd gone to their silent bedroom, undressed in the dark. He hadn't spoken to her or kissed her good night.
Neither had he slept very well.
Often, during those puzzling days, driven by remembrance of Diane's wanton relapse, he harked back to Dave Frazer's offer to fix him up with a "date". He found his mind invaded by thoughts of Tessa Vareese, even of Patti Conte. It was as if the wild session with his wife had reminded him of something long forgotten, had piqued his curiosity as to what varieties of emotion and sensation other women might be able to confer.
He watched Miss Vareese sway past his door with more intense concentration, his eyes all but mentally undressing her; he leaped upon every possible chance to draw out their brief, insolent conversations.
Damn you, Dave, he blamed. You started all this. You and your eternal love chatter.
There had been much salacious conjecture among the men on the Holcomb faculty about the nicely endowed newcomer. Many besides Dave Frazer had made a pitch and gotten nowhere. She dated, she was charming company. But as far as getting inside that apartment of hers, getting more than the warm, friendly handshake ... Yet they were all certain she was walking a tightrope. That one of these days someone would get to her. And that would be the last anyone would ever see of the unfortunate devil. All that would be found afterward would be charred cinders.
Which was all so much chin-rattle so far as Ken Baylor was concerned. The guys were making entirely too much of her caged sexuality, out of her bedroom inspired body out of her supposed inapproachability Tessa Vareese just wasn't that beautiful or that aloof a woman.
Again he wondered: If I were to become interested, do you suppose Tessa would become interested, too?
Where all others had failed, had come away skunked.. . .
Man the eternal optimist. And dreamer.
On Friday of that week, at four-fifteen, as he went into the school library to put reserves on a whole list of texts for a new history unit kicking off on Monday, he received partial, if inconclusive answer to his speculations. Miss Milly Bronson, the venerable and withered library head not being available, it fell on Tessa Vareese to attend him.
She was especially attractive that afternoon dressed in a white chiffon blouse, a cute vest and hip-cinching skirt, her shoes black kid, witchy, sharp-toed things. The late afternoon sun made her lips glisten, gave her eyes an especially provocative luminance.
"This book," she said, "Winston's History of The American West ... I'm not sure just which you mean. There are different editions, you know. Maybe you'd better come back in the stacks and check, for yourself." Prettily she lifted the gate to beckon him behind the long counter.
Baylor couldn't help but notice the perfume she wore. It was potent, inflaming stuff. He stood behind her as she stretched for a clutch of books; he saw the way her blouse all but split at the pressure of her taut, bursting breasts. Immediately uncontrollable things happened to him. He was seized by the most maddening impulse to snake his hand around her, to clamp both of those beautiful globes, to roll and squeeze them.
He fought the desire as he forced his eyes away. Still he was shaken. That perfume, that luscious body, the way we're all alone back here. Give me strength.
He attributed his feeling to the fact that it'd been a long week, that he was tired. When people get to the end of a day they're not responsible for the fantasies that hit them, that seem so real, so unquestionably possible.
"Here, Ken," she said softly, her eyes round, so liquid, a strange wistfulness in them, "look these over. I know some of the teachers here get sore if their kids don't get the exact book."
He barely glanced at the three volumes. "Put them all out. The course of study is pretty general. Any of them'll give them what they need."
How could he concentrate on musty books at a time like this? For wasn't it true that Tessa stood too close, her body half turned, almost as if inviting him to reach under her arms, cup and press those ripe melons? That her soft, electrifying touch lingered too long on his hand as she took the books back?
But if this were true, she was giving Baylor no chance to pursue his heady daydream any further. She wheeled and started out of the gloomy stacks. Putting the books under the counter, she smiled as she averted her gaze suddenly for no good reason. "That's the only question I have. I'll get the rest of these out later. They'll be ready on Monday."
"Well," he stammered, not wanting to leave, "I guess that's all. You run a mighty efficient library here, ma'am."
She was perkily confident again. "We aim to please." She shot an overly noisy student at one of the tables a warning glance. "Oh, by the way, have you checked the schedule for the music tournament yet? We're on together in the string section."
Baylor's heart leaped. "No kidding? How come the library staff gets rung in on a thing like that?"
"The library staff doesn't. But I do. I'm only here a year, remember? We peons have no rights at all."
"That's a tough break."
"It's not so bad. Strings I like. Even butchered strings like we'll hear tomorrow. You like music?"
"Yeah. But I don't know an awful lot about it."
"Stick with me," she mimed roguishly, "I'll teach you all I know."
"I'll do that little thing." And feeling like he'd been granted a reprieve of sorts, Ken sent a last smile back to Tessa. "See you," he called back.
He wondered why his pulse rate was up so alarmingly.
The music competition drew on ten neighboring schools from the Eagle River Valley, bringing in a large flow of students, casual observers and solicitous parents. It was just another of the many extra duties the harried American schoolteacher gets saddled with. After all, some one had to be on hand to keep order, to give directions, to marshal contestants. And so: Ken Baylor and Tessa Vareese.
The semi-finalists were on in the afternoon, the finalists were to gather at eight o'clock in the evening. The long leisurely day in which Baylor was going to talk to Tessa at length, get to know her better, never quite materialized. It seemed that one or the other, was constantly on the run, corralling lost contestants, carrying messages, directing equally lost judges and parents.
It wasn't until the evening competitions that things finally calmed down enough for them to really talk. Then, standing outside the classroom-converted-into-recital-hall, talking in muffled earnestness, Ken found that Tess did know a lot about music. About literature and the theater as well, the latter especially gratifying, as they were Ken's favorite topics of conversation.
He found time slipping away too quickly, wished that the competitions would last much, much longer. He dreaded the time when he'd be forced to say good night to Tessa. Then, almost before he knew how it had come about, he found himself blurting: "This's all so interesting, Tessa. I do enjoy talking to you. I wonder ... you won't think me forward I hope ... would you care to stop some place afterward? For a sandwich? Maybe couple of drinks?" He cloaked his invitation in humor "You are old enough to drink, aren't you?"
"Flatterer," she grinned kittenishly. "It's my favorite pastime." Her glance became teasing. "But I don't know whether I'd better. You are a married man, after all. If anyone saw us..."
"A drink," he said, an edge forming on his voice, "I didn't say anything about seducing you."
"My, you certainly don't mince words, do you?"
"Well, I just don't want you getting any wrong ideas."
Now that the words were out, Ken Baylor was more than a little abashed. Damn, who's this asking a woman other than my wife out? What'n hell's getting into you?
Yet he sensed a subtle bit of challenge. Wouldn't it be a laugh if she accepted? If something happened? Wouldn't I have one up on those other guys? Fear clutched him. But she won't accept. She can't.
But couldn't she? "All right, Ken," she replied gravely. "I've enjoyed this very much also. You're really a very interesting person. I'll be glad to join you. If you find a nice quiet place somewhere. Out of the way, where nobody'll know us."
"Yeah," Ken said weakly, the steam suddenly taken out of him, fear of scandal suddenly ignited within him. "I know a place about four miles out. Tony's Hideaway it's called." There was no backing out now.
"Sounds perfect. Maybe we could even dance a little. I haven't danced in ages. You like to dance, don't you?"
"Yeah," he gulped again. "I like dancing fine."
At first their conversation was strained, uneven. Huddled in a murky booth in the nethermost region of Tony's Hideaway, they sipped their drinks (Ken took Scotch, Tessa chose a Manhattan) with almost frenzied determination. Waiting impatiently for alcohol to free them from these initial inhibitions.
It was ten o'clock of a very noisy Saturday night, and there was some small comfort in the fact that the party crowd at Tony's, jammed into the subterranean gloom as they were, weren't about to notice anything or anybody. Gradually they both calmed down, laughed and joked more freely. A second drink consumed, a feeling of long established rapport and camaraderie growing between them, Ken felt no qualms at all about reaching across the table to take Tessa's soft hand, stroking it lightly.
The talk kept coming; delightful, revealing, filling them with an incredible ease. Tessa switched to whiskey and sour on the third round, her laughter very charming now.
Suddenly she rose, stood at the end of their table. "You said you'd dance with me, Ken," she said, "I've been waiting for you to ask. But since you aren't getting around to it...."
"Sorry," he said, rising quickly, feeling a quick stab of joy in his heart. She was such a sweet, playful thing. Kiddish almost. Yellow Bird was flooding the crowded room. He gathered Tessa into his arms, finding nothing at all strange in the way she pressed her body close, fitted against his. Her hand came up behind his head to pressure his neck; her silky cheek was pressed to his.
"Mmmmmm," was all she said.
She danced beautifully, following him with light, perfect grace, anticipating his every movement. He didn't like to admit it but she followed him even better than Diane; she made him look better than he actually was.
They danced wordlessly. Ken letting his enjoyment of her dancing flow out into his hands, manifest itself in the way he drew her body even closer to his own. Until they were plastered together, moving as one, her body tight to his.
This was an intimacy she didn't seem to mind at all. If a woman was going to dance with a man, her unstated philosophy was clairvoyantly made known, what an utter waste not to dance close. Her hand tightened on his neck, he could feel her fast breathing in his ear.
All too soon Yellow Bird was over. And, as if they'd been this intimate for years, they clung to each other in the log-jam of dancers, waiting for the next tune. "I hope this's a slow one," Tessa breathed.
It was. When Sunny Gets Blue. As the close, pulse-quickening dancing went on, Ken was almost amused at how easily things were happening. In reality it was more shock and dismay than amusement. And when he held her even closer he was speared by further astonishment as he felt Tessa twist her breasts into him.
That couldn't be. Now he was imagining things.
"Oh, Ken," she sighed happily. "I'm glad you asked me out tonight. I'm having a ball. A gold-plated ball."
They danced four more dances, had one more drink.
It was midnight when they left Tony's Hideaway.
Tessa lived in a neighborhood completely alien to Ken Baylor. Killing the engine and dousing the lights he knew he was safe here. Nobody would recognize his car. Turning toward the smiling, relaxed woman, he wondered whether, on the strength of what had transpired at the night club, he dared try to kiss her. Or was this, as all her other suitors had said, warm handshake time?
"You'll come up, won't you, Ken?" she asked abruptly her voice husky, sleepy. "I'll give you one for the road."
He scarcely dared believe his ears. "You're sure that'll be all right? What about your roommate?"
"There is no roommate." She caught his hand.
"C'mon."
Her apartment was on the second floor. Gallantly Ken took her key, opened her door for her.
She went before him, made no move whatsoever to turn on any lights. With an indolent kick she closed the door. Then she sighed as she slid herself into his arms. "Kiss me, Ken," she said sultrily, her breathing very fast now. "Kiss me. like I've wanted you to kiss me all night long."