Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

He felt a stab of disappointment as she backed off, and tried to get his mind back to business. “Well, I guess I’ll have to begin with outlining just what a hurricane is, and hope to God I have something real to talk about before JC cancels the show.”

“JC? Oh, you mean Calthrop White.”

Richard grinned. “That’s the network ogre, all right.”

“Surely he won’t cancel the show after one program?”

“He might. He reckoned that there’d be hurricane activity down south this summer which would give the chats a boost, and it just isn’t happening. Oh, there have been three named storms, but they’ve all fizzled.”

“Don’t tell me: the jet stream has been knocking them off before they could properly form.”

“You have a good memory. Trouble is, the jet stream hasn’t been all that strong over the central Atlantic this summer.”

“So what’s the reason?”

He shrugged. “I told you, meteorology is still an inexact science. I simply don’t know. It’s as if something out there was straining to bust loose, and hasn’t been able to, yet.”

“Isn’t that an angle for you to use?”

He shook his head. “I’d be torn to ribbons by my fellow forecasters, and if it didn’t happen JC would have my guts for garters.”

She was terribly aware of those black, mobile eyebrows, and that sleek black hair and the way he could smile with just half his mouth. She could see he was quite different from her first impressions of him — so much more real and sincere, and, she realized, he was vulnerable, too. She drained her glass and averted her eyes, watched other people come in to the restaurant and the feet of passers-by above them on the sidewalk.

There was a brief silence, then he asked, “Do you go racing with your husband?”

“No. Michael made it quite clear, a long time ago, that his sort of sailing is for men only.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How does he relate that theory to women like Clare Francis or Naomi James?”

“I’m afraid Michael does not relate his theories to anyone, or anything,” she said. “He just behaves and thinks as he sees fit.” And now he would even more, she thought.

“Then what are your hobbies?”

Her turn to shrug. “Being Mum, I suppose. There just isn’t enough time to do anything else, if I’m going to hold down my job as well.”

“But…” He checked what he had been going to say.

“Oh, sure, we don’t need my income. That’s not the point, though, is it? I have a life to live just as much as Michael, and I love journalism. But spare time does go on being a wife and mother. You won’t believe it, looking at me now, but I used to play a lot of squash in the winter, and tennis in the summer, but one needs to play three or four times a week to maintain any sort of standard, and I hate playing games badly, so I guess picking up the threads will have to wait until the children are older.” She realized that she was, after all, baring her soul to him, and discovered that she didn’t mind. In fact, she wanted to, because he was listening to her in perfect seriousness. She smiled. “I get what kicks I can out of music. Sometimes, after the kids are in bed — and when I can find a baby sitter — I go to a concert or a play… or just stay at home and listen to records. I have a super disc collection.”

“Really? I think I do too. What sort of music? Classical?” He leaned eagerly across the table.

“Yes, mostly.”

“CDs?”

“Oh, yes. Yours?”

“Naturally. I’d love to show you my set-up; it’s the only part of the apartment that’s properly finished. Do you have half an hour?” Then he almost visibly gasped at the thought that she might accept.

They stared at each other, both knowing the implications of his invitation. Richard held his breath, while Jo’s mind raced through the list of fors and againsts. But she knew what she wanted to do. It was years since a man had looked at her like this; come to think of it, it was hard to recall if Michael ever had. So she might regret it… but her entire life right now seemed composed of regrets.

She smiled, shyly. “Yes, I have half an hour to spare,” she said, quietly but decisively.

In the elevator, Richard apologized for the mess she would find in his lounge. “Guess I just haven’t gotten around to deciding what to do with it. I’m not too hot on interior design.”

“That’s because you haven’t got a woman prodding you all the time,” she said without thinking, and wanted to bite her tongue. But she immediately saw what he meant, shuddering at the hideous orange walls.

He showed her the music center and the neat cases of compact discs. “Take your pick. Anything there you like?”

Scanning the titles, she tried to think, tried to decide what to do if… wondered if coming here hadn’t been the stupidest thing she’d done since… since marrying Michael? Aware that he was patiently waiting, she stammered, “I’m spoilt for choice. I love them all. How about some Chopin?”

The reproduction was exquisite. Standing beside the window, double-glazed against the Manhattan traffic, she closed her eyes, listening, absorbing. And when she re-opened them, he was beside her, filling her with an overwhelming desire to touch him — be in his arms. And he wanted it too; she could read it in his eyes.

Silently they moved together, eyes locked. Jo felt herself drawn against him and stood trembling, wanting — yet frightened, overawed by the magnitude of her reaction to him. Richard was not the first man to have touched her since she’d married Michael; there had been plenty of sly hugs and kisses at parties and smoochy dancing with some very attractive men. This was different. She was very aware of how great the gulf was between those fun flirtations and what she felt now.

“Jo?” His voice was scarcely above a whisper.

“Richard?” She felt his breath on her forehead and tilted her head to meet his mouth with hers. Suddenly she was vibrant, alive; a great surging joy welled up to fill her chest, her throat, her head, leaving her gasping under his soft kisses. His encircling arms moved up, and with fingers threaded in her hair he held her face in both hands and gazed at her, smiling — the famous Connors smile. But this was genuine.

“Darling Jo. I have dreamed of you for the past fortnight, praying, hoping, and fearing it might all never happen.” He crushed her against him as Chopin’s Revolutionary Study filled the room.

The feeling of utter contentment blotted out all reality. The fact that she was married, irrevocably, that this love could only be an illicit, secret thing, that she could never stand on the proverbial hilltop and shout it to the world, or even admit it to her closest confidante, was irrelevant.

All that mattered was the steady beat of his heart against her ear, his arms, his love.

Love? Oh, yes, it was love. Love like she could never remember feeling until now. A joyous, two-way thing, transmitted between them through kisses, caresses, and the way they looked. And, pressed against him, she knew he wanted more. As did she. When he turned her towards the bedroom she made no resistance, but then stared at him in consternation as the doorbell rang.

“Oh, goddamn,” he said. “Just give me a moment.”

She stood in the center of the room, watching him as he went to the door. Now was the moment to regain sanity and leave. But she wasn’t going to do that. She wanted only to have him back in her arms.

The door was open. “Hi, old buddy,” Mark Hammond said. “Got in a shade earlier than I’d hoped.”

“Remind me to put a bomb in your plane next time you go on patrol,” Richard said.