The year of the Lucy

She kissed him warmly on both cheeks and then turned back to her guests. Quickly Jamie motioned to Mirelle. He gathered up his topcoat and hat, and headed her towards the door before anyone could stop them with further importunities.

"That's over," he sighed as they stepped into the cold night.

Mirelle couldn't agree more. His hand gripped her arm, guiding her towards his car. She could feel herself violently shivering as the wind whipped about them. Jamie unlocked his car, threw in his briefcase and settled her. He said nothing as he deftly maneuvered the big Thunderbird down the narrow streets, swinging at last onto the Schuylkill Expressway.

"There's a dirty dive a ways from here with the best steaks in town. I'm always ravenous after a concert," he said genially, "and I can't abide little snacks and champagne cup. I want meat, red meat."

"Do waitresses drip blood on you as they serve?" she asked brightly.

"You're lucky if that's all they drip when they serve." Mirelle searched desperately for some way to continue the light conversation, anything to cover her growing unease. The tension in the car was palpable and yet she couldn't think of a way to tell Jamie what had upset her. She glanced nervously at him, but he was watching the road, both hands on the steering wheel. At first she thought it was a trick of the overhead lights, but then she realized that his hands were trembling.

"Playing a concert is exhausting," he said, noticing her intake of breath.

"You shouldn't have played such a demanding concert so soon after the pneumonia," she said, semi-scolding.

"Oh, then you did find my playing adequate?"

"Adequate?" She echoed the adjective in dismay. "You play magnificently."

"It's nice to hear you say so."

She caught her breath sharply at the unexpected cut, and found that she had to bite her lip to keep back the tears. But he was justified. She'd been exhibiting an appalling self-centeredness. But she didn't know how to redeem herself in his eyes.

Then Howell brought the car to a sudden stop. Mirelle saw that they had pulled off the Expressway onto a suburban street. He flicked off the lights, turned round to her purposefully.

"All right, what's the matter?"

"Matter?" The word came out as a blubber.

"Yes, matter. Perhaps it was selfish of me to want you to see me at my professional best, but I certainly didn't expect to be received by a dull thud. The least you could do was be courteous."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that…" And she buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Mirelle! Mirelle darling." She felt herself pulled into his arms. His hands, warm and no longer trembling, were gentle and comforting. He held her close to him, her face on the soft camel-hair of his overcoat.

"The concert was like a nightmare for me, Jamie. It was Mother. Every song was one she'd sung… it was like old ghosts rising up to haunt me. I remembered hundreds of details about her that I hadn't thought of in years. And you played so beautifully. It wasn't your fault. I've just been upset all this week and everything had added to it. It wasn't Madame's fault that she has the same timbre in her voice as Mother. It wasn't yours. It's just me. I'm being self-centered and childish. And unmannerly and you wanted to give me a nice treat. And now I've spoiled the evening for you as well."

She looked up, trying to stop crying. He mopped the tears from her face with his handkerchief, his expression tender and concerned. Abruptly, she stopped crying. For the first time, the inner James Howell was visible to her. As she looked, their eyes met and he began to smile. Holding her face with his free hand, he lowered his head to kiss her, very slowly, very carefully, very thoroughly. Nor could she have gathered the strength of will to resist. His kiss, so expert, so loverly, was an anodyne to her torn emotions: like a benediction, she thought, and the music of the Herodiade aria sang through her.

"Il est doux, il est bon" she whispered as he raised his head.

He let out a burst of laughter, hugging her tightly to him in surprise.

"I am no prophet," he crowed, looking down at her with a broad grin which faded as quickly as it came. "And I'm no saint," he added almost angrily.

This time he kissed her with no tenderness at all, his lips hard and bruising as his caresses awakened a passionate response which she was unable to control. He released her abruptly, almost flinging her to the other side of the front seat. Wrenching himself around, he gripped the wheel with both hands.

"Have you a little idea of how you affect me, Mirelle?" he asked hoarsely.

She sat, unable to speak, as he started the car and spun it onto the road. He drove with skillful speed, as silent as she, and Mirelle struggled to assess the impact of his declaration. She paid no attention to the twists and turns of the road; instead she watched his hands on the wheel, the hands which had fascinated her for so long. Again she felt their strong grip on her ribs, her arms, her neck, like invisible burns. It had actually not occurred to her that more than friendship existed between them. She was certain that she had never encouraged anything more. How amazing that he had developed a tendresse for her. None of this shattering evening would have happened, she thought bitterly, if Sylvia had been along. Damn Sylvia! She had needed a chaperone. Oh, God, how she needed one!