Cloud Waltzer Page 9

  She was so lost in fiery remembrance that at first she didn’t hear the rapping at her door. When she did, hope and fear collided within her. Could it be Archer? Here? As powerfully as she yearned for him, she feared seeing him here. She saw the apartment she had found such contentment in with Archer’s eyes and it appeared to her as it would to him, as a beggar’s miserable hole and, worse still, as the repository of her secret self.

  “Who is it?” The question quavered through the closed door.

  “Delivery from Duke City Floral.”

  Meredith slumped against the door with relief, then pulled it open. A bored-looking teenager stood outside holding a spray of calla lilies.

  “Sign here,” he said, thrusting a clipboard at Meredith.

  Barely able to tear her eyes from the magnificent blooms, she scribbled her name on the form. The delivery boy handed over the flowers and left before Meredith had time enough to collect herself and give him a tip. She twirled back inside the door, leaning against it as she shut it with her back. A card. The thought clanged her back to reality. She searched through the foliage for a card.

  “Good morning, M.J.,” it started off. A thrill of discovery welled up in Meredith at seeing his handwriting for the first time. The words were bold and dark and verged on being illegible. They had obviously been dashed off by a sure and quick hand, one unused to corrections or equivocations. “I trust you slept better than I did last night. I wanted to call first thing this morning, but thought better of it and am sending these instead. Don’t ask ‘Why lilies?’ I just knew that roses were too trite and violets too delicate and everything else in the store was too forgettable. As you are none of the above, I settled on these. I’ll call as soon as I can take a break. —A.”

  Meredith reread the note four times before laying the pale, white flowers down and finding a vase. The best she could come up with was a tall earthenware teapot. She cut down the stems and arranged the flowers, setting them on the bar that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room. She was lost in contemplation of their elegant beauty when more pounding on her door startled her. This time she didn’t have to ask for identification. A gruff voice announced, “Deacon Movers. Delivery for Miss Meredith Tolliver.”

  Slightly bewildered, Meredith opened the door and came face-to-face with her grandmother’s huge, elegant vanity swaddled in gray mover’s blankets. Now thoroughly bewildered, she asked, “Where did it come from?”

  The brown-uniformed moving man glanced down at the shipping invoice. “Chicago, Illinois,” he read. “From Mrs. Julianna Tolliver.” He looked up at Meredith’s puzzled expression. “Didn’t she tell you it was coming?”

  Meredith shook her head bewilderedly.

  “Well, it’s most definitely here now. Where do you want us to put it?”

  Meredith glanced behind her as if expecting to suddenly find another hundred square feet in her cramped apartment. By moving her chest of drawers into the bathroom, she created just enough space for the movers to squeeze the vanity into her bedroom. When they’d left, she slumped down on her bed. The vanity had been in her mother’s room ever since her grandmother had died. She’d played dress-up, smearing lipstick on in front of the beveled glass mirror that opened into a triptych. The huge piece of furniture had fit in the mansion she’d grown up in with its twelve- and eighteen-foot ceilings, balconies, servants’ quarters, and chandeliers. But here, in an efficiency apartment, it was like seeing the Queen Mary docked in a fishing pond.

  Meredith didn’t have much difficulty in analyzing the motives behind her mother sending such a behemoth piece of furniture knowing full well her daughter’s limited budget, which implied a limited living space. The message was clear: If your present life can’t support this bit of loveliness from your past life, it must not be much of an existence. The obvious conclusion (to her mother at least) was—come back to Chicago.

  Julianna Tolliver’s forte was wounded martyrdom. Meredith could even hear the echoes of her mother’s hurt response if she were to protest the gift: “I always thought you liked your grandmother’s vanity,” she would say. “I only wanted to please you.” Then Meredith’s father would get on the phone, springing to his wife’s defense as he always did and making Meredith feel like an insensitive clod, willfully hurting a frail, ethereal being unable to cope with a harsh world.

  Meredith sighed and caught sight of herself in the oval mirror that stood taller than she did. The sight defeated her. Remembering Archer’s note and his comment about violets being “too delicate” for her revived her spirit. Sitting up, she smiled at herself in her grandmother’s elegant mirror and recalled an old saying: “When the world hands you a lemon, make lemonade.” And the vanity, she told herself sternly, was most certainly no lemon. She reached a hand out to caress the burnished rosewood with its swirling grain pattern and to admire the exquisite craftmanship of the finely wrought piece.

  She made up her mind. She wouldn’t allow the size of the vanity or her mother’s motives in sending it to her depress her. As her therapist in Chicago had pointed out to her, she was the person living her life, she had the right to make the decisions about it. And she was decided—she would neither retreat to Chicago and the life her parents envisioned for her, nor would she allow her mother to assume a role of hurt martyrdom by objecting to the gift.

  Content with her small psychic victory, Meredith settled down and immersed herself in the Enterprise magazines. She savored each new question she concocted, gleefully anticipating Archer’s answers to her pointed queries about unionism, trade deficits, Federal Reserve policy, and productivity. She had almost managed to take her mind off the phone when it finally rang.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier.”

  Archer’s breathless beginning caught Meredith with the force of a runaway locomotive. She had to scramble to keep pace with the landslide of emotion the sound of his voice unloosed.

  “These guys from the mineworkers union seem determined to keep me from seeing the light of day for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I imagine that you’re both fairly concerned about maintaining your own interests,” Meredith commented drily. Glancing into her bedroom at the vanity, she was reminded of her mother’s grandfather, a man who had made history for his skill at maintaining his interests. She’d been glad as a child that she didn’t bear her notorious ancestor’s name, especially during history class when she would hear Great-Granddad Moorington described as a “robber baron.” He’d had his share of labor problems as well. A couple of them had led directly to some landmark court decisions that became the foundation for labor reform in the United States. Still, she had to admit that the old reprobate fascinated her. She wondered if that longstanding fascination could, at least partially, account for her attraction to the hard-driving Archer Hanson. She fled the disturbing thought.

  “Archer, the flowers were . . .”

  “Gaudy,” he supplied quickly.

  “No, of course not. They’re gorgeous.”

  “I don’t care if they are a bit overly dramatic, they fit my mood this morning. Last night, Meredith, was so . . .” He paused. When he spoke again his voice was smoky with a husky intimacy that sent shivers capering along Meredith’s spine. “My paltry vocabulary isn’t up to describing last night.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Those lilies,” he went on haltingly. “I bought them because they reminded me of your skin in the moonlight, all porcelain and cream and, oh, God, I wish you were here right now, Ms. Tolliver. I wish you hadn’t left me last night.”

  “I . . . I had no choice,” she finished lamely.

  “Damn, Courtney’s buzzing me. The delegation must be coming back. I’m going to have to run. Listen, is dinner still on tonight?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it is,” Meredith answered spiritedly.

  “Good. Great. A woman who knows her mind and speaks it. I hope it’s all right with you if we eat at my place. I’m going to be wrung out b
y the time this day’s over. Who am I kidding? I was wrung out when I stepped in the door today and you, Ms. Tolliver, are directly to blame. Anyway, I left word with my housekeeper to leave something heating in the oven. She’s never let me down yet. What do you say?”

  “As the interview-er, I’m completely at the disposal of my interview-ee. Whatever you say.”

  “Interviewer/interviewee, eh? I’ll have to rearrange that dynamic, my pretty.” He gave a melodrama villain’s laugh. “I suppose that the embargo on my picking you up at your house is still in force.”

  “Yes, my aunt . . .” Meredith paused, horrified. She’d forgotten the name she’d invented for her imaginary aunt. “My aunt isn’t feeling well,” she finished abruptly. “I’ll come out to your place.”

  “No, you won’t. Not in that bomb you drive. I don’t like thinking about the eager assistance you’d attract if that thing broke down on any of the lonely roads out here. I’ll either send a car for you or come myself and wait outside. Take your pick.”

  Meredith chose the lesser of two evils, the car, and Archer rang off after she warned him to be prepared to answer some tough questions that evening.

  As she placed the receiver in its cradle, Meredith was astonished to see that her hand was shaking. She was quivering again with nervous excitement. The feeling was both delicious and frightening. Ever since that day, almost three years ago, back in Chicago, when she’d first truly seen herself, finally looked at herself in the very mirror that now dominated her bedroom, and saw her emaciated body for what it really was, she’d been scared of losing control again. Now, with Archer Hanson, she felt as if she had about as much control over herself as she did over the weather. Compounding her mounting anxiety was the sudden realization that it was late afternoon and she hadn’t eaten anything.

  Was it starting again? she wondered. With icy hands, she forced herself to choke down some Greek yogurt and a pear. The all-too-familiar churning of conflicting emotions started up within her. Hoping to short-circuit the cycle of anxiety, she stared at the serenely lovely lilies. A dry snort of amusement tore from her nose as she remembered Archer saying that they had reminded him of her.

  What would he send, she wondered bitterly, if he knew what she had been like? Weeds? Cockleburrs? Crazy daisies?

  Stop it! The order was issued by a calmer, more rational part of her mind, the part that recognized and tried to shield Meredith from the destructive feelings of self-loathing that had led her to attempt to waste her body away to bare bones. Shaking, she wondered if the awful cycle were about to start up again, if the powerful attraction she felt for Archer would overwhelm her new sense of self. Sitting in the middle of the room, Meredith hugged her knees to her chest as if she were holding herself together while she thought about the past few years.

  She’d never experienced these dramatic emotional upheavals at any time in her relationship with Chad. Everything was safe with him. He never pushed her, never probed too deeply. Never demanded that she share herself. And she had never wanted to. From the start, when her father had placed Chad in the office next to hers, she’d known what the setup was. Try as she might, she could never replace Rory. She wasn’t a man. So her father arranged for the second best alternative, a son-in-law. Though he never would have put it into words, he’d chosen Chad. And because everyone had known from the start what was expected of them and what they would gain from the arrangement—Meredith, a suitable husband; Chad, a partnership in the family business; her father, an heir—she’d gone along with Chad’s mechanical courtship. It had been safe. Something she could control and understand.

  Archer Hanson was something else entirely. Meredith turned her mind like a team of fancy-driven stallions back to the task at hand. Dutifully, she returned to concocting questions to pose to Archer that evening.

  But all the while, nibbling at the back of her mind was the fear of the questions he might ask her. Questions that she had no answers for.

  Chapter 6

  Archer was sitting on the portal, a porch that ran the entire length of the front of his rambling adobe house, when Meredith pulled up. She was embarrassed when the uniformed driver of the Hanson Development Corporation station wagon that had picked her up jumped theatrically out of the car to open the door for her before she had a chance to do it herself.

  “Thanks a lot, Alex,” Archer said, coming forward to shake hands with the driver. He was wearing a powder blue polo and jeans worn to a faded white at the knees and the back pocket, where he obviously stowed his wallet. They fit the lean contours and hard swells of his body with a comfortable familiarity.

  “No problem, Archer. It was a kick. Hey, can I keep the uniform tonight? It’s rented through tomorrow. Molly’ll get a laugh out of it.”

  “Sure. Take the wagon too. No more pickups or deliveries tonight.”

  “Archer Hanson,” Meredith fumed when the young man had left. “Why on earth did you go through that silly charade?”

  “How else was I supposed to come up with a car and driver? You don’t actually suppose that I keep a chauffeur on staff, do you? Besides, it’s no sillier than your refusal to just let me pick you up. Come on, the libations are waiting.” He led her to a chair on the porch and flopped down in one beside her. A frosty pitcher of margaritas was on the table next to him. He poured her a slushy glass, then leaned back with his own.

  “I’ve just been sitting here trying to let the day ooze out of me,” he said, looking off into the thick stand of cottonwoods that surrounded his rambling adobe house. The dark of a rapidly approaching night was beginning to meld the branches of the large trees into one solid, unbroken mass. Watching the feathery silhouettes disappear against a fading sky eased the buzz that had rasped through Meredith’s head for the last few hours, and she began to really hear the peaceful country sounds of horses nickering in a distant pasture and wind whispering through the high treetops.

  “It’s lovely out here,” she said, just starting to take the full measure of that discovery. Each breath seemed to cleanse her of the stale city air and fill her with air gentled by the exhalations of millions of trees and green things.

  “Yes, sometimes I think I’d lose it completely if I couldn’t make my retreat to this island of sanity every evening. How’s the margarita?”

  “Fantastic. Do you know, until I tasted this one, I thought I didn’t like margaritas.”

  “Not like the national drink of the Southwest?” Archer echoed in mock alarm. “I’ll let you in on my secret: I don’t salt the glass rims.”

  “That’s it,” Meredith said, just noticing the missing ingredient. “That’s why it doesn’t taste like alcoholic Gatorade. Without the salt, margaritas are good.”

  “Without the salt, it’s not a margarita,” Archer corrected. “So let’s rename it. How about the Meredita?” He held his glass aloft and they toasted the newly christened concoction.

  The tight coils of tension that had been choking Meredith all afternoon and evening loosened. Once again, she chided herself, she had created turmoil where none existed.

  “How was your day?” Archer asked, refilling her glass.

  “It had its moments. The lilies first and foremost,” she answered. Emboldened by the drink, she allowed her eyes to hold his and tell him more eloquently than her words could precisely what the flowers had meant. Then she went on to recount the delivery of the vanity.

  “Whose bedroom did you put it in?” Archer asked, laughing with her at her surprise. Meredith had retold the tale, omitting her mother’s dark motives. “Yours or your aunt’s?”

  Fresh regret stabbed Meredith. She wished she’d never told that lie. Even more, she wished she hadn’t had to tell it. “Mine. It’s getting a bit chilly out here,” she said, anxious to change the subject. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her. It was handloomed in earth tones with a streak of indigo at the top that made Meredith think of the brown mountains south of Albuquerque and the intensely blue sky above them. Underneath it, she wo
re a simple gauze blouse trimmed with ecru lace and a swirling skirt in a bold geometric print that lent vibrancy to the entire outfit.

  “Excuse me,” Archer said, springing up from his chair. “I forget that not everyone has my metabolism. I think I was accidentally fitted out with one meant for a hummingbird. It’s fairly high; consequently, I’m always about twenty degrees warmer than anyone else.”

  “We should compromise,” Meredith laughed, helping him gather up the pitcher of salt-free margaritas. “I’m always about twenty degrees cooler than anyone else.”

  “I think something could be worked out.” Archer blocked Meredith’s retreat. Taking the pitcher from her hands and setting it back on the table, he enfolded her in his arms. “God, I’ve ached for this all day long.”

  Meredith snuggled closer to him, burrowing into his warmth. Shutting her eyes, she reveled in simply being held.

  Archer pulled back and smiled down on her. “We’d better go inside and have dinner before I lose what little self-control I have left. Otherwise, I’m going to be tempted to try and make you forget your interview.”

  “Now, that would be disastrous,” Meredith joked, following him into the house. It was as unaffected as his office. Tile floors, roundly curving adobe corners, exposed viga beams spanning the ceiling, defined the interior and lent it undeniable grace. But beyond those basics, it was clear that no professional decorator’s eye had guided the contents of Archer’s home. It was a comfortable jumble of sturdy, well-made mission-style furniture, pottery, and paintings that had nothing in common other than their owner’s very idiosyncratic taste.

  Meredith loved it. It was the kind of home she’d always wanted to grow up in. Her mother had redecorated every other year, slavishly following the directives of waspish decorators. The only items that her mother had refused to part with in the biannual purges were heirlooms from her parents and grandparents. In place of her own personal style, Julianna Tolliver, with her husband’s unfailing indulgence, had substituted the trendy dictates of frosty professionals. But Archer’s home was indelibly stamped as his.