Once in a Lifetime Read online

  He left the table to put on a log, and threw in some kindling. The fire took quickly and she sat staring at it for a long time, thinking not so much of that fateful Christmas night, but of the many times she and Jeff had sat at home on Sunday nights, reading the Sunday papers, and enjoying the fire. Without saying a word, John reached across the table and took her hand, and she found herself thinking of his arm around her shoulders at the school and how good it felt to stand beside him.

  "What were you thinking just then? You looked so happy."

  Her eyes were aglow from the firelight, and he thought she had been thinking of Jeffrey.

  "I was thinking about you. I'm glad you picked me up on the road the other night."

  He smiled at the memory too. "I would have picked you up sooner if you hadn't been hiding." They both laughed at the thought, and she brought out two cups of steaming coffee. "You're a good cook."

  "Thank you. So are you. The steaks were just right."

  He smiled at her almost sadly. "I've had a lot of practice. Fifteen years of doing my own cooking."

  "Why didn't you ever remarry?"

  "I never wanted to. Never met anyone I cared about that much." "Until now," he wanted to say, but he didn't want to scare her, and he knew it would have. "I guess I didn't want to start over. But you're young enough to, little one. One of these days you should."

  She shook her head pensively, looking up at him. "I don't think so. You can't do things 'again' in life, you can't re-create what was. That only comes once in a lifetime."

  "That particular experience does. But other experiences come along, which matter just as much. They're just different."

  "Look who's talking. You're no different than I am."

  "Yes, I am. You're luckier."

  "Am I? Why?"

  "You have Andrew." They both smiled. "Every once in a while I meet a kid who makes me sorry I didn't have any."

  "It's not too late." But he laughed at that.

  "I'm an old man, Daphne Fields. I'm fifty-two years old. Hell, I'm old enough to be your father." But she only smiled at that. She didn't see him in that light, and he didn't feel that way toward her either. They were friends on a variety of levels. And she'd never had a friend like him before. Maybe because she'd never been the woman she now was. She had grown strong over the years, stronger than she had ever dreamed. She was an even match for any man. Even a man like John.

  They sat on the couch looking into the fire for a while, and it was extraordinary how comfortable she felt beside him. There was something easy and unhurried about him, as though he had a lifetime ahead of him, and plenty of time to enjoy each precious moment. And the sharp sculpture of his face looked beautiful in the light of the fire.

  "John ..." She didn't quite know how to say what she felt. Maybe later she would be able to say it in her journal.

  "Yes, little one?"

  But she couldn't find the right words. At last, in a soft husky voice, she said what she could. "I'm glad I met you."

  He nodded slowly, feeling all that she felt, and sensing the peace and understanding that flowed between them. He put an arm around her shoulders then, and she felt the same quiet strength that had felt so good to her earlier that evening. She liked the weight of his arm, the feel of his hand, and the scent of him beside her. It was a rich mixture of after shave and wool and fresh air and tobacco. He smelled the way he looked, like a strong, attractive man who had lived his whole life amid trees and mountains. And he looked down at her then, and saw a tear creep down her cheek. It startled him and he pulled her closer. "Are you sad, love?" His voice was so deep and tender, but she shook her head.

  "No ... I'm so happy ... just here, like this...." She looked up at him then, "You must think I'm crazy. But I'm alive again. I feel like I've been half dead for so long. I thought ..." It was hard to say the words but she had to. "I thought I should be dead because they were. I only stayed alive for Andrew. I only lived for him." And now she was living for herself again. At last.

  He seemed to pause for an endless time, his face very close to hers, watching her. "You have a right to your own life now, Daphne. You've paid your dues." He kissed her gently on the lips then, and it was as though an arrow shot through her. His touch went to her very core, and she felt breathless as their lips touched and he held her. He took her face in his hands then, and sat looking quietly at her. "Where have you been all my life, Daphne Fields?" He kissed her again, and this time she slipped her arm around his neck and held him close to her. She felt as though she wanted to cling to him for a lifetime and never let go, and he held her as though he would like her to do that.

  His hands began to travel slowly over her shoulders after a little while, and then they slipped gently onto her breasts, and at last under her sweater. She uttered a soft little moan, and he held her close, sensing the rising passion within her. He stopped and pulled away after a time, and looked into her eyes. "I don't want to do anything you don't want, little one. I'm an old man. I don't want to take advantage of you." But she shook her head and kissed him as he pulled the pins from her hair, and loosed it from its knot to cascade down her back and over her shoulders. He let his fingers run through it, and touched her face and breasts again, and then the huge hands moved gently to her legs and she couldn't keep herself from writhing with pleasure as he touched her.

  "Daphne ... Daphne...." He whispered her name as they lay on the couch beside the fire, his whole body throbbing with desire for her, and then she stood up and took his hand, and led him toward the four-poster in her bedroom. "Are you sure?" He knew how long it had been, and she scarcely knew him. Everything had happened so quickly between them and he didn't want her to do anything she'd regret in the morning. He wanted to know her for a long time, not just for a night, or a moment.

  "It's all right." Her voice was the merest whisper as he slowly undressed her, until at last she stood before him, tiny, perfectly formed, her flesh shining in the moonlight, her blond hair almost silver. He picked her up then and slid her into the bed, and carefully took off his own clothes, dropped them to the floor, and slid in beside her. The feel of her satin skin was almost more than he could bear, and he had a hunger for her that was impossible to control as he lay beside her. But it was she who took his face in her hands, who held him close as she arched her body toward him, as slowly, like a forgotten memory come to life with a delicious vengeance, she felt him slip inside her, and she soared to heights that, even with Jeffrey, she had never known. John was an artful and extraordinary lover, and they lay spent at last, side by side, her tiny body intertwined with his as she whispered into his neck that she loved him.

  "I love you too, little one. Oh, God, how I love you...." And as he said the words she looked up at him with a sleepy smile, pulled herself more tightly against him as her eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep in his arms, a woman again, a woman she had never been ... his woman, and her own. He was right about her. The years had made her strong, stronger than she knew.

  "What are these?" John was holding two of Daphne's leather-bound journals in his hands as he stood naked in her kitchen at six o'clock the next morning. She had gotten up to make him breakfast before he left for work, but they had gotten delayed by another intense bout of passion.

  She looked over her own naked shoulder with a smile, still amazed at how comfortable she felt with him. "Hm? Oh, those are my journals."

  "Can I read them sometime?"

  "Sure." She looked faintly embarrassed as she put fried eggs and bacon on the table. "They may sound a little silly though. I've poured out my soul in them."

  "There's nothing silly about that." And then he smiled at her naked bottom. "You've got one hell of a great ass, do you know that?"

  "Shut up and eat your eggs."

  "Talk about the end of a romance." But the romance between them had just begun. They even managed to sneak in one more "quickie" before he left for work an hour later. "I'm not sure I'm strong enough to work today after all th
at good loving."

  "Good, then stay home. I'll take care of you."

  "I'll bet you would!" He laughed out loud, zipping up the heavy parka he kept in his truck for work. "You sure do spoil a man, Daphne Fields."

  But as she held him tight before he left, she whispered softly, "You're the one who's spoiling me. You make me happier than I've ever been, and I want you to know that."

  "I'll remember it all day. I'll pick up some groceries on the way home, and we'll have a quiet dinner. Sound okay to you?"

  "It sounds perfect."

  "What I'll you do?"

  Her eyes sparkled for a moment and she smiled. "Maybe I'll make a new entry in my journal."

  "Good. I'll check it out when I come home. See you later, little one." And then he was off, the truck whirring on the gravel as she waved, bare-breasted, from the kitchen window.

  The day seemed endless after he left, and she wondered what she had done without him. She thought about going to visit Andrew to pass the time, but it was too soon for another visit. So she stayed home, and cleaned house, and began to write in her journal, but something different rattled around in her head all morning, and after lunch she found herself writing a short story. It came out all in one piece, with a flow of its own, and when it was finished, she sat staring with amazement at the dozen pages she had written. It was the first time she had ever done anything like it.

  And when he came home, she was waiting dressed in gray slacks and a bright red sweater. "Don't you look pretty, little one. How was your day?"

  "Terrific. But I missed you." It was as though he had always been part of her life and she had waited for him every evening. They cooked dinner together again, with the groceries he had bought, and he told her the anecdotes of the day from the logging camp. It was after that that she showed him her short story, and he read it with delight as they sat by the fire.

  "This is marvelous, Daff." He looked at her with obvious pride and pleasure.

  "Come on, tell the truth. Is it hokey?"

  "Hell, no. It's terrific."

  "It's the first one I ever wrote. I don't even know where it came from."

  He touched the silky blond hair on her head with a smile. "From here, little one. And I suspect there are lots more stories in there like this one." She had tapped into a resource she didn't even know she had, and she felt an even greater release than she had ever felt when writing her journals.

  They made love that night in front of the fire, and again in the four-poster bed, and once again at five thirty the next morning. And he left for work with a song on his lips, and she didn't wait until afternoon this time. She sat down as soon as he left, and wrote another story. It was different from the one she had composed the day before, but when John read it that night, he thought it was better. "You've got a damn powerful style to your writing, Daff." And after that he spent weeks reading all of her journals.

  By Christmas they had settled into a comfortable life. He had more or less moved into the cabin with her, Andrew was growing more and more independent at the school, and she had more time on her hands than she'd had in years. It allowed her to write short stories every day. Some were better than others, but they were all interesting, and all seemed to have the same distinctive style. It was as though she had discovered a facet of herself she had never known before, and she had to admit that she loved it.

  "It feels so damn good, John. I don't know, it's hard to explain. It's like all of this stuff has always been there, and I never knew it."

  "Maybe you should write a book." He looked very serious as he said it.

  "Don't be silly. About what?"

  "I don't know. See what comes. I know you've got it in you."

  "I'm not sure I do. Writing short stories is different."

  "That doesn't mean you can't write a book. Try it. Hell, why not? You've got the time. There's nothing else to do here in winter." And there wasn't of course, except visit Andrew. She spent two afternoons with him a week, and John went with her once every weekend. By Christmas it was easy to see that Andrew was perfectly happy, and he accepted John now with ease, signing funny things to him, now that John had learned his language. And they roughhoused outside, and more often than not John ended up with Andrew on one shoulder, and one of his friends on the other. He had come to love the child, and Daphne watched them with pride, marveling at the gifts life had brought her. It was as though all the pain of the past was swept away at last. It was easier now to live with Jeff's memory. It was only seeing little girls of Aimee's age that still hurt her so badly. But even that was better now, John had a way of soothing all hurts and making her feel peaceful and happy.

  They even brought Andrew home with them for a few hours once in a while. John gave him a dozen small tasks to do around the house. They carried firewood in together, and John carved him little animals out of kindling. They baked cookies with Daphne, and once painted an old wicker rocking chair that John had found behind a deserted barn. It was obvious to all that Andrew was growing increasingly independent, and it was easier for him to communicate with them both. Daphne had grown more proficient at signing, and the tension between them had eased. Andrew was more patient with her when she made a mistake, and he giggled once or twice when she missigned a word, and then grinning, explained in sign language to John that his Mom had said she was going to cook a frog for dinner. But his silent communications with John still remained deeply touching. The two had become friends, as though they had always been part of the same life, walking side by side in silence in the fields, stopping to watch a rabbit or a deer, their eyes meeting, as though nothing needed to be said. And when it would come time to go back to the school, Andrew would sit on John's lap in the truck, and put his small hands on the steering wheel beside John's large ones, and Daphne would watch them with a smile as they drove along. He was always happy to get back to the school with the others. And leaving him was no longer as wrenching. She and John had their own little life, and she thought that she had never been as content in her entire life. And it showed in her writing.

  In February she finally got up the courage to start a book, and she worked on it long and hard every day while John was at work, and at night he read the day's production, with comments and praise, and he never seemed to doubt for a moment that she could do it.

  "You know, if it weren't for you, I couldn't do this." She was lying sprawled on the couch in blue jeans and boots with a stack of work on her lap as he sliced some apples for them.

  "Yes, you could. I have nothing to do with it, you know. It all comes from you. It's all there. And no one will ever be able to take that away from you."

  "I don't know ... I still don't understand where it all comes from."

  "That isn't important. Just know that It's there, within you. No one else can affect that."

  "Nope." She took a slice of apple and leaned over to give him a kiss. She loved the feel of his face against her lips, especially at the end of a day when it felt rough from the beginnings of his beard. Everything about him was so masculine and wonderfully sexy. "I still think it's all your fault. If it weren't for you, I'd never have written a damn thing." They both remembered with a smile that she had written her first short story after the first time they had made love. She had sent it in to Collins after the first of the year, to see if they would publish it, and she was still waiting for an answer.

  The answer came in March, from her old boss, Allison Baer. They wanted it for five hundred dollars. "Do you see that? John, they bought my story! They're crazy!" She was waiting for him in the doorway that night with a bottle of champagne and the check, and Allison's letter.

  "Congratulations!" He was as pleased as she, and they celebrated in bed until the wee hours of the morning. He teased her a lot that he never got any sleep anymore, but it was more than obvious that they both enjoyed it.

  The sale of the short story to Collins spurred her on, and she worked harder on the book through the spring, and finished it at last in July.
She sat staring at it, holding it in her hands, feeling the weight of the manuscript, and more than a little awed by what she had done, and at the same time saddened by the loss of the people who had become so real through the long months that she wrote it.

  "Now what do I do?" It was a little bit like losing a job, and she was almost sorry it was over.

  "That, my love, is an interesting question." He looked at her, bursting with pride, his chest bare, his face and arms brown, drinking a beer after a long day's work. It had been a beautiful summer. "I'm not sure, but I think you're supposed to find an agent. Why don't you ask your old boss at Collins? Give her a call tomorrow." But Daphne always hated talking to her. She harped and harped on how unnatural Daphne's life was. Daphne had never told her about John, and she assumed that Daphne was staying in New Hampshire to be near to Andrew. She always insisted that Daphne should come back to New York and get a job, but Daphne always used the excuse that she had sublet her apartment until September. And after that she would find other reasons. She had no plans now to leave. She was happy with John, and she wanted to stay in New Hampshire forever. But even John occasionally argued with that, insisting that she belonged in New York, with "her own kind" and an interesting job. He didn't think she ought to spend the rest of her life with a logger. But he didn't really want her to go, and she had no intention of leaving him, now or ever.

  "How do you suppose one finds an agent?"

  "Maybe you should take the book to New York and find out."

  "Only if you come with me."

  "That's silly, love. You don't need me for that."

  "Yes, I do." She looked like a happy little girl as she sat beside him. "I need you for everything. Haven't you figured that out by now?" He had, but they both knew how much she was capable of on her own, and she was capable of a great deal.

  "What would I do in New York?" He hadn't been there in twenty years, and he had no real desire to go. He was happy in the mountains of New England. "Anyway, why don't you call Allison tomorrow and see what she says." But the next day Daphne didn't do it. She decided to wait until the fall. Somehow she wasn't ready to let the book go, and she claimed that she wanted to read it over a few times, to make some final changes. "Chicken," he teased. "You can't hide forever, little one."