After the Loving. Gwynne Forster

found place mats and set the table. If anyone had told her that she would be sharing these idyllic moments with Russ, seeing the loving and tender side of him, she might have accused them of idiocy. Yet, although she believed that the wit, tenderness and gentleness he’d showed her defined him as truthfully as did the tough, stoic and solitary side of him, he had not yet acknowledged their passionate exchange, and she wondered if he ever would.

      “I’m not going to question it,” Russ said to himself, as he searched in the bottom of the beer and soft-drink chest for two bottles of Czech Pilsner beer, his favorite. “I’d been dying to do that since I met her.” He reached into his back trouser pocket for a handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his forehead. “Whew! She hit me like a speeding train. I may regret it later, but right now, I’m not sorry.”

      He walked back into the breakfast room in time to see her nearly trip on the edge of the Turkish carpet his mother fancied and which Alexis brought up from the basement to brighten the room. He rushed to support her.

      “Why do you wear those things?” he asked of her spike-heeled shoes. “It’s a wonder you don’t fall and kill yourself.”

      “The world loves tall, slim people,” she told him. “I’m not slim, but the shoes make me look taller.”

      He bit into a ham sandwich and chewed the bite carefully before helping it down with several swallows of beer. “They don’t make you taller. Some women put their hair up on top of their head thinking that adds height. Neither makes a speck of difference, so why not be comfortable and—” he told himself to say it even if she got mad “—why not accept yourself? If you don’t love yourself, it’s damned near impossible for anybody else to love you.”

      She removed the top slice of bread from the turkey breast sandwich and scraped the mayonnaise off the remaining slice. When she didn’t look at him, he knew he had touched a sensitive spot. “Don’t smooth it over,” he cautioned himself. “This is an issue between us, and if she doesn’t solve it, we’re not going anywhere.”

      “You want me to believe that a man like you who can have any woman that appeals to him is so different from all the rest—that these tall, willowy women like Alexis aren’t your ideal, the kind you want? You honestly expect me to believe that?”

      He put the sandwich aside, leaned back in his chair and looked hard at her. “Whether or not you believe that is immaterial to me. They’re your words, not mine.” He pointed to her plate. “You ate hardly any breakfast, so you’re half-starved, and look at what you’re doing to that sandwich.”

      “I don’t like not being able to wear pretty clothes, so I’m going to lose weight.”

      He felt for her and deeply so, but he knew it was unwise to express it. “To me, at least, you’re a beautiful, charming and witty woman,” he said, “but if you want to change yourself into someone I won’t recognize, well…it’s your body and your life. I wish you luck.”

      She put the glass of beer on the table, untasted. “Those are the nicest…the most endearing words that I remember ever having heard. Thank you.”

      “But you don’t believe them.”

      “I know you mean them.”

      “But I’m either blind or I’ve got poor judgment, right?” That kind of talk would solve nothing. He poured the remainder of her beer in her glass, cut a turkey-breast sandwich in half and put it on her plate. When she looked at him with an appeal, an entreaty, he removed the top slice, scraped the mayonnaise off the bottom slice as she had done earlier, and set it in front of her.

      “Even if you want to lose weight, don’t damage your health.”

      Her smile, radiant and grateful, affected him like a shot of adrenaline, and he wanted to get her back into his arms and try to soothe away her concerns. However, he wanted to communicate to her trust, caring and reasons why she could hold her own with any woman. He cleaned the table, put the dishes in the dishwasher and left the kitchen as he found it.

      “You’re neat,” she said.

      He couldn’t help laughing. If Telford, Drake and Henry had heard that, their opinions of Velma would have plummeted. “Neatness is something I never expected anybody to accuse me of. I straightened up the kitchen because I wouldn’t like to eat cabbage stew for dinner tomorrow night. That’s Henry’s favorite form of punishment. Let’s go in the den.”

      He motioned for her to sit in the big brown wing chair, and he sat opposite her on the sofa. “What was it like growing up with Alexis and your parents? You’ve told me that your home life was unhappy. How did you and Alexis manage to come out of a dysfunctional home as the women you are—educated, successful, professional and refined? You are interesting women. How’d it happen?”

      “I’m fifteen months older than Alexis and, even with that little difference, I was protective of her. Our mother taught us how to be ladies, but not how to be women capable of dealing aptly with life. I’m not sure she knew. Our father evidently didn’t think it his responsibility to nurture us. He left the house and us children to our mother and, as I look back, that was a principal source of their never-ending battles. Alexis and I got love from each other. She’ll tell you they loved us, but she has never made me believe it.

      “I think I told you that our mother ran out of the house one winter night, escaping the bickering, and froze to death. Before the funeral, Father left us a note saying he was going to Canada, but didn’t include an address. A man who’d do that didn’t love his daughters.”

      “You can’t be sure of that, because you don’t know the measure of the guilt he felt. How old were you?”

      “Eighteen. I’d just finished high school, and Alexis was in her senior year. We sold the house and everything in it to pay for our college educations. If there had been a will, we might have had a nest egg, but the state took a huge chunk of it. One of these days, I’m going to confront that man.”

      He understood her bitterness, but he didn’t believe in letting such things clog his thinking or his outlook. “Let it lie, Velma. Harboring ill feelings against anyone is like filling yourself with poison. Try to drop it.”

      “That’s what Alexis tells me, but she’s a Quaker, and it seems to give her a peacefulness that I wish I had.”

      “Your father let you down, but you emerged like a newly minted platinum disc. A lovely woman. Forgive him.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to check on Tara, Henry and Biscuit. That little dog trails Tara every place but school. Thanks for the pleasant company. See you at dinner.”

      He put on his mackinaw coat, a pair of old boots and a woolen cap, got his rifle and a pair of gloves and headed down the hill to Henry’s cottage.

      Tara opened the door. “Hi, Mr. Russ. We were going to the house as soon as Mr. Henry finished feeding Biscuit. Mr. Henry gave Biscuit a red sweater so he won’t get cold.” He lifted her, walked into the house, and for the first time, he kissed the child’s cheek.

      “Biscuit is a lucky little pup,” he said, wondering what had just gotten into him. “Henry, it’s snowing harder than we’d thought, so why don’t you come prepared to spend the night over at the house?”

      “I was thinking I’d do that.”

      Russ realized he was still holding Tara and set her on her feet, but a strange feeling pervaded him, shocking him. He shook his body as a bird flexes its wings after a bath. For the first time in his life, he had a yearning for a child of his own.

      Chapter 3

      Back in her room, Velma stared at the blue caftan that she had begun to alter before Russ altered her. Until the previous evening, he’d never seen her in anything but a caftan, and that hadn’t stopped him from liking her and wanting her. She was damned if she’d ruin her dress. She hung it up. If he didn’t want to look at her in her green silk caftan, she’d eat her dinner in the kitchen. From the window she