~~The Walking Wounded~~
               By Cara Swann
[� 2000 by Cara Swann; all rights reserved]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Rating: General]

Synopsis: A lonely woman becomes obsessed with
the sorrowful man who moves next-door, believing
she can help him heal from the tragic loss of his
murdered wife and child. Only when her dreams
seem to have come true does she finally realize the
depth of his despair. 25,000 words/150 pages

Reader response to: [email protected]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER ONE

I always thought of him as the man who never
smiled. He was grieving, it was said, but I couldn't
fathom his grief, couldn't grasp the depth of his
sorrow - and yet I found him hauntingly appealing;
his sadness touched me.

I'm Alison Kent, never married, twenty-three; my
position at our family-owned newspaper, The Clarion,
afforded me opportunity to lunch in Magnolia Park
where I occasionally saw him on those lovely April
days of 1988.

Adam Hunter was often just beyond my bench,
staring into the middle distance, preoccupied as he
stood near a cypress tree. He was a man of dark
features, tall and gaunt, rigid in his demeanor; the
angular face, deep brown eyes and square chin, a
grim set line to his lips, contributed to his sorrowful,
stoic appearance. The hint of gray in his rich, thick
black hair at his temples suggested worries had
prematurely touched him.

I knew more about him, perhaps, than he would have
liked. Mayson is a small town in southern Louisiana,
and as small towns go, it left little to mystery,
everyone either related or known through friends
and associates.

But Adam had brought a certain mystique upon
arrival in Mayson two months earlier. He owned the
old Jamison mansion, his maternal grandparents'
legacy to him, and he lived there alone, remaining
aloof to the townspeople, inspiring gossip.

I had gleaned a few facts about him: that he was
thirty-five, widowed when his wife and small son
were murdered in Atlanta, Georgia; that he was a
former high school English teacher, now unemployed
and living off his trust funds (a substantial
inheritance from his grandparents), as well as
residing in the Jamison mansion, now rundown and
decrepit... but livable if you didn't mind a soggy roof,
sagging porches and overgrown yards with tangled
vines devouring the palm, cypress and live oak trees.

I knew some of this through local talk, but some
because I lived directly across the street from the
Jamison house. My parents own the Clarion, and it is
a given I will one day be publisher of our only
weekly newspaper, so I remain at their house, having
my own room upstairs.

I take the newspaper business seriously though,
went to college and earned a journalism degree, but
never met that "special man" -- nor even been in love
for that matter.

After returning from college, I had opted to accept
my mother's invitation to live at home. As the only
child, yes maybe I was spoiled, but I tried not to let
it make me overbearing.

Our neighborhood is quietly picturesque and
charming - Oak Street is lined by towering live oaks,
mossy tendrils gently embracing limbs, wide,
spacious lawns and homes intricately Victorian-
styled, built before the turn of the century. Our
house is an 1888 original, three-stories with Queen
Anne features, a large turret over the side porch
where my room is situated. There is an Eastlake
porch all around the ground floor, supported by
multi-Doric columns, stained glass windows in
several areas - all vigilantly preserved by my
mother, revered as her inheritance from my
grandfather Hume, who made a fortune in the rice
irrigation business.

Naturally, mother had been upset by the
deterioration of the Jamison home and was pleased
to see Adam return - that is, until it became
apparent he wasn't interested in restoring the home
or even mowing the yards. My father was
noncommittal, but I sensed he too was irritated that
Adam Hunter didn't immediately set to work on that
eye-sore directly in view of our porch.

I had overheard them talking, and mother said,
"Honestly, at least the caretaker kept the grounds
in shape, but now..."

"Marcia, the man is grieving."

"I know he lost his wife and son, I understand, but
that's no reason to let the place go to rot."

"He might need time." My father then snapped his
fingers, a gesture he often used at the newspaper
to keep reporters on their toes. "Why don't we
invite him to dinner?"

Mother interjected, "Yes, and then discreetly inquire
about his intentions for the house? You know our
Historic Committee is willing to make suggestions..."

I had retired to my room at that point, wondering
how Adam Hunter would take the subtle intrusion of
my parents. They were well-meaning, but sometimes
pushy when it came to civic duties. I understood
them, and could make allowances, but how would
Adam handle this? Especially during the difficult
time he was having?

So there I sat, staring at Adam's stiff back that
April day, when he turned toward me, grimaced and
walked across the park, silently holding himself
aloof. I watched as he turned toward Oak Street,
crossing the sidewalk and disappearing among the
shady oaks. He had flatly refused my parents'
invitation, bluntly saying he preferred to be alone.

I felt immensely sad for him; it was that vague,
undefined air of grief, the stoic quality of suffering
in solitude which gave him a mysterious persona. He
created an insular world for himself, and this
fostered intrigue - not just for others, but for
myself as well. Curiosity is the bane of my existence,
I suppose.

I reluctantly returned to the newspaper; it was a
short three-block walk, our building across from the
pale brick post office and gray stucco grammar
school. Like other small towns, the buildings were old
and faded, but a few had been lavishly restored.

City hall was erected in 1940; it's brick too, situated
between two looming tan cement-covered brick
buildings, gabled and dormered rooftops. Then
there's St. Anthony's Church, red brick, ornate
features, clock towers, the arched entranceway
covered with climbing fig vines. Across the street is
the First Baptist Church, smaller but impressive with
fluted Ionic columns, portico and dome, a Greek
Revival facade. Specialty shops are interspersed,
canopied tops stretched out over the aging
sidewalks. We own the corner building, once the only
bank in Mayson, but converted to house the
newspaper in early 1900 - when my paternal
grandfather purchased it and founded Mayson's
first and only newspaper.

Our quarters are updated and modern; father had
the entire structure, squat one-story white stucco,
redone in 1970, and constantly improved it - central
heat and air, carpeted and elegantly decorated
interiors. Long narrow tinted glass windows fronted
the street, creating a new, progressive image for
The Clarion.

I spent the afternoon copy editing the last articles
before going to press. Since we had all week to get
an edition out, there was plenty of time. However,
the two young reporters, Sam Henry and Clark
Howard, were novices and always waited till the last
minute to put their stories in the computer.
Therefore, I usually wound up staying in the office
until eight or later the day before we went to press,
Thursday.

Both reporters were working as interns, on loan
from the University of Southwestern Louisiana at
Lafayette while they learned their craft for college
credits. And both were brash, aggressive and had hit
on me a dozen times, but I usually ignored them.

Sam had crooned,"How about a late dinner, Alison?
I get paid today, and can treat you."

I had to admit it was tempting; he was a devilishly
good-looking guy, sandy hair and blue eyes, tanned
from weekends at the beach. But I declined, "No
thanks, I still have a few things to finish up here."

He winked broadly. "You are a real taskmaster,
Alison, but I can forgive you. You resemble Mia
Farrow, my dream girl."

I gave him a cool look - which sent men a message
of icy discouragement. It had killed many a boy's
longing look in my college days, and it worked like a
charm. He went scurrying off, saying, "Hope you at
least like my piece..."

It was imperative I keep a respectable distance
from the young reporters; they were here
temporarily, and not subject to long-term
commitments. And frankly, I wasn't unhappy being
single; it seemed my fate, and I could appreciate the
significance of work, the demands of a career in a
woman's life. Marriage would be demanding, and
children, especially taxing. I didn't think I could
handle all those at the same time, so I chose to
devote myself to our family newspaper exclusively.

It was late when I walked out of the building, but I
knew the paper was now on its way to press, and I
could relax. Outside, twilight hovered, a thin
crescent moon etched against the skyline.

Cooler, much cooler so I pulled on my sweater; the
spring dress I had on was sheer, light material.
Shivering, I began the ten-block walk home, passing
the post office, the grammar school and turning
down Magnolia Street, seeing the darkened park,
benches empty, the landscape deserted, only white-
washed tree trunks standing out against the
gathering darkness.

I was lulled into a peaceful mood, dreamy and
contemplative as I walked the sidewalk, sheltered by
the massive live oaks, their leafy branches
crisscrossing over the street. I passed several
gracious homes, thinking of our lifelong friends,
their happy, settled lives...and then I came to the
Jamison house.

I started to cross the street, but stood rooted
there, looking at a dark figure bent over a desk in
the second-floor window. Adam appeared deep in
concentration, and I vaguely wondered what he was
thinking...when suddenly he looked up, then down to
where I stood. He gazed steadily outside, no
acknowledgement of my presence at all, those eyes
looking perhaps into a wretched past.

I wanted to lift my hand, somehow greet him, but I
didn't dare. He seemed preoccupied, so inaccessible
in his detached, impersonal gaze that I hurriedly
turned away and rushed to our house.

After a light meal my mother had left for me, I
went to my room, and undressed, took a shower,
then put on my robe. I sat before the open window,
enjoying the magnolia blossoms, the sweet-scented
honeysuckle entwined along our fence. I could see
that Adam was gone, the Jamison house dark and
hulking in spectral shadows. It seemed a shame the
house was decaying, falling apart as perhaps Adam
himself was...lost and alone.

A sharp pang of compassion surprised me, and I
quickly chastised myself. After all, he didn't need
people feeling sorry for him. Pity was the least
appreciated response to what he'd been through.
But I suddenly realized it wasn't pity I felt for
Adam Hunter...it was a strange, poignant empathy
for his loss, his grief and pain. I had trouble
breathing, as though a hand had covered my face; a
suffocating awareness of Adam's devastation
engulfed me.

When I got into bed, the thought occurred to me
that I was becoming too involved with a man who
didn't know I existed, nor had any wish to. I again
chastised myself, but couldn't entirely dismiss him
as I fell asleep.

*  *  *  *

Like on slow-motion film, I was running, running but
I kept slipping and couldn't see too far ahead;
foggy, so foggy, the fog moving in from the coast,
enveloping and pervasive, distorting everything.

I was shouting, "Wait, please wait..."

He was ahead, and I glimpsed his back, stiff, the
dark hair, his clothing - a suit of white melting into
the fog. I ran faster, crying out, "Wait!"

Slowly, he turned to face me and I saw the despair
in his brown eyes, deep and penetrating, utterly
devoid of hope. "Leave me alone, please I want to be
alone."

His voice had been hard, uncompromising. I begged,
"Tell me how it is, please. Or talk to someone,
anyone..."

He stepped forward, inches from my face, and
stated, "It's like trying to describe a color no one
has ever seen before, the color of loss, of grief,
of..." and the voice broke, he choked back a sob and
then turned away resolutely.

"I can understand, I can..." I said, moving toward
him.

He suddenly began to fade away, his image
disappearing into the misty fog and I awoke,
breathless and sweat-soaked.

It had been a dream, a powerful, evocative dream!

What did it mean? That I was being drawn
helplessly into Adam's tragic existence?



CHAPTER TWO

I can't say I developed any insight from the dream,
but I did restrict my trips to the park, ended my
longing looks at the Jamison house, avoided it
entirely, and delved into my work with a vengeance.

For some time father had wanted to begin a new
series of articles on the history of Mayson, so I
volunteered to do it; the research would take most
of my time, and I only put in a couple hours at the
paper each day, instead poring over dusty stacks of
ledgers in the courthouse, studying genealogical
charts in the library and trying to piece together a
dramatic but factual story of how Mayson came
into existence. It wasn't easy, but I began to learn
the ups and downs of settling our area - and was
intrigued with the fascinating people of our past.

Several weeks went by, and I had just gotten the
rough draft of my first article down when I
realized I needed something more substantial,
maybe an interview with one of the elderly
residents, some colorful comments to spice up the
story.

I questioned mother, and she told me Alice
Wentworth was still alive, but confined to her home
on Cedar Street. The Wentworths dated back to the
earliest settlement, their ancestors establishing rice
fields and christening the area with its richest
resource in the early 18OOs.

Of course, the Wentworth's elaborate plantation-
style home and grounds were immaculately kept, and
I was not surprised by the ostentatious antique
furnishings, nor the feisty old lady introduced to me
by her granddaughter. Mrs. Alice Wentworth had a
keen mind at ninety, and told intricate details like
how some of the first people in Mayson wanted to
try cotton instead of rice, but had been persuaded
by her grandfather to give rice a chance. The way
she told it made it sound like a war almost broke
out, so I took notes and jotted down her lively
quotes.

Just as I was about to leave, her weak blue eyes on
me, she asked, "How is Adam Hunter doing, child?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know. He lives across the street,
but we never speak. He seems to want to be alone."

She nodded, then looked at me again. "I knew his
wife, Melonie. She was a Thurston, from a good,
solid family over in Layfette. Adam married her, and
they returned to his home, Atlanta. A beautiful,
fragile girl, Melonie...so sweet, gentle and warm to
everyone. We miss her, it was a pity what happened
to her, being murdered like that, and the son, only
three. I don't know what the world is coming to in
this age, violent crime is ruining our cities."

I felt that familiar pang of misery for Adam again,
and wished she'd not begun this line of conversation.
I was trying desperately to put him out of my mind.

"Child, don't mind me, I get to rambling. But Adam,
he needs to get out, unburden himself." She reached
out a thin, trembling hand to me, touched my arm.
"Such a tragedy...some have killed themselves
without help."

It was so honest, so direct coming from her that I
heard myself say, "I'll check on him, if you wish?"

She smiled, her wrinkled face relaxing into
satisfaction. "Yes, that would be very kind of you.
And let me know how he is."

When I headed home, I felt like I'd been
manipulated but couldn't really blame the old lady.
She was right, someone did need to approach Adam
- if nothing else out of neighborly concern for his
well-being.

He'd rebuffed my parents, but maybe I could reach
him? At the very least, I could offer a sympathetic
ear; if he refused, I'd done my duty and honored
Alice Wentworth's plea.

That night I told my parents I was going to walk
over to Adam's house. They both gave me an
encouraging nod, since their exasperation with the
continuing deterioration of the house was an ongoing
irritation.

I was dressed casually, had on my jeans, t-shirt and
sneakers, my long blond hair in a braid down my
back, simple and unsophisticated.

I walked out the door, and across the street; his
house was dark, only a dim lamplight coming from a
second-floor bedroom window. I approached the
house warily, remembering the odd dream that had
haunted me, and went up the stone steps, stood at
the door. The doorbell was obviously broken, but I
tried it anyhow.

Nothing.

I rapped on the solid wood door, and still got no
response.

Undaunted, I walked across the rickety porch and
around to the side of the house. He was sitting in
the small gazebo out back, his head held in his hands.
The way he looked upset me, and I almost left - but
recalled Alice Wentworth's plea.

Quietly, I walked around the house, and went
through the dew-damp grass, stopping just beyond a
rose bush that had tangled itself around the gazebo
lattice-work. I said softly, "Mr. Hunter?"

His head jerked up, and he stiffened. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding, but I..." Usually at no
loss for words, I found myself stammering, "Uh, I
thought..."

"Yes, out with it!" He stood, looming in the arched
doorway, striking a pose of rigid impatience.

"I'm Alison Kent and today I interviewed Alice
Wentworth. She was wondering how you are
coping..." I felt foolish, stood there with my face
averted, pretending to study the yard.

"Yes, I'm quite aware of who you are. I've seen you
about, but I assure you, I'm..." He cleared his
throat. "Tell Mrs. Wentworth..."

There was a strange silence, full of unspoken
sorrow perhaps, what he couldn't bring himself to
speak about. I was afraid of interrupting his
emotional reflection, but said softly, "I've seen you
too, and I've been concerned about you. I know
you've suffered a tragic, devastating loss and I
thought..."

"Oh, you know do you? How could you know how I
feel? How angry I am, how violent I feel at times?
How I'd like to find that cold-blooded killer and
torture him, make him suffer for what he did to me,
to my life and for taking the most precious, most
gentle woman's life..." He abruptly turned his back
to me, steadying himself on the gazebo with an
outstretched hand.

I swallowed hard, saying, "I can't know, but I can
share what you will let me."

"Why?" He glanced around at me, glaring. "Why
would someone untouched by violence want to share
such tragedy, such pain, such anger and agony?"

His face was aflame with hate, anger and disbelief.
I had to make him aware of my genuine caring.
"Because I think you need to talk, to share what has
happened to you or else..."

He laughed, a derisive, harsh sound. "Or else I might
just hang myself in the attic? Don't think I haven't
been tempted!"

"Please, you just need time, need to unburden this
terrible, terrible tragedy to someone." Instinctively
I moved closer, adding, "I would like to offer you
friendship."

It was as though a curtain lifted, and for one single
moment I glimpsed the other Adam, the man who
had loved life, had loved his wife, his son...but then, a
self-protective shield came down and he snapped,
"No! I would never bring such anguish to a woman
untouched by horror."

"But I am willing to listen, to care...to be your
friend."

He came very close, his breath on my face, his eyes
locked into mine. "Go home. Don't come here again."

Shattered, I turned and started to walk away when
I felt his hand on my shoulder. His voice was husky,
"I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I have
to deal with this my own way, alone."

*  *  *  *

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in my bed, thinking of Adam. Now I knew what
I feared: I was physically attracted to him. I had
felt the brief but potent attraction between us, and
I'd nearly lost my usual composure.

I tossed and turned, staring at the shadowy ceiling
of my bedroom. When I finally allowed myself to
get up, I was drawn to the window and sat staring
at Adam's bedroom window across the way. He was
in there, alone, suffering and unwilling to allow
anyone to help him.

But why?

I couldn't fathom his reluctance to open up, to
share his sorrow. He needed therapy, counseling.
Perhaps I could convince him of that?

I watched the rose-glow of dawn drench the skyline
behind his crumbling mansion, afraid of what I was
feeling for Adam. I had to get through to him
somehow; I wanted him to heal, for I feared I was
falling in love with him, and I couldn't have him if he
remained tied to a past he could never overcome.


CHAPTER THREE

I wasn't the type to be overly concerned with
appearance, although I'd established a style of
dressing nicely for work - fashionable dresses and
formal suits. Otherwise, I liked to wear jeans,
blouses and sneakers. Now, having realized my
attraction to Adam, I found myself plundering
through the large walk-in closet in my bedroom,
dismayed at the slouchy clothing I wore around
home.

I stood before the cheval mirror, studying myself
intently: slender to the point of skinny, I was five-
foot, nine-inches tall, with narrow hips, slightly
rounded breasts and wide, square shoulders. I did
have long, long legs, but I'd never been fond of
short skirts or tight shorts to emphasize them. My
hair was almost waist-length, what I considered my
best asset, and it helped accentuate my oval face,
wide forehead and high cheekbones. My blue eyes
were nothing special, nor the average lips, not pouty
or full. A straight, thin nose had earned me the
dubious distinction of ascetic.

With a sharp sigh, I acknowledged I wanted to be
beautiful for Adam. I wanted to look special, entice
him. This was a rare awakening - boys, men had
never been important to me. I'd had my share of
dates, but none were ever outstanding, none that
made me desire them with a burning need, or that
even made me think of sex a lot. I was a virgin, and
sometimes thought I might die one.

That morning in early May I sat in my room looking
at how cheerfully cozy and yet imperial it was with
the antique furniture of my great-great
grandmother's cherry-wood poster bed, amorie,
trunk, rolltop desk, wardrobe and chest, an Oriental
rug my mother brought back from India, the lacy
curtains at the long windows, my feminine
environment of frilly bedspread, pillows, hand-
embroidered knickknacks, even a few stuffed
animals from childhood. I felt lucky. Lucky to have
had this privileged, safe haven; it was what had
made me secure because I always knew it was here,
my inheritance.

Mayson, I reflected, was a quiet hamlet, a town still
safe and virtually crime-free; it had its drawbacks,
but the security, the warmth and homey atmosphere
literally permeated the whole place - from cool
shady streets and gracious antebellum homes to the
quaint cafes, specialty shops and aging downtown
buildings. I'd been to Layfette, where I attended
college, and although I'd lived on campus, I was
aware of the city problems. New Orleans was
another disturbing place, a charming city in many
ways, but certainly dangerous. The traveling I'd
done had been mostly in the Southeast; I had blindly
closed my eyes to crime and danger when in large
cities, thinking like everyone it would never touch my
world.

But now it had, because of Adam and the murder of
his wife and child.

I decided I had to do something constructive, so I
put on my lavender silk dress, heels and braided my
hair. Then I told my mother I would be at the
library till noon.
I rarely drove my Pontiac Fiero (an extravagant gift
from my parents upon college graduation) but today
I did. It was a whiz to the library, since we lived in
the historic district of Mayson - downtown was only
ten blocks from our door.

The library was air conditioned and quietly inviting. I
went to work, researching about crime, violent-crime
victims and their reactions, the aftermath of what I
perceived Adam to be going through.

It was shocking, and I had to take it slow, so
absorbing and disturbing was the information. Every
word brought me closer to Adam, and his outburst
last night; he seemed to be in the fifth stage of
basic reactions - apathy alternating with angry
outbursts. Before this, he'd probably experienced
shock, denial, disbelief, fright, fear it would happen
again, then self-blame, guilt and apathy. Someday, if
he was fortunate, he'd reach a resolution of the
suffering, maybe function normally. However, it was
rare for that to happen, as most crime victims never
did resolve their problems, according to the experts.

I took some lengthy notes, reading about private
counseling and survivors' groups, thinking this might
be the answer. And yet, the more I learned the
more I became anxious and worried about getting
involved with Adam; from my research, it seemed
that I'd be asking for trouble.

When I went outside, it had begun to rain, the damp,
earthy scent a whisper of renewed life. I drove to
the newspaper, put in a perfunctory appearance and
got things organized, then went home. My mother
was out; she attended several women's clubs,
mostly as a guest speaker representing the
newspaper, so I had the rest of the afternoon alone.

Over a quick lunch of tossed salad and ice tea, I
thought about my first step. Should I be bold, or
gentle? Or should I not interfere at all? That idea
was dismissed; I had to help Adam - it was as
necessary as breathing to me. He'd gotten into my
heart somehow, and only by helping him heal could I
have any hope of ending his solitary suffering, and
give him the gift of loving.

I went to my bedroom, freshened up by dabbing at
my makeup, and taking my hair down. I noticed the
new light in my eyes, and blushed.

Just as I was about to step out the door, the phone
rang. I started to leave but the answering machine
picked up, and I heard Paula say, "Hi, this is your
best friend, kiddo, when you gonna return my calls?"

I hurried to get the phone. "Hi Paula! Sorry I
haven't gotten back to you, but things have been
hectic lately." She was my childhood friend, now
married and living in the suburbs of Layfette.

"Allie! Girl, you had me worried! I've been calling
since last month!"

"Sorry."

"Look, how about lunch tomorrow? We can get
together and gossip."

True to her sunny nature, Paula could cheer me up
and I needed her about now. "I suppose I could get
away tomorrow, want to meet here?"

"I thought maybe a shopping trip to Layfette, lunch
at Cafe' des Artistes..."

That seemed impossibly public; the Cafe was on
Jefferson Street, tables on the sidewalk - a quaint
restoration for downtown, but I said, "How about
just lunch? I'm not sure I can get away more than a
couple hours."

"Sure, you name it."

"Can you drive here? Mother will be out at the
country club golfing..."

"Fine, I'm looking forward to it!"

We said our goodbyes, and I headed out the door,
thinking of all the good and bad times shared with
Paula. Her parents, the Lawrences, lived down the
block, and we'd been a twosome since toddlers!
Perhaps she could lend a listening ear for this
dilemma with Adam?

Boldly I went across the street, checking to make
sure Adam's Nissan Sentra was parked in the
driveway - it was, so I knocked loudly on the door. I
heard the faint sound of classical music, something
from Bach, melancholy and depressing.

I stood there, anxiously pressing my lips together,
distractedly brushing at my lavender silk dress. The
music stopped abruptly, and I heard footsteps; the
door opened and I almost gasped.

I'd always seen Adam groomed and well-dressed;
now he was disheveled, his black hair usually combed
straight back off his forehead hung limply over his
bloodshot eyes. Unshaven and unkempt, he glared at
me. "What do you want now?"

Taken aback, I stated, "I uh, just thought..."

"Save it okay? I had enough of reporters back in
Atlanta! Go get your story somewhere else, use
somebody else's misery!"

He started to slam the door in my face, but I
wedged my foot in the door, jamming it open. "I am
not here as a reporter, is that what you thought last
night?"

"Oh please, spare me the pretense. You reporters
are all alike, anything for the story!" He ran a hand
through his limp hair, grimacing. "Please leave."

Belatedly I smelled liquor; he was drinking, and from
the looks of him, hadn't slept. I said, "I am not here
as a reporter, but as a friend. I think you need one
about now, don't you?"

He laughed that derisive laugh. "And you are going to
be that friend? Miss, no offense, but I find you
aggravating and annoying."

I was cut to the core, but forced a brave smile.
"Well now, at least you know I won't quit."

He silently stared at me, his impassive expression
preventing any sign of the suffering he was feeling.

This was the most difficult thing I'd ever done, but
I persisted, "Do you really intend to hole up here in
this place forever, turn your back on the world?"

"The world I've seen isn't worth living in." He moved
back, leaving the door open.

I slipped inside, and was immediately appalled by the
dark, forbidding interior; the furnishings hadn't
been changed in fifty years, still just as the elderly
Jamisons had it when I was a child. Now it was
dusty, musty and hardly clean, littered with odds
and ends of his, clothing draped on the battered
sofa, dirty glasses sitting on tables, a sour smell
from the foul enclosed rooms overwhelming me.

"You could use a maid, don't you think?"

Adam slumped down on the sofa, his rumpled shirt
and pants too large, his wide, thin shoulders like a
clothes hanger holding up the slouchy outfit. "Lady, I
don't owe you a thing. I'm not a rude man, but you
are trying my patience."

I noticed the tone of defeat, no longer the
sarcastic, abrasive sound of anger. Quietly, I went
to his side, and touched his arm. "Adam, I want very
much to just listen, to offer you genuine friendship."

"Why?"

"Because I care, that's why. I've never been an
interfering person, nor gossipy. I, in fact, don't even
know exactly how your wife and son were
murdered, nor have I attempted to find out.
Instead, I have watched you from afar, and felt
your pain. I tried to stay away, but little by little, I
was drawn to you against my better judgement.
Does that explain anything?"

He looked up at me, an incredulous expression on his
face. "No one can ever understand, ever...no matter
how I explain, no matter how I try to tell
about...about the loss, the mixture of feelings I
can't rid myself of, no one seems to grasp the depth
of unending misery."

The vulnerability in his brown eyes brought me down
beside him. "I can, I know I can."

He turned his head away. "Even if you could, I don't
want you to. You are innocent, happy and feel
secure in the world. What I've experienced would
ruin that, hurt you, turn you cold and empty, bitter."

"Adam, if only..."

His voice interrupted, "Please go away, before it's
too late."

For the first time in my life, I felt an overwhelming
compassion mingled with sexual attraction so strong
I couldn't resist it. I moved very close to him, put
my hands on either side of his face, and brought him
to me, our lips meeting in a slow kiss.

He pulled back, saying, "It's wrong, I don't deserve
this..."

I put a finger over his lips. "My name is Alison, call
me Allie."

"Allie, please..."

It was too late - he moved into my open arms as his
head lay against me. I ran my hands through his hair,
and murmured, "Let me love you, let me help you
feel alive."

We stood, and he led me up the stairs to the
second-floor bedroom where I'd watched him sit at
night. There was a long hall corridor, high-ceilings
and then a vast bedroom, the mahogany furniture
positioned in rigid order - but at least the windows
were open, faded lace curtains stirred by a fresh
breeze.

He seemed to be almost hypnotized, staring at me
with lustful longing as I undressed. It was bold I'd
decided on, and bold it would be.

I told him to lie back on the bed, and he did so as I
kicked off my shoes, removed the silk dress, then
my slip, my hose and panties...then my bra, walking
brazenly toward him naked, never losing eye
contact. He didn't protest, only groaned with desire
as I came to him, slipping off his shirt, unbuckling his
belt, lowering the zipper to find him ready.

It was all new to me, the first time, but I didn't say
that; I just instinctively joined him, there on the big
bed, our bodies taking solace, igniting passion as a
necessary healing medicine for the emptiness he'd
lived with.

I let him have me, and when he discovered I was a
virgin, he pulled back, astonished. "Allie, I...I can't."

"I want you to, I want it to be you, the first man." I
guided him to me, my rising desire a craving beyond
words, beyond verbal description.

His reluctance faded and he explored my body,
devouring me in hunger, at first gentle and then
more demanding, almost angry as he took me, over
and over, more driving and insistent.

I felt consumed in his lust; every touch of him, the
lean hardness of his sinewy body atop me, his lank
hair on my face, his taste of liquor, the rough
unshaven chin against my cheek...it didn't repulse me
for I was healing him, and loving him, giving him what
I felt could cure him, my whole being, my soul full
of overflowing, unending love.

When he cried out, and fell upon me, finished, I felt
satisfied though I'd not experienced an orgasm. He
whispered, "I'm sorry, it was too fast, but I...it has
been six months."

I murmured, "I love you Adam."

He lifted himself on his elbows, gazing into my eyes.
"You don't even know me, Allie."

"But I do, I do. I know you and I love you."

He sat up, pulling the sheet around himself and
putting his head in his hands. "God, what have I
done? I'm a disgrace, a lusting, selfish fool."

I was naked, but I felt more exposed than in the
flesh. I'd given him my soul, my body and my love.

He looked at me, studying my face, my flushed body
lying naked on the bed. "You are a fine woman, a
fine person...but Allie, I can't love you, not ever."

Stung, shocked by his words, I felt embarrassed
and jumped up, pulling the bedspread around me. "I
didn't ask for you to love me, did I? I only said I
love you..."

"It's because of Melonie, and Scotty; I failed them.
I don't deserve love, and I'm not capable of loving
again, either." He stared at me, now aloof and
objective; it was as though we'd never touched,
never shared the intimacy of sex.

"You can't or won't?" I shot back, picking up my
clothing piece by piece.

He shrugged, saying, "I'm one of the walking
wounded, we don't heal."

There it was again, that piercing melancholy. I
relented, and half-dressed, went to him, embracing
him. "It doesn't have to be that way. You can heal,
there's therapy, or survivors' groups..."

He held up a hand, almost pushing me away. "I had
therapy, back in Atlanta. The psychologist tried, but
he didn't understand. Oh he said he understood, but
how could he? He'd never felt this way..."

I persisted, "What about other victims?"

"I tried that too. There's plenty of victims in
Atlanta, so I joined a group. It went nowhere - we
all sat around crying in our beer, getting nothing
resolved. You see, I have talked, I have tried to
unburden myself but that still doesn't heal you."

He slapped his chest. "The rage, the anger that is in
here, trapped. Seeing that scum caught, that might
help - but it wouldn't bring Melonie and Scotty back,
no."

"Do you want to tell me about it, what happened?"

He edged away, defensive. "No, I don't. All I
wanted, when I came here, was to be left alone in a
place where crime wasn't so prevalent."

I stood, and quickly finished dressing. "I came here
to give you love. I won't stop."

He just looked at me, hanging his head. "Go home,
Allie. You don't need this kind of relationship, you're
a beautiful young woman, and I'm a sorry soul to
have taken advantage of you today."

I went to him, kissed his forehead and smoothed
back his sooty hair. "I won't give up on you, Adam. I
love you."

He sighed, restraining himself from touching me.
"Please go."

I left, confused and yet stupidly happy. Somehow,
some way I could reach him, I had to - he was the
love of my life.









CHAPTER FOUR


Perhaps I should have been ashamed, humilated? But
I wasn't, and that in itself shocked me. I'd given
myself to a man who seemed disinterested, even
incapable of loving!

That night, I sat mutely at the dining table, unable
to eat, picking at the shrimp remoulade Maggie Cray
had prepared. Maggie is our black Creole maid and
cook, and has been with us since I was five.

Mother noticed my lack of appetite, her blue eyes so
like mine, staring quizzically. "Allie, no appetite?"

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, pushing away the
plate, looking at mother's neatly trimmed short
blond hair, her perfectly poised demeanor. She had
always been a very reserved, self-contained woman
yet alluring in the tradition of Grace Kelly. Mother
had limitless style, good taste and the polite
mannerisms of aristocracy. As a child, I'd always
wanted to be exactly like her -- detached,
unattainable, a gracious 'Ice Princess.' To that end,
I'd emulated her, taken social customs seriously and
even allowed her to guide me, mold me in her image.

I replied, "I'm just tired."

My father, his long, narrow face flushed from the
wine, adjusted his glasses and asked, "You're not
working too hard on the historical piece, are you?"

"No..."

He continued in his commanding way: "Because I
know you've been interviewing, researching...and it's
not imperative this piece be completed by a deadline,
although I was hoping to have it printed in its
entirety before your mother and I go abroad for
the summer."

My parents spend three months, June, July and
August, traveling overseas, so I would be in full
charge of the newspaper during their absence. My
father is publisher, and I was given the title of
assistant publisher/copy editor, but we both knew
the newspaper was his lifeblood, and he would never
retire until bad health forced him to do so. At fifty,
he is a robust, vigorous man, active in the community
and a demanding taskmaker for new reporters. Yet
he loves training, teaching the novice reporters who
come to him for advice and encouragement.

I sighed. "It's not the work. I love the newspaper."

He nodded, his steel-gray hair highlighted by the
chandelier light above the linen-covered table. "I
know you do."

Mother added, "But you must not overdo. The work
should never come before your health."

I looked at them, both proud of me, happy together
for twenty-five years, and wondered what they'd
think if they knew I'd seduced Adam? Mother would
probably be aghast; father would bluff and scold,
and in the end be terribly hurt by my wanton
behavior. Our family standing (because of my
mother's inheritance and my father's ownership of
the newspaper) made us part of conventional,
conservative society in Mayson. I could ruin them by
my actions, and had always taken this obligation
seriously - not to disgrace them, or our standing as
a traditional, moral family.

I pushed back my chair, stood. "I think I'll go to my
room now, watch TV or read and rest."

They nodded, and then began discussing their trip; it
would soon be time to leave, only a few weeks till
their departure.

I mounted the stairs, thinking about Adam. He was
lost, alone. Maybe I could never help him? And why
should I continue this exercise in futility?

In my room, I flicked on the TV, and flopped down
on the bed, propping on elbows. An episode of
'Unsolved Mysteries' was on and I watched,
fascinated. The reality based programs of late had
riveted many to the set, and I was no exception.

I listened to real-life horror stories: missing
children, lost spouses, murder victims, random
violence...the stuff of front page news. I was no
stranger to that, since my work had once involved
just such material.

However Mayson rarely had these atrocities. My
closest contact with such material was during my
internship at a Layfette newspaper, and it had
frankly been rough, not my choice. I loved writing
though, and found the "fluff" of small-town news
more to my liking - society happenings, local news of
citizens, lifestyle pieces, births/deaths, religious
events, marriages/engagements...nothing too dire or
devastating, other than an occasional traffic
accident or storm damage.

At last, I turned off the TV, and went to stare out
the open window. Adam's house was dark, his car
gone. Had he left because of me? He rarely went
out at night, so I wondered if our liasion earlier had
driven him away?

I sat in my bentwood rocker, letting the cool, damp
air surround me. I could hear crickets, the singsong
of katydids in the cypress trees outside, and was
lulled into contemplation.

Perhaps I'd tried to please my parents at the
expense of my own individuality? In college, while
other girls were dating, having mad, passionate love
affairs, I was lost in books, studious. I dutifully
came home regularly, attended the social events in
Mayson, walked in the footsteps laid out by mother
and father, continuing along a predestined course.
Garden teas and polite, genteel conversation,
country club gatherings, all part of our heritage.

There is this time-warp in Mayson, like we are apart
from the real world, caught in some noble, fine
place, cultured, caring and carrying on the Old
South traditions of restored ante-bellum
plantations, time-worn, burnished antiques...nothing
allowed to age, or depart from the past, families
preserved by bloodlines just as material possessions,
I reflected.

Where some kids rebel, I'd wanted only to follow
willingly the past traditional heritages of family,
conservative morality and occupation. Now, having
found myself engaged in a sexual situation with a
man I'd barely gotten acquainted with, it tested my
beliefs. I'd never felt organized religion had all the
answers, but my attendance at the First Baptist
Church was regular. I'd never thought myself a
seductress but how else could I judge my
uninhibited behavior?

The air stirred, palms rattling below, and I realized
I was changing, becoming different -- unknown even
to myself. I couldn't deny the aching desire for
Adam. I couldn't deny that I wanted him, loved him
and couldn't bring myself to imagine not freeing him
of the past. I went to bed, exhausted by the
emotional crisis I seemed to be facing.

*  *  *  *

I got up early, went to the newspaper and worked
on my historical article. The Clarion came out on
Friday, so Thursdays were a madhouse in the
editorial office. I had to get a rough draft of my
piece in the computer file today, Wednesday, or I'd
be impossibly rushed tomorrow.

I'd noticed Adam's car was still gone when I left
for work, but it was parked beside the house when I
returned at eleven.

I yelled to Maggie, "How's it coming?"

She stuck her head out the kitchen doorway. "Missy
you and Paula will love this Mexican salad, just like
you did as kids."

I glanced at her proud, generous face; she was a
joy, part of our family (having been widowed before
she came to live with us) and I loved her dearly.
"Thanks!"

Upstairs, I changed into my jeans, red blouse and
braided my hair again. Paula and I had always been
casual, at ease with one another, and when I saw
her drive up, sure enough she was wearing jeans too.

She bounced up the steps, her usual lively self.

I ran to open the door, and took in her vibrant,
healthy looks; she had an outdoorsy, athletic
appearance, although petite and somewhat "cute"
with a pixie face and chin-length chestnut hair.

"Come in," I exclaimed, embracing her.

She laughed, pulling away slightly. "Hey, do I have
news for you!"

"What?" I asked, awed by her breathless
exuberance.

"Oh shoot, not now! Why spoil the suspense?" She
winked, hurrying into the house, sniffing and yelling,
"Where's that delicious scent coming from?"

Maggie replied, "In here, and it's your favorite!"

I followed as Paula swung into the kitchen, laughing
and hugging Maggie, saying, "Oh no, not hot tamales
too! I'm gonna get fat."

I said, "Not with your routine, the advertising job, a
husband, and all the sports you're into, tennis..."

Paula moved apart from us, and pulled a serious
face. "Look, I was gonna wait but why should I?"

"Please tell us!"

Maggie smoothed her apron, rolling her eyes. "Still
the same Paula, that famous flair for the dramatic."

Paula grinned widely, then stated, "I'm pregnant!"

I was stunned, couldn't move. We'd both said we
would probably never have children since we had
similar backgrounds - the only child of wealthy,
prominent parents in Mayson. We'd never been
interested in parenting, or felt lonely because we
had one another, having vowed we were sisters-in-
spirit.

I swallowed hard, finally managing,
"Congratulations."

Maggie was hugging Paula, happy about the
announcement,  but laughingly admonishing, "Why,
you no more than a child yourself!"

Paula giggled. "Please, I'm twenty-three going on
forty."

I was finding this unbelievable; she looked so happy,
so radiant with energy, with...love. I said, "Come,
let's sit down and you tell me all about it."

We took our places outside on the patio, and she
talked animatedly, jubilant, having planned this
pregnancy for a year.

As she talked on I felt letdown, slowly growing
envious of her bubbly enthusiasm, her obvious
pleasure at the promise of motherhood.

When Maggie set the Mexican salad down, she
smiled and said, "You are lucky, sweetie. Now, eat
this -- it's my special salad with avocados, serrano
chilis, jalapeno pepper and cliantro."

Paula smacked her lips and dug in, mumbling, "So
what's new with you, Allie? I've been hogging all the
conversation."

"Oh, nothing much." I didn't think I could bring
myself to confide in her about Adam. Before, it had
seemed possible, but now with her enraptured glow
about parenthood what I was doing, what I was
getting involved in seemed somehow an affront to
her proper lifestyle.

She was studying me above the rim of her glass,
quietly pensive. "What gives? You look like you just
lost your best friend, and I know it's not that cause
here I sit."

I smiled. "You could always cheer me up."

"Well lordy, that long face you pull, that terrible
cold shoulder - no wonder the boys in college
worshipped the ground you walked on, but from
afar. They dared not approach you for fear of
getting the big chill."

"What? Do you really think guys were interested,
but afraid of approaching me?" I'd fostered that
image, but was never really sure it had worked.

Paula grimaced, flipping back a strand of loose hair.
"You know they did. That boy, what was his name?
Alfred... uh, what was his last name?"

"Henderson."

"Yeah, poor soul...he went around after you like a
puppy, fetching this, fetching that and you never
even gave him the time of day!" She giggled, tasting
the tortilla chip dantily, then sipping her margarita.
"You were a cool number."

I took a sip of my margarita too, letting the cold
liquid sooth the spicy taste of the salad. "I suppose
he did seem smitten, but Alfred was so, oh, I don't
know - sort of nerdy."

"My Phillip is no pro football player, a lawyer you
know, but he's good in bed."

I felt myself blush; she could always embarrass me
with her sexual frankness, and loved to do so.

"For goodness sakes Allie when are you going to quit
being so goody-goody?"

The blush deepened, heating my face.

She stopped eating, her fork midway to her mouth,
and stared hard. Then her voice yelped, "My God,
you've done it, you've fallen in love!"

I could never successfully hide my feelings from
her, but tried to hedge. "Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a strange situation, not all that interesting
actually," I said, sipping more of the margarita.

Maggie came back out, set down the hot tamales
and told us she was going to the market.

As soon as she was out of sight, Paula whispered
urgently, "Who is he?"

"That, I cannot tell you - but he isn't someone you
know anyhow," I lied, looking at the surrounding
landscape, avoiding her eyes.

She gulped, asking, "And just how far into this are
you?"

I felt myself go crimson again, and cursed my shirt-
sleeve sensitivity.

"Ah ha, that far! Jesus, it's about time Allie. Isn't
sex great, better than a double-fudge sunday at the
Dairy Queen?"

I sighed distractedly - we were so different, but
perhaps that was why our friendship had flourished
all these years? Her savage bluntness, sense of
humor, spontaneity, passionate warmth, as opposed
to my reticence and calculated coolness.

We talked about love, sex and then I asked more
about her plans; she intended to quit work in the
ninth month, be a full-time mom for at least a year,
which I had trouble picturing. With her frenetic
energy, she'd be a basketcase without a demanding
career.
When she was about to leave, I asked (with what I
hoped was casual interest) if she remembered the
old Jamison house, any of their relatives...

"Sure, and it looks like hell over there, huh? Bet
your folks are disgusted, I know mine are. Mom said
if that lazy guy...what's his name?"

"The one living there now?"

"Yeah, if he didn't do something about the grounds
she would get action whatever it takes."

I agreed my parents hated the situation, and then
asked, "Did you hear about him, his wife and son
being murdered?"

"He always was a snotty bastard, pardon my
French."

"Oh?"

"I know him, sort of, Phillip does to. Adam Hunter,
that's his name, married Melonie Thurston, and
Phillip knew Melonie through his parents."

"Really?" I inquired, absorbed.

"Adam grew up in Atlanta, with his parents, but you
knew that. He used to come to the Jamison's for a
visit now and then, briefly."

"I guess I'd forgotten." Of course, I hadn't; but he
had visited so seldom that I hardly took notice when
we were children.

"Anyhow, Melonie was a gorgeous thing, I mean she
was beautiful, won beauty pageants, and had boys
falling all over her. Why she married that snoot I'll
never know."

I stood there, unable to reply.

She hugged me, preparing to leave and adding,
"Melonie and that little boy, killed like that right in
front of him...well, even I feel sorry about that. No
wonder he's probably falling apart."

"It is horrible, but I never did know what happened."

"Me either, exactly. Oh, Pillip told me about it, but I
forget the details. I just remember Phil being pissed
about the authorities never catching the killer."

I changed the subject abruptly, fearing she'd see
my anxiety. "You take good care of yourself, you're
responsible for two now."

She giggled. "Yeah, you bet. And by the way, we'll be
getting together again soon - Aunt Mildred is giving
me a lavish tea so I can get tons of baby things!"

I agreed I would love to attend, then watched her
get in her car and wave goodbye as she backed
from the driveway.

My eyes then fell on the shadowy form in the
upstairs window of the Jamison house. Adam had
been watching, no doubt.

Puzzled, I resigned myself to the enigma of Adam
Hunter...wondering uneasily where it would lead me.




CHAPTER FIVE

The next few days were uneventful. I worked
steadily at the paper, helping my father prepare
several advance layouts for when he would be gone.
He told me if I wanted to take time off for a
vacation (sometimes I went to the coast for a
couple weeks during the summer) that Donald Web
could be responsible. Don was the managing editor,
and had been with us for ten years; he was certainly
capable of the task, but to hear my father talk it
seemed only he could keep things running smoothly.

Nights, I couldn't refrain from staring at Adam's
house; he had left, vanished. The following day after
Paula's visit, Adam disappeared but he'd rehired the
former gardner, and the grounds were slowly being
cleared, the shrubs shaped and flowerbeds weeded,
pleasing my parents immensely.

When my monthly period arrived on schedule, I was
somewhat relieved; having used no birth control with
Adam, it had naturally occurred to me I could be
pregnant. Contrary to being alarmed or worried
though, I felt ambivalent, almost halfheartedly
dreamy about having his child. Another child in his
life might mend his wounds, but that was a poor
reason for bringing a baby into the world.

I didn't know if Adam would return or not; I
realized he was avoiding me, and that I'd probably
scared him away by the seduction. If I'd been more
circumspect, I might have gained his platonic
friendship. As it stood, I had lost him before I even
had a chance to show him my honest caring.

On the first day of June, I drove my parents to
Baton Rouge for their flight; it was a dreary, rainy
day. I found it distressing for them to leave during
such bad weather, but they were eager to get going
- this year they planned tours of Italy, France and
then crossing to Australia, ending with a month in
New Zealand where friends had invited them to
stay.

The drive back to Mayson was treacherous; a
stormfront blanketed the region, and I was glad I
had taken the Mercedes. My nerves were ragged,
my hands having gripped the steering wheel
throughout the long, perilous drive, so I was relieved
to pull into the garage, and close the door behind
me.

Lightning still crackled, thunder drum-rolling behind
it; the rain had slacked off, now a slow drizzle as I
went inside, removing my raincoat, tossing down my
purse, wiping back my damp hair.

I went upstairs, ran a bath and slid into the warm,
bubbly water, thinking this would help ease my
stress. It felt wonderful, and I lay back, pondering
about my obsession: Adam and his situation. I could
have checked news files, gotten the exact details of
the murder of his wife and son, but didn't want to
do that. If I had advance knowledge of it, then I'd
be prematurely judgemental. I wanted to hear Adam
tell it, hear how it happened through his eyes alone.

After the bath, I slipped on chambray shorts, loose
t-shirt and walked to the bedroom window. My eyes
went automatically to the Jamison's driveway, and I
saw Adam's Nissan parked there.

Incredibly, he was home. I bit my lips, suddenly
feeling my spirits lift out of the low mood of late.
Had he come back to stay?

I was starving, and went to the kitchen. Maggie had
left me a casserole in the oven, so I got some,
heated it in the microwave, and poured milk. As I
ate, I thought about what to do - should I apologize
to Adam? Did I owe him an explanation, further
contact to ease his discomfiture?

I finished, put the dishes in the dishwasher and was
about to go upstairs when the doorbell rang. I was
astonished, since it was now near ten at night.
Immediately I thought of my parents; something
could have happened to their flight...

I hurried to the door, nervously pulling it open. I
almost gasped, because there stood Adam, his face
expressionless.

"Hello Allie, I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I
saw you come in, alone." He grimaced, tugging at his
tie; the white linen suit he wore was damp from the
misty rain still falling.

"That's fine, come in." I moved aside, gesturing with
my arm. "My parents left today for Europe. Isn't
this weather nasty?"


He stepped into the foyer, looking around at the
decor, commenting, "This is a fine job of
maintainence, the interior matching the exquisite
exterior perfectly."

"Thank you, but I can't take credit. My mother
feels obligated to protect the home from aging." I
directed him into the formal living room, darkened
by heavy velvet brocaded drapes. I quickly snapped
on an ornate floorlamp, pointing to the antique
Chippendale sofa. "Won't you have a seat?"

He hesitated, rubbing his chin. "I really can't stay. I
just felt...that I needed to talk to you a minute."

I felt such deep compassion and empathy for him -
melancholy still lingered in his face, his voice. But he
was being formal, distant and polite; I couldn't risk
alienating him by an emotional display, so I waited
impassively.

"Allie, I want you know that I appreciate what you
were trying to do, and understand. It meant a lot to
me, and I, well, I wanted to tell you that." He
wouldn't meet my eyes, lowering his to the
hardwood floor.

I was aching to reach out to him, hold him, show him
I loved him...for I did, with all my heart and soul. Yet
I feared revealing the intensity of my emotions, and
said
quietly, "I am glad. I was afraid I'd caused you
more distress when you left."

He looked at me then, his sunken brown eyes
searching my face, a hollow gauntness in his face
betraying his anguish. "You are a fine woman, and I
couldn't let you think I wasn't attracted to you, or
that what we shared didn't touch me. It did, very
much so. It's just that..."

"No apology, please," I interrupted, turning my back
to him; if I looked at his haggard face any longer I
would be unable to resist touching him.

"I'll go now..."

"Are you staying in Mayson?" I asked, following him
to the door.

He had his hand on the doorknob, but looked at me
again intently. "Yes, for now. I had business to take
care of in Atlanta, that's where I've been."

"The grounds are much improved," I said lamely,
unable to take my eyes from his.

"I plan to renovate the house, and hired a
contractor to begin work soon."

"Will you live there during that?"

He ran a hand through his hair; the dark strands had
fallen across his wide forehead, damp from the rain.
He sighed. "I suppose I will, although it will be
noisy."

"The house should be an asset to the community,
when finished." I closed my eyes, taking a deep
breath.

He asked, "Are you okay?"

"Fine, it's just that..."

"Yes?" He moved imperceptibly closer, and I found
myself overcome by the physical attraction he
aroused in me.

"What?" He now inched closer; I was standing very
near to him, close enough to feel his breath, smell
his distinctly masculine cologne that rendered me
weak from the memory of our past intimacy.

"I...I had a long drive back from Baton Rouge today
and I'm tired, I guess," I finally said, staring at him,
our eyes locked.

"Well I'll be going then, and let you get some rest."
He started to turn, but I caught his arm, holding him
back.

"Please don't go."

He looked down at me, the sadness and pain still
evident in his eyes, the set of his lips. "I must. I
can't let you do this..."

"But Adam, I...I love you." There it was; I'd done it
again, in spite of trying to control my feelings. The
mere presence of him, the look of suffering and
brooding misery in his face...and I lost control.
"Please," I begged, "stay here with me tonight."

He shook his head, saying, "Don't think I'm not
tempted, I am. You are beautiful, sensual, so
arousing to me. But even if I can forget it all for
those precious moments, lose myself in passion, it
isn't fair to you."

"Let me decide that, Adam." I saw his indecision and
rushed on, "Let me decide what is fair to me. I love
you, and that's all that matters to me. If I can
erase the sorrow, even for a second, it's worth it to
me. I want to be with you."

An onslaught of rain now battered the house, a
strong wind buffeting the patio doors, the steady
ticking of the big grandfather clock between
thunder-rolls as we stood there silently staring at
one another, measuring, guarded.

Suddenly in one swift move, Adam lifted me in his
arms and amazed me by his strength; he moaned,
burying his head in my hair, saying, "God, it's all
wrong but I can't resist you, Alison."

"Don't try," I murmured, as he carried me up the
stairs and I directed him to my bedroom. "We are
alone, no one will bother us. Our live-in maid doesn't
come back till next week, she's visiting relatives."

He put me down, holding me against the length of
him, lifting my face, kissing my lips and running his
hands through my hair. "How lovely you are."

I touched his hair, pushing back a strand off his
face. "Adam, I love you so much. You're all I think
of, and..."

"Shh," he whispered, a finger upon my lips. He began
to undress me, his hands going underneath my loose
t-shirt, finding that I was braless, his breath
quickening, his voice husky, "You are so wonderful,
so willing..."

Now I was overpowered by his nearness, drunk with
his passionate embraces. I felt him move against me,
the molding of our bodies together.

"I need you, I do," he said, close to my ear, kissing,
nibbling my neck, touching my skin, stroking and
promising, "It'll be better for you this time, I'll go
slow, easy..."

I helped him out of his suit, tossing the clothing here
and there carelessly, both of us now beyond words
as we feverishly caressed, explored bodies. He had
a muscular leanness, almost taut with tension, wide
shoulders, his chest tangled with black hair, his long
legs as firm as his torso.

He kept touching me, laying me upon my bed,
whispering, "Forgive me, please...I want you, I need
you so much..."

The rain pounded against the window and our desire
mounted. We moved together, and this time, he was
slow, agonizingly slow. He had me begging for
mercy, but did not stop; instead, he made love to me
all night long.

Near dawn he fell asleep, and I watched him beside
me, peaceful. It made me happy, knowing he was
relaxed, not suffering, not thinking of the past. I
felt gratified; I could help him overcome the sorrow.
I already had through our passion. And surely love
would follow?

As a gray light filtered in through the curtains, I
saw him slowly become fretful, as if dreaming...and
he muttered in his restless sleep, "Melonie, oh
Melonie..."




CHAPTER SIX

I wouldn't allow myself to be upset. I forced
myself to pretend I hadn't heard him calling
Melonie's name, and blocked it from my mind during
the next week.

Afteward, Adam had taken a shower, gotten
dressed and casually told me he had to leave; the
contractor was coming to look over the house, and
he had to be there. He seemed distant, preoccupied
and dismissed our night of sexual fervor as though it
had not occurred, just like the first time.

Initially, I'd been crushed, brooding over the way I
gave myself to him, so vulnerable, so open to hurt.
Yet I didn't, couldn't regret that time spent in his
arms; it had transported us beyond pain, beyond
death. Sex was salvation; it was the antidote to
emptiness, dying and Adam's excruciating sorrow.

I spent my days at the newspaper versing Sam
Henry, the reporter we'd hired full-time, about
special stories I wanted for the next edition. He was
a quick study, and freed me to concentrate on my
historical articles.

Wednesday I decided to contact Alice Wentworth
again to complete my research. She was glad to see
me, and talked nonstop about the early days in
Mayson.

I was tape recording our conversation, and listened
raptly to her stories of the fights between rural
folk and the people who built Mayson, the town. She
would laugh softly, and tell humorous highlights,
especially savoring the constant battle of churches
to rid the area of liquor, when rural folk thought it
their right to celebrate in the raging Cajun style, not
being inhibited by moral issues.

When she'd wound down, I asked, "How did the Rice
Festival get started?"

She lay back in her thickly cushioned chair, and
looked out the window at white-hot summery skies,
then launched into an elaborate discussion - much
more information than any official recorded
material I could have found.

At length, fearing I'd tire her I said, "I suppose
that is enough for now. I can't tell you how I
appreciate your time."

Mrs. Wentworth looked at me, her faded blue eyes
suddenly curious. "How is Adam doing?"

I was taken off-guard, and stammered, "He's uh,
doing fine, I suppose."

"Have you seen him?"

"Well yes..."

"And is he seeking help?" She pinned me in a stare
that was unnerving.

"I think he's coping as best he can. He plans to
renovate the Jamison house, and that will keep him
busy." I had to control myself lest I betray the
gravity of my feelings for Adam.

"He inherited that from his grandparents, the
Jamisons, and with considerable Thurston money, he
should make it a showplace."

"Thurston money? I don't understand..."

"He must have received Melonie's share, since she
was the only living heir. Her brother died very young,
leukemia, and her parents were killed in a car
accident several years ago."

"Oh, that is tragic." I found it shattering - all that
loss and pain, now multiplied by Melonie and
Scotty's death.

"It is, yes. I think Adam needs to stay busy, but was
hoping he'd return to teaching. Years ago before her
death, Frances, Melonie's mother, told me Adam
was a gifted teacher, and could work wonders with
troubled juveniles."

"Maybe he will, in time." I secretly vowed to help him
find that talent again, that gift for teaching.

She smiled, closing her eyes. "I do believe I'm
tired."

"Again, thank you for your time." I left, my thoughts
centered on Adam and his inheritance, the
complexity of a man gifted but damaged, unable to
live fully.

*  *  *  *

Thursday was hot, humid and I spent it at the
office, rushing to meet deadlines, overseeing the
final copy editing, too busy for idle thoughts of
Adam. He'd not attempted to see me again, and I
was determined to curtail my curiosity - although his
car was home, and the house occupied.

Sam was engrossed in a rushed story on a fire that
happened out in the county; no one was hurt, but a
mobile home had been destroyed, leaving a family
homeless. I told him to play up that angle, since ours
was a family-orientated paper, mostly dealing with
personal tragedies as opposed to cold facts.

When he got it all in the computer, I read it and
called him into my office. "You did an excellent job
on this, Sam."

He grinned boyishly. "Thanks."

"I'll remember this, and I'm sure Don will agree you
are developing a professional style."

He sat on the edge of my desk, still grinning. "Alison,
are you sure you wouldn't like to take in a late
movie?"

Oddly, his invitation didn't fall on deaf ears. What
else did I have to do? Sit around and daydream
about a man who was only interested in me sexually?

I smiled, for once easing my icy facade. "No movie,
but I might enjoy a burger with you when I finish
here."

He exclaimed, "Great!"

"But first, I have to complete my article and get
everything squared away." I glanced at the clock; it
was past six, so I said, "Around eight?"

"Sure, want me to wait?" Sam's tanned face was
creased in smiling anticipation; his blond hair
complimented clear blue eyes, and he had such
boyish energy that I smiled eagerly.

"No, how about picking me up at my house? You
know where I live?"

"Yeah, on Oak Street - that huge Victorian house?"

"Right, see you then." I dismissed him, turning back
to the computer screen, absorbed in my story.

*  *

Once the paper was put to bed, I walked home in
the growing darkness. The air was heavy with
humidity, but cooler. I lifted my hair off my neck,
walking slowly until I approached the Jamisons; the
house was dark, solitary.

I abruptly crossed the street to our house, hurrying
now, brisk and determined not to wonder about
Adam. He wasn't capable of a relationship now - I
had to at least give him time.

After a quick shower, I pulled on my jeans and
waited for Sam. He arrived promptly in his Mustang
and we drove to the local Dairy Queen, chatting and
teasing one another with jokes.

It was lighthearted fun, being with him, and I
realized as we ate the burgers that I needed this;
the somber sadness of Adam had cast a pall over
me, and the change was wonderful.

Back at the house, Sam kidded, "How about
tomorrow night?"

I laughed, gently touching his cheek. "Hey, let's not
get carried away. I enjoy your friendship, Sam,
but..."

"I'm just a pest, huh?" He asked, staring soberly at
me.

"No, in fact I really loved our evening..."

He peered at me closely. "Who is he, Alison? I hope
he treats you good, cause you are special."

I felt the blush, and looked toward our house,
mumbling, "Oh there's no one..."

"I know there is, so I won't try to steal you away,
but if he ever lets you go..."

I was touched, and looked back at his sincere
expression. "Thanks, now why don't you walk me to
the door?"

We got out, and he walked up the drive with me,
laughing and chatting idly about the newspaper. He
was such fun, and on the porch I took his hand, said,
"We'll do this again sometimes, as friends."

"Sure, you can be fun, not so glum. We all think you
never smile at the paper."

I laughed. "I'm not that dedicated!"

He grinned, dropped my hand. "I knew that. I know
you can be light-hearted. See you Monday, okay?"

"Yes." I watched him walk briskly to the Mustang,
and wave as he backed out, then left in a squeal of
tires.

A light was on in Adam's bedroom; my eyes went
there, and I saw him staring morosely down at me.
Hurriedly I went inside and headed up the stairs.
Why was I doing this to myself? The mere glimpse
of Adam could make me ache for him - physically
and emotionally.

I slipped into my silk gown, pulled on a robe and sat
at my window, brazenly daring him to resist me. I
knew he could see me, outlined by the dim lamplight
in my bedroom.

The light in his bedroom went off, and I sighed with
despair. Sex was the only weapon I had against his
melancholy, and even that wasn't working!

I got up from the Bentwood rocker, began pacing
around the room, disappointed and unable to shake
the sensual desire he always created within me.

When I heard the doorbell, I was elated; I ran
down the stairs, my hair flying behind me, and threw
open the door to see Adam standing there, his eyes
kindled with vibrancy.

"Who is he, Allie? Tell me you've found someone, so
I can be happy for you, know I'm not in your life, on
your mind..."

I was stunned; he was actually hoping I was dating
Sam, distancing myself from him? I said, "No, no!
Oh Adam, why can't you see I love you, only you?"

He advanced into the foyer, grabbing me by the
shoulders in a fierce grip, saying, "Forget me, I'm
not worth the pain, the worry..."

I cried, "I love you Adam, I love you!"

"No you don't. You only need the sexual release and
that's understandable. You're young, sexually
awakened now, but that isn't love. I...can't...love you,
ever."

He jerked his hands away, and I staggered back
against the wall, looking at his downcast face, his
defeated stance.

He started back to the door, but I grabbed him by
the arm, begging, "Don't go, I want you here with
me tonight."

He groaned, an urgent, animal sound deep in his
throat as he turned to me, stepping closer, but still
hesitant.

I studied his brown eyes, ablaze with lust, and the
way his clothing, khaki slacks and pullover shirt, hung
on his too-thin frame. I ached for him, and blurted
out, "Please, don't go."

"Allie, you deserve better. You deserve a man who
can give you his heart." He nevertheless pulled me
into his arms, and breathed into my hair, his hands
straying to my gown, going instinctively to my
breasts, touching tentatively.

"Oh God," I murmured, pulling his head down as he
touched my skin through the sheer material, then
picking me up, carrying me to my room, all the while
his muffled voice saying, "It's so wrong of me,
wrong to take advantage of you..."

I said, "I need you, I want you...that's all that
matters here and now."

He sat me on the bed, stared for a long time and
then came to me willingly, openly....



CHAPTER SEVEN

We didn't live in a vacuum, Adam and I, so I
shouldn't have been surprised when rumors reached
me of our being seen together. Neighbors, no doubt,
had not missed us entering and leaving one another's
houses.

Paula, fortunately, was the one who gave that piece
of news to me. She called, chatted amiably for a
time, then stated, "You and Adam Hunter are an
item, I hear."

Aghast, I exclaimed, "Where'd you hear any such
thing!"

"From my mom. She hinted that Mrs. Palmer, her
next door neighbor, had seen Adam going to your
house late at night."

I gulped, trying to be matter-of-fact, "Oh that, he
came over to use the phone, his is being repaired."

Silence.

"I hardly know him," I lied, knowing she'd guessed
my secretive involvement.

"Look, you already told me there is someone in your
life, Allie. It's Adam, and I know it...but girl, just be
careful with him. He's had too much suffering in his
life to be whole."

"But people heal..."

"Allie, victimization is a tough thing. Some people
simply never are the same. They get caught up in the
past, romanticize it, dwell on it, rage over fate,
never let go..."

"But Adam is capable of overcoming the tragic
events," I defended hotly, forgetting how open I
was being with her.

"Is he, really? Why are you hiding your affair with
him then? Why not be open, show the world he's
coping?"

I was mutely aware of her intuitive knowledge of
our involvement, even perhaps Adam's darker
demons, ashamed slightly about our sexual liaisons.

She prompted, "Is he drinking, doing drugs? From
what mom says, the man looks haggard. Allie, victims
either recover or they continue to be victims of
their past, escaping in liquor, drugs, sex."

"Please that's enough!" I heard myself say, stung by
her last remark, which was all too true.

When we ended the conversation, I was emotionally
drained, and had to acknowledge I was the topic of
neighborhood gossip as well as a woman in love and
obsessed with a man who couldn't love me in return,
who was using me as an avenue of sexual escape
instead of healing through genuine spiritual,
emotional love.


*  *  *  *


I avoided Adam, staying at the newspaper office as
much as possible. I dated Sam, allowing him to cheer
me, entertain me as the next month passed slowly.

In the meantime, the Jamison house was being
renovated; carpenters worked daily, the place noisy
bedlam. I'd noticed Adam's car gone during the
days, but home at night...yet he never phoned, never
came over either.

That suited me fine, and as July arrived, hot, humid
and insufferably tropical as only Louisiana can be, I
made arrangements to take three weeks of vacation
in Pass Christian, at my parents' Mississippi seaside
cottage.

Don, the managing editor, was in charge of the
paper lately; my mind was preoccupied and my
historical piece took most of my attention anyhow.
Sam promised to do the copy editing in my absence,
and seemed disappointed I would be gone for three
weeks.
I felt I owed it to Adam to let him know I was
leaving, so I phoned him the night before my
departure.

He answered on the fourth ring, snapping irritably,
"Yes?"

"Adam, it's me, Allie."

He sighed, then asked reluctantly, "How have you
been?"

"I might ask the same of you, but I won't. I just
wanted to call, let you know I'm going out of town a
few weeks."

"Oh?"

"Yes, to Pass Christian. We have a cottage there,
and I need the time away."

A long silence at his end, but he finally said, "God,
I'm sorry Alison. I'm so confused, so disgusted by
having taken advantage of you."

I could barely speak, but I whispered, "I could have
stopped it, you know."

"It's my fault though. I got so...caught up in the sex,
like a drug...wrong." He coughed, then said, "Just a
minute."

I heard tinkling of ice in a glass, him swallowing and
his voice slurring, "I don't er, think we should, er, be
together...anymore."

I knew he was drinking; I'd suspected it when he
answered, but now I was sure. He'd replaced sexual
escapism with liquor. What would be next? Slow
suicide by drugs or a quick, violent death?
Compassion and concern overshadowed good sense,
and I said passionately, "I love you Adam!"

"Yeah, so you say. I'm not worthy of anyone's love,
least of all yours."

"Why must you punish yourself? If only you'd let
me share your grief, tell me what happened."

He sighed again, saying flatly, "Alison, I hope you
have a good trip. You need the time away from here
to forget about me. I may soon return to Atlanta."

Before I could protest, he hung up.

I was shattered, heartbroken.

*  *  *  *

The cottage at Pass Christian was musty, having
been closed since the past summer. I spent several
days cleaning, airing and getting it in livable shape.
The caretaker had the grounds in excellent condition
however - our yard swept down to the sea, and had
a magnificent view of the ocean, a private, secluded
beach.

I loved the cottage, an A-frame with full-front
windows, a rocked patio jutting out into the shade of
palms and shrubs, great for evenings watching the
sunset to the west. But I was moody, preferring to
sleep till noon, lie on the beach suntanning till three
and then bury myself in the cottage with a novel,
trying to forget Adam during the dreamy, moon-
drenched nights of salty, sea-scented air.

My parents phoned on the Fourth of July, telling me
they were having a wonderful time, asking again if I
wished to join them, but I declined.

I had wild ideas, plotting to hire a private
investigator, get him to look into the murders back in
Atlanta, search for the killer to end Adam's
persistent wondering - give him at least a sense of
retribution and perhaps closure. Then I'd chide
myself for being so ridiculous; Adam had made it
clear he didn't want to see me ever again - or my
interference.

By the second week in July, I was growing restless
and depressed. I decided to take a tour of the
historic district in Pass Christian, enjoying the grand
Ossian Hall, a preserved antebellum mansion, then
the Dixie White House, a remarkably authentic
reminder of the Civil War.

I returned to the cottage around five, pulling into
the drive to find Adam's Nissan there. My heart
seemed to go into my throat; I couldn't swallow, and
I sat in my Fiero, gripping the steering wheel,
calming myself.

When I got out, I saw Adam sitting on the patio,
wearing white cotton shirt and pants, both rolled up
to reveal his darkly golden skin, looking healthy and
fit compared to the last time I'd seen him. He
waved, yelling, "Hi! Hope you don't mind my
visiting?"

I hurried to the patio, seeing him rise, stretch his
arms overhead, yawning lazily.

I exclaimed, "Adam! How long have you been here?"

He grinned, his face clean-shaven and relaxed. "Not
long, about an hour."

I started up the three steps, but he came forward,
caught my hand, assisting me to the door. "You don't
mind?"

His touch was warm, and I felt the familiar physical
attraction but quickly squelched it. "No, but I'm
sorry I was out. I went sightseeing."

"Yes, this is a fabulous resort area, but lots of
history here too."

We went inside together, him talking about his trip,
the rainstorm yesterday. I was incredulous - what
was this all about?

I listened to him, but couldn't contain my tumultuous
emotional state, and finally blurted, "For God's
sake, why are you here? You wanted me out of your
life, now this?"

He just looked at me, his brown eyes studying my
face as I began to feel tears form, and stammered,
"Please just go."

He didn't say anything, but walked to me, put his
hands on my shoulders. His face was mournful but
his words were hopeful, "Allie, I want to apologize
for my behavior."

"You already have."

"And I want to make it up to you. I want us to be
friends, talk, get to know one another." He tipped
my chin up, staring at me intently and I could see he
was still attracted to me but he quickly added, "No
sex, just conversation and companionship."

I was astonished, but instantly felt happiness
flowing through me, lighting my face. "Oh Adam, do
you mean it?"

"Yes." He nodded, letting me go and stepping back,
adding, "You have a right to know why I'm so
devastated, why I've been incapable of giving or
healing."

I was jubilant, thinking this was the real beginning
for us.

I prepared a chef salad, and we ate quietly, then
later went for a walk on the moonlit beach. We held
hands, didn't speak, just enjoyed the roaring waves
coming ashore, the magnificent ocean spread out
before us, endless and eerie underneath night skies,
stars studded in the velvet black universe above.

Once Adam stopped, peering up and gesturing to the
stars, saying, "I used to stand out in the backyard,
look up and speak to them, my stars. Only they, in
their remoteness, were trusted enough to hear my
misery. Only those glittering orbs that have for eons
spun beyond our world, could keep such sorrowful
secrets."

I felt the poignant ache go through my heart,
envelope it and almost squeeze the breath out of
me; he was so alone, so lost and still I wanted to
help, however he would allow me.

Back in the cottage, he built a fire and we sat on
large soft cushions before it, talking.
Adam was hesitant, easing into the past, not daring
to reveal it all at once. First his childhood in Atlanta,
his wealthy, inaccessible parents who left him with
various nannies, shipped him off to boarding school
as soon as possible, the lost little boy who never felt
loved, as though he were only an encumberance...

He'd attended college, uncertain what he wanted to
do in life, but determined to do something, anything
meaningful, not become shallow and materialistic like
his father, who was a businessman to the core.

In his senior year, he'd signed up with the Peace
Corps, upsetting his parents. Then he went abroad to
work in underprivileged countries and was stunned
at the poverty, the ignorance and the need for
someone, anyone to care - which is what he did. He
gave of himself, and felt needed, fulfilled.

When his father died in an airline disaster, Adam
came home to find his mother an emotional wreck.
She couldn't cope, so he'd helped out, settled the
financial affairs, kept the business afloat but his
heart wasn't in it.

The year he was twenty-eight, his mother died. As
the only child, he inherited everything and was free
to do as he wished, deciding he wanted to teach
inner-city kids in Atlanta's public schools.

At thirty, he was single and happy - that is, until he
met Melonie Thurston. She was in Atlanta, promoting
tourism in Louisiana, his grandparents' home state.
As a representative of the state (she was Rice
Queen, a beauty pageant winner) Melonie exuded
grace, charm and genteel qualities of her family
heritage, the Thurstons of Layfette, a bloodline of
considerable prominence.

Melonie had been speaking at a shopping mall, and
Adam was in the crowd. He stood there, he said with
remembered fondness, almost in a trance. She was
unlike any woman he'd ever met - pale, delicate, with
coppery hair, large doe-brown eyes and fragile, frail
slenderness. Her Louisiana accent was like melted
butter, and he felt himself attracted to her,
physically and emotionally.

Afterward, he hung back, asked for her autograph.
She smiled at him, looking directly into his eyes as he
supposed she had been told to do, but he surprised
her by asking, "How about having dinner with me?"

Naturally, it wasn't that easy - pageant rules forbid
dating, or having a steady boyfriend. However, he
was persistent and she finally consented to dinner,
slipping away from her escorts. From their first
moment together alone, they felt the mutual glow of
love, and when her time as reigning Rice Queen was
over, a few months later, she moved to Atlanta, and
they soon set a date for their wedding.

"It was like I'd found myself, like I could relax, be
happy, forget how alone I'd always felt..." Adam
said, staring into the fire, reflective.

After long moments I asked, "And then, the baby?"

He resumed talking, saying that Melonie wanted
children more than anything, since she felt he would
benefit by having them, due to his loneliness as an
only child.

Scotty was born when Melonie was twenty-five and
Adam was thirty-two, only a little more than a year
after they married. And of course, she'd been
correct - Scotty was the perfect antidote to
Adam's loneliness, bringing unbelievable joy, love and
pleasure to them both.

At this he stopped, held his head in his hands,
groaned and said, "God, I'd give my life at this very
moment to have them alive again."

"I know you would," I said, sympathetic.

He ran a hand over his face, sighing. "But they are
gone, and I'll never be the same again, never."

"No...but Adam, you are still alive," I said, touching
his arm.

He then began rapidly, curtly telling of that
fatalistic day when he'd come home early, Melonie in
the kitchen, cooking, Scotty in the yard, playing.
They'd been chatting, laughing about the new
Mutant Ninja Turtle swingset Scotty was wild
about, when the doorbell rang. He went, thinking it
was probably one of Melonie's many friends; she
made them easily, and half their suburban
neighborhood would drop in unannounced.
But when he pulled back the door, it was a young
boy, roughly about sixteen, his leather jacket, jeans
and black, opague motorcycle helmet somehow
disconcerting.
Adam was about to ask what he wanted, when the
boy pulled a gun, screaming for him to get inside.

Adam was taken off-guard, and complied; the boy
jerked off his helmet, and pushed him toward the
kitchen, capturing Melonie unaware too.

The boy was nervous. He had spiky red hair,
bloodshot eyes and his gun wavered, but was a
definite threat. He noticed Scotty outdoors, told
them to get him inside.

Adam realized the boy was wired, probably on
crack-cocaine, and reasoning was impossible,
although he tried. Once Scotty was inside, the boy
told Melonie to hold him while he tied up Adam, using
a rope he had in his jacket.

Melonie watched nervously, afraid to move, holding
Scotty tightly. When finished, the boy turned to the
kitchen window, and that's when Melonie lunged at
him, a butcher knife in her hand.

But she was too small, no match for the wired boy
who turned, fired point-blank at her chest. She
whimpered, fell to the floor, and Scotty ran to her,
crying.

The boy panicked, shot Scotty and then turned the
gun toward Adam but didn't pull the trigger for
some reason. Instead he fled, leaving Adam facing
his lifeless wife and son.

Having heard the shots, neighbors called police, but
they never found the boy.

By now I was weeping openly and said, "Oh Adam,
I'm so sorry."

"I'd like to have gotten that little punk, killed him
with my bare hands!" He was enraged, his eyes hate-
filled and vengeful.

"How could he have gotten away?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, except there were
so many kids in that neighborhood, maybe the boy
just didn't look suspicious and rode right on past
others on his motorcycle."

"Why did he do it?" I asked helplessly.

"I was told later that there had been some kids in a
crackhouse, that one of them said they dared him to
kill somebody, anybody - just to see what it felt
like."

"Oh my God," I moaned, unable to comprehend such
senseless violence.

"And the worst part is, I taught kids just like him,
foolishly thinking I could make a difference."

"But you didn't recognize this boy?"

"No. Most of my troublemakers were black or
Hispanic welfare kids. He was white, a punk-styled
teen...but would fit right into a suburban setting, not
looking suspicious...or deadly."

I took his hand, touching his cheek. "I'm so glad you
told me."

He stood, looking remote now, controlled. His voice
was hollow-sounding, "I'm beat, see you tomorrow."

He turned, got his jacket and went out the door,
never glancing back once.

I sat there awhile, staring at the slowly dying fire.
Adam had shut down emotionally, gone cold again
right before my eyes. Knowing the tragedy, hearing
about it, hadn't brought me any closer to helping
him...or had it?










CHAPTER EIGHT

I spent a restless night, pondering the murders. It
was disturbing, although certainly as common today
as smog or polluted ocean beaches.

Still, I knew that Adam, like myself, had never been
victimized. His life, prior to the murders, had been
privileged, safe and relatively ordinary. That he'd
lost Melonie and Scotty, both at once in such a
brutal way, had shattered his illusion of the world;
therefore, he was going through a re-evaluation of
his life, his beliefs, his very existence.

That was understandable; however, the escapism he
exhibited, sexually and through liquor, didn't fit. He
seemed the kind of man who should have confronted
his tragedy, worked through his grief and rage with
counseling and then pulled himself together, carrying
on bravely as a survivor, not becoming a lifetime
victim.

I finally slept near dawn, and awoke around ten, the
muted light slanting through wood shutters on the
bedroom windows. Adam said he was staying at the
Ramada Inn near Long Beach, so I figured he was
out on the municipal pier, fishing; he'd confessed a
passion for that sport.

I had invited him to stay with me, but he refused,
strictly adhering to his self-imposed limitations of no
intimate relations between us.

After a brisk eye-opening shower, I pulled on a
flowered sundress, drank orange juice, made toast,
ate it and then went out on the patio to think about
my latest problem. Last month my period had failed
to come around, and I'd vaguely dismissed it as
nerves, or emotional fatigue.

Now, shadowed from bright sunshine underneath an
umbrella on the cottage patio, I counted back to
that second time Adam and I had spent the night
together, and discovered, not surprisingly, that I
could have become pregnant.

I let my eyes close, halfway fearing I was, halfway
hoping it was true. I couldn't justify a pregnancy,
but then again, it might be the needed instrument to
bring Adam out of his depression.

The morning was steamy, the air thick with humidity.
I went back inside, wondering what to do. Should I
tell Adam of my suspicions, or verify it first? I
looked at the clock, almost eleven, picked up the
phone, and made an appointment in Gulfport for a
pregnancy test.

It was a long afternoon, waiting among other
nervous women at a gynecologist I'd never seen
before, then lying to him that I had been referred
by my own doctor in Layfette.

But when I finally had the results, I felt more
optimistic than I had since meeting Adam. I was
going to have his child, six weeks along already.

Driving back to the cottage, I enjoyed the scenic
oceanfront trip on US 90, idly daydreaming of the
growing child within me. A girl or boy? Did it matter?
Maybe Adam would prefer another boy - or would
that seem as though he were trying to replace
Scotty?

My Fiero purred along, the afternoon dimming into a
bleached red sunset as I whizzed through Long
Beach and located the Ramada Inn. I was utterly
caught up in my fantasy of our life, our
future...visualizing Adam by my side, healed, whole,
loving again.
At the desk, I asked for his room number, then
went directly there; the Nisson was parked in the
lot, so I was in luck.

Hesitantly, I stood in front of the door, smoothing
my wrinkled turquoise jacket and skirt. I heard no
noise from inside, but I knocked anyway, listening.

Nothing.

I leaned against the door, anxious. It was oddly
quiet, and I wondered if Adam was out?

Just then, I saw him coming down the walkway; he
had an ice bucket, his face composed and turned
toward the busy highway.

Unnoticed, I watched him. He was wearing the same
white cotton pants and shirt, sleeves rolled up to
reveal his tan. I thought him attractive, handsome in
a way difficult to pinpoint. He looked like any other
average man, but those features of his - the dark
hair combed straight back off his high forehead,
sunken brown eyes in an angular face, a square chin
- suggested more to me now for I suddenly
wondered if our child would resemble him?

"Allie," he said, looking up to see me staring at him
when he was almost to the room.

"Hi! Hope you don't mind me dropping in
spontaneously?" I said, moving aside as he unlocked
his door, gesturing me inside.

"No, no...although I am a little surprised." He swept
past me, and I got a whiff of liquor as he put the ice
bucket down, avoiding my eyes.

"If you have plans, I'll leave," I told him, fidgeting
with my purse near the door.

He was silent, making himself a quick mixed drink,
adding more liquor than necessary; his shoulders
were hunched, his face averted. "No, stay."

I inched to a chair, sat down, wondering if I'd made
a mistake coming here unannounced.

He gulped the drink, his eyes meeting mine above the
glass, glazed and uncertain. Then he said slowly,
"Sorry, but ah, I need this."

I stood abruptly, went to him and looked into his
stricken eyes. "I suspected you were drinking long
before now."

He flinched, draining the glass, then putting it down
with a thud on the table. "So?"

"Adam, please don't do this. You must deal with your
feelings, not try to drown them, escape your grief."
I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, searching for
inner strength, hoping to get through to him.

He was taking me in his arms, pulling me against him,
softly sighing, his voice a sob: "God Allie, I want to!
But the pain, it never quits. Every day I get up, the
sun is shining, the sky is blue but...as cliched as it
sounds, I'm dead, dead to the world."

I held him, his heart against mine, muffled sobs
coming from his soul, his tears mingling on my face
as he kissed me tenderly, liquor-sour breath from
his lips.
"Alison, you need to get away from me. Go now, I
don't want to let you love me, cause you the pain I
am feeling."

"I want to share it, Adam!" I admonished, looking
into his face.

"I can't, I just can't feel any love for you. I feel
sexual attraction, almost irrepressible, but that's
lust, not love and you deserve so much more!" He
jerked away, walked across the room, stood at the
windows with his back to me.

I was crushed, shaken again by his lack of emotional
love for me. Was it true, or could he be denying it
for fear of betraying Melonie's memory?

He shook his head, saying, "I wish I could love you, I
wish I could have hope that I'd be able to someday,
or that what happened to Melonie and Scotty
wouldn't ruin me forever."

"You will heal Adam if you'll let yourself. It'll take
time, but..."

"No!" He shouted, swiveling to face me, his eyes
burning bright. "No, I don't want to heal or forget!
I want to remember, to suffer because I allowed it
to happen. I was tied, but I didn't try, I didn't think
the boy would do it. What a fool I was!"

My heart twisted inside me; how he blamed himself!
I spoke slowly, "Adam, it wasn't your fault. How
could you have stopped him?"

"Somehow, some way I know I could have, if I'd
tried. It's that I didn't even try." He groaned, went
to the bed and slumped down wearily.

I wanted to tell him about the baby, but I couldn't;
he was a man plagued by self-doubts, guilt and
sorrow, and I had no right to compound his sense of
obligation by my pregnancy. I went to the door, said,
"I'm leaving now, like you asked me to."

He looked up at me, and the haunted emptiness in his
eyes was almost enough to bring me back to his side,
but he said flatly, "I'm sorry for coming to you, for
giving you false hope. It's just that for a moment,
for a little while, I thought you could help me and I
had to see you. Now I've hurt you again, and worse,
just recounting that horror last night set me to
drinking again."

"I'll stay, if you want me to. I love you Adam, I
can't help it." I stood motionless, waiting.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, a
few strands falling on his high forehead. "No, go. I
need to be alone and I...I promise not to bother you
again."

So I left, drove back to the cottage in a daze of
misery. What was I to do about the baby?

That night I sat up late, staring into the firelight.
Once I would have found comfort in spiritual
guidance, and it occurred to me I hadn't been to
church since Adam had come into my life.

Maybe if I talked with Pastor Thomas, he could help
me in this dilemma? I loved Adam, I did - and I
knew I could never have an abortion, never! But
should I think about giving the baby up to someone
else for adoption?

I didn't know the answer, but vowed to find a
solution when I returned to Mayson in another week.



CHAPTER NINE

August arrived with a vicious heatwave. I was now
having nausea and the hot, still mornings were
miserable. I'd get up hungry but when I smelled
Maggie's bacon wafting up the stairs, I'd feel bile
rise in my throat, gag and run to the bathroom. So
far, she'd not guestioned me, but I knew Maggie
suspected my illness, my loss of weight was not
entirely without reason.

The newspaper kept me occupied and I put in at
least four hours, usually between ten and two,
trying to concentrate on copy editing, or writing a
series of articles about next year's political
prospectives in Mayson. It was boring, but held my
attention; I tried to ignore the pregnancy, and stay
busy.

Sam had been wonderful. He was incredibly happy
to see me return, and insisted we celebrate by
having burgers, which I agreed to. He was lively, fun
and diverted me from the fact that Adam had
disappeared again. Nevertheless, workers were still
clamoring over and around the Jamison house,
methodically restoring it, taking their orders from a
gruff carpenter/foreman out of New Orleans hired
for the renovation. The project continued even in his
absence, as though Adam had given the architect
complete control.

Nights I came home to quiet, the crew gone. But
little by little, the house was turning into a
masterpiece of reproduction - claiming the heritage
of craftmanship and devotion to detail it rightly
deserved. For that, I was grateful to Adam. From
my bedroom window, I looked down at the
scaffolds, strewn tools and assortment of
machinery, but it would be worth the mess in the
end.

My visit with Pastor Thomas had been a fiasco. I'd
attended church, hoping to feel the comfort, the
peace that fine old cathedral once inspired. But the
regular church members distracted me, one by one
slyly glancing at me, accusing or overtly curious. Of
course, they'd heard the gossip; they must be
wonering if Adam and I were to become a couple, a
proper couple that is, by religious standards.

As I'd sat there Sunday morning, it occurred to me
that I was being hypocritical. I had been totally
unconcerned with "morals" when Adam and I were
together, and further, I realized with a shock I
didn't regret it, not a moment of it.   I even felt
proud of the child I was carrying. All the same, I did
request counseling with Pastor Thomas but when I
sat before him, I found his calculated warmth and
grave facial expression didn't elicit my confidence.
Instead, I saw a frozen smile on his wan, thin face,
his piercing gaze somehow disconcerting. He looked
like the cat outside a mouse hole, so I made up a
foolish tale, then hurriedly escaped, seeing his
dismay and disapproval.

One day I drove to Layfette and had lunch with
Paula; but just as I was about to confess my
situation, she'd begun talking about her pregnancy,
the nursery they were decorating. I decided not to
cast a cloud over her carefree expectancy.

By the middle of August, I drove back to Gulfport
and kept an appointment with the doctor, making
sure all was well healthwise. It was.

Unfortunately I found that keeping this a secret
was slowly eating me up inside. I needed desperately
to talk to someone, but who?

And then I remembered Alice Wentworth. She was
receptive when I called, and was eagerly waiting to
greet me when I arrived that late afternoon. It was
necessary to wear a loose caftan, for I'd begun
showing slightly.

Alice pinned me with a stare, and asked, "What's
wrong child?"

Without formality, I walked to her bedside and sat
down in a chair, started crying. "I'm in such a mess!"

She fluffed her pillows, propped up and said,
"Adam?"

I gazed at her through tears. "How'd you know?"

"I saw your compassion, your caring for him when
we talked. That's why I urged you to help him, so
whatever is wrong, it's partly my fault."

I stood, took her feeble hand. "No, that's not true.
I'm entirely to fault for..."

She patted my hand, moving to let the comforter
fall from her shoulders. The poster bed was
covered with various sized pillows, and she said,
"Please, hand me that satin blue pillow, dear."

I quickly did so, helping her rise, giving her a vantage
point to look at me. She was indeed weaker than
when I'd interviewed her, but still had vestiges of
the strong woman who had ruled her family.

"Now, now dear," she said calmly, "tell me the
problem."

And I did, discreetly describing our sexual liaisons,
Adam's inability to love, his insistence I not be in his
life, ending with, "But I'm pregnant, and I don't
know whether I should tell him or not. I don't want
to burden him, or force a relationship after what
he's been through. On the other hand..."

Alice cleared her throat. "It's quite simple - you
must tell him, because he is the father. Telling him
doesn't necessarily mean marriage, or any
responsibility on his part. It only means you respect
his right to know."

Her words released a bright sunburst inside me,
freeing me to do what I'd wanted to all along. I
gushed, "Do you really think so?"

"Why, of course my dear. The father has a right to
know about his child - but that doesn't obligate him.
You must make the ultimate decision about the baby,
if you keep it or not."

"I don't know yet what I'll do. At first, I thought
about adoption...but now..." I drifted off, thinking of
my child, the tiny life inside me, so precious. Could I
part with it?

She smiled, her lined face creasing with
understanding. "You'll know when the time comes,
but for now, you must tell Adam."

I thanked her profusely, and knew just looking into
her faded blue eyes she would never tell another
soul.

Alice Wentworth is a true southern lady.

*  *  *  *


Boldly, I confronted the workmen. They pointed out
the foreman, a squarely built man, short and stocky,
with red hair and sunburned skin.

I asked him about Adam and he treated me with
professional curtesy, told me Adam was in Atlanta,
occasionally in touch for orders or any problems
they might need to discuss pertaining to the
renovation.

However, it took me several nights of calling before
I finally got Adam. He had an answering machine,
but I usually just hung up when it clicked in.

At last, near the end of August, I called late at
night and he answered.
"Adam?"

"Who's this?" His voice was slurred, indistinct.

"Adam, this is Allie. I need to discuss something with
you."

Silence.

"Look, I know you don't wish to communicate with
me, but this is important."

He sighed. "Please, it's...too late."

"Yes, more than you can know," I replied,
disappointed that he was still drinking.
The connection crackled with unsaid words; I held
the phone tightly, wishing I was with him.

He finally said, "Okay, what is it?"

"Not on the phone, I need to see you."

"God Allie, that would be wrong. You need to forget
about me..."

"After this one last time, I will if that's still what
you wish. But first, I have to talk to you, in person."

"Shit," he muttered, half to himself.

I heard ice clinking against glass, and him moving
around, then saying, "I'll fly down this weekend, but
can only stay one day."

"Fine."

"I'm working on selling this place here in Atlanta,
but the realtors are having a hard time. No one
wants to live in a house where cold-blooded murder
was committed."

I felt so helpless, so far away from him in that
moment. My voice choked, then I managed, "I still
love you, I always will."

"Please don't Allie." His voice was heavy with liquor,
slow and deliberate, "I don't want you, I don't, I
won't hurt you."

"We'll talk more this weekend."

"Yeah, but...Allie, I've made arrangements to move
to Birmingham, Alabama. A complete change."

"That might be a good idea. Will you teach again?"

He coughed, said slowly, "I don't know, but I have
to go now. Talk to you Saturday."

And he hung up, the dead phone in my hand as
lifeless as he had sounded.









CHAPTER TEN


Saturday was scorching, nearly unbearable as only
the last of August can be in Louisiana. I couldn't
endure being outdoors, instead staying inside where
it was cool, waiting for Adam to arrive.

I knew he would call, probably take a room at the
downtown hotel. Looking out my bedroom window, I
realized his house was a shambles, impossible for
him to stay there.

It was a long, long day. Around noon, Maggie called
me to lunch; I ate ravenously. She had been quiet,
but I could tell she had guessed what was wrong
with me.

As I lifted a glass of milk, she pulled back a chair
and sat at the kitchen table with me.
Her thick molasses voice said, "Your folks gonna be
here in a few days."

"Yes," I replied, sipping the milk and sensing an
impending lecture.

"What you gonna do, sweet pea?"

Her pet name for me, uttered with butter softness
and concern, made me almost cry. "I don't know. Is
it that obvious?"

She placed her hands on the table, looking at me
with big brown eyes. "Yes, it is. You be carrying a
child, and need to keep your nerves settled."

I swallowed hard, flinching. "I know, and I am going
to handle this with courage."

"Child, why'nt you talk to me, I don't judge."

"Maggie, I know you don't. It's just that I am
undecided about uh, the father."

"That Adam Hunter, ain't it?" She leaned forward,
watching my reaction.

"Yes, I suppose you saw us..."

"No I didn't, but I see you staring out the windows,
looking at his house so sad and all."

"Oh Maggie, I love him desperately!"

She stood, came and put her arms around me from
the back, soothing, "I know, I know sweet pea.
How's he feel?"

"I don't think he really knows. The loss of his wife
and son...tragic and not that long ago, he's still
devastated."

"Listen Allie, love ain't no good less you both feeling
it." She patted my shoulder, stroking my hair.

"He's coming in today, and I plan to tell him about
the baby."

"You gonna keep it?"

"Yes, regardless of how he feels. I won't destroy a
life," I said loudly, hearing my fiercely protective
words.

"That's my girl," Maggie murmured, helping me up
and adding, "That Adam, he a fool if he don't love
you."

Well, she is biased. Maggie is part of our family,
almost a maternal figure to me since she'd been
with us so long. I gave her a weak smile, and went to
my bedroom, took a nap and awoke to the ringing
phone.

Adam was direct and to the point - he said he was
exhausted, and would meet wherever I wished.

I suggested a nice restaurant dowtown in a couple
of hours; he wasn't thrilled by my choice, but
agreed.

I was a bundle of nerves, choosing a classy dress to
wear, getting my bath, being especially particular
about my appearance.

When ready, I looked in the cheval mirror: my
creamy white feminine dress had a V-neck wrap
front, lavished with cotton lace lapels leading to a
double-buttoned dropped waist and padded
shoulders that made me appear slender. I had on
white pumps, satiny hose and wore pearls at my
neck, matching ear-rings. I'd pulled my hair up in a
sophisticated chignon, applied a touch of lavender
eyeshadow and pink lip gloss. I looked healthy,
glowing almost.

I drove through the misty twilight, caught up in the
sun setting behind stately mansions, the overhanging
cypress and live oak limbs. The scene was
reminiscent of the Old South, a bygone Louisiana,
the faintly mystical aura of what-once-had-been on
these streets: horse-drawn carriages, gaslights, top
hats and evening gowns, ladies and gentlemen on
their way to civic events a century before.

Downtown, I passed the now silent, dark Clarion
office, saw the post office, the grammar school and
drove on down to the building that housed JADE,
our finest restaurant in Mayson.

I drove around to the back, pulled into the parking
lot and spotted Adam's Nissan. I parked, got out
and admired the aging building, which had been
meticulously restored by several owners. In the
stylish architecture of the 18OOs, it was two-story
brick and stucco, with lavish scrollwork at the
corners, and around long, narrow windows. Now
painted rust and brown, it was warmly inviting.

I entered the doorway, waiting till Jannie, the young
hostess, came toward me, saying, "Hi Allie!"

"Hi," I said, then asked, "Is Adam Hunter seated?"

"Yes, right over there by the window. Are you
meeting him?" Her perky face held barely concealed
curiosity.

"Yes, I am."

She smiled, leading me through the cool, quietly
muffled interior; plants hung from the high ceiling,
paddle fans whirled gently; indirect lighting and
plush carpeting lent a subdued atmosphere...a
masterpiece of exquisite restoration with modern
features blended elegantly.

Adam had on a three-piece pinstripe suit, and
seemed uncomfortable as I approached. But his
face was ravaged, circles beneath his eyes, tight
lines about his mouth. He managed to say pleasantly,
"Good to see you, Alison."

I sat down as he held my chair at the linen-covered
table. Several patrons, older couples I knew well,
were watching us. This was a place frequented by
my parents' friends, but I wanted to be here when
I told Adam about the pregnancy. He couldn't
afford to insist on an abortion, or cause a scene in
this public place with familiar faces nearby.

Jannie handed us a menu, discreetly saying she'd
send a waiter for our orders. I hardly heard her,
unable to face Adam's obvious distress.

He sat down, and I looked out the long window to a
tree-lined street, the stoplight at the corner, a few
cars driving slowly by.

"So Alison...why this public meeting?" His voice was
thin, anxious.

I felt my face flush. I fidgeted with my hands,
finally putting them in my lap, holding still. "I wanted
us to meet like this, out in the open."

He reached for his water, his hand shaking badly,
causing the ice to clink. He took a long sip, then
asked, "I suppose you think I'm being a first-rate
heel?"

"No, but people are talking. Those times you came to
my house, when I went to you."

"And if we make it public, then there's no reason
for speculation, is that it?" He set the glass down,
staring at me.

I was drawn into his brown eyes, engulfed by the
anquish, the smoldering sensuality of his steady,
measuring gaze. He grimaced, still frowning and
puzzled.

"Adam, it's not only that. I have some news for you,
and thought it best we were among others when you
hear it."

"I see." He looked away, out the darkened window,
our reflections etched as though in stone on the
glass. He sighed, asking, "And what is the news?"

"Let's order first, eat and then I'll tell you."

"Fine." He searched for the waiter, motioned and
the man came to our table.

It was a delicious meal, excellent wine and lavish
dessert. We both only picked at the food though, so
at last I wiped my mouth with the napkin, lay it down
and said, "Adam, the times we were together..."

"Yes?" He leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing me.

"I...we uh, neither of us used any birth control."

"Oh God," he groaned, his face going white. "You
don't mean...?"

"I'm sorry, but in a way, I'm not sorry. It's just
that I've had time to consider the options, and you
haven't." I said determindedly, "I plan to have the
baby, regardless of how you feel or your wishes."

He was shocked, his pale face a portrait of
confusion, slowly turning into something like wonder,
amazement. "But Allie..."

I held up my hand, said, "I'm not asking you for
anything, not a single thing. But as the father, you
did have a right to know, that's all."

"My God, a...child. I never, it didn't occur to me, I
have been so wrapped up in my own morbid misery.

I nodded, secretly pleased at his reaction. Maybe,
just maybe there was a chance...

He was suddenly calling for the check, helping me up
and escorting me gently, gallantly out of the
restaurant, smiling at Jannie! And then we were
outside, melting in the sultry Louisiana summer night.

Adam led me to the parking lot, avoiding glances
from others leaving. I walked with him, hope beating
like a bird's wings in my chest.

At his car he said, "Please, let's go for a drive?"

I was willing, and slipped inside, silently glowing with
inner warmth, watching as we drove down the
familiar streets, turning onto Cedar Highway,
heading out past the Interstate, on beyond into flat
low-lying countryside.

The moon rode the horizon, stars glittered in a black
velvet sky. Adam had put in a tape of Mozart, and
we didn't speak.

It was like a dream, one I'd been having since seeing
him alone and suffering in Magnolia Park five months
earlier. Occasionally I thought I glimpsed a half-
smile on his face.

Adam drove about twenty miles, then pulled into the
old Clifford Bayou; it was deserted, eerie in the
moonlight, cypresses draped with moss, flat, murky
backwater where alligators could be seen in daylight.

He parked in a generously secluded spot, away from
the highway. It was utterly quiet when he turned off
the motor; I could see the distinct flicker of
fireflies among the mossy tendrils.

Then Adam said, "Alison, I never meant for this to
happen."

"I know, I didn't either," which was partly untrue,
since I'd more or less realized it could from the
beginning and done nothing to prevent it.

"God!" He had his head in his hands, his hair falling
on his forehead.

I moved nearer, asking, "Have I hurt you?"

"No, I just don't know what to think. In my gut, I
feel responsible and deep down, a bit...in awe...and
grateful."

"Oh Adam," I murmured, "this could be wonderful. A
child is so innocent, so easy to love."

"Don't!" he snapped, flinching when I touched his
sleeve. "Don't think I can love, I can't, ever!"

Crushed, I pleaded, "How do you know? How do you
know what you'd feel if you held a helpless baby of
yours?"

Unbelievably, he turned, took me in his arms, kissing
my forehead. "Allie, you are so innocent, so
optimistic...a wonderful woman. If I can't love you,
how can I expect myself to love our child?"

"You must allow yourself to love again. You've got to
forgive yourself for what happened, stop blaming it
all on yourself." I placed my hands on either side of
his face, aching with love, with mingled compassion
and yearning.

"It isn't fair! God, we had it all, and then just like
that," he snapped his fingers, "gone!"

"Please," I begged, pressing myself against him, "let
me help you."

"No!" He pulled back, staring down into my face,
groaning, "God forgive me, but even now I want
you."

"I'm yours, forever. Adam, I love you." And there it
was, my helplessness when near him, my vulnerable,
open heart nakedly in need.

He claimed me then, his hungry mouth coming down
upon mine, devouring, seeking, searching. We forgot
all else as our clothing came off, our bodies tangling
in the heat of passion, lost to anything but the
intensity of sexual desire.

When it was over, Adam talked a great deal, saying
what he feared, what he couldn't feel, and that in
spite of it he wanted to know his child, help me with
my pregnancy.

Although I loved him with every fiber of my being,
this upset me. He still felt reluctance, was unable to
say he loved me so I continually told him it wasn't
his obligation. I had money; I had a family who
would understand.

In the end though, he asked me to marry him.

Maybe I was foolish, but I accepted. I wanted him
so badly, needed him and loved him...how could I
have refused?








CHAPTER ELEVEN


My parents were stunned when I told them, the
night I picked them up at the Baton Rouge Airport.
Mother turned ashen, couldn't speak; father was
more composed, and managed, with considerable
effort, to ask, "Adam Hunter, you mean the man
living in the Jamison house across the street?"

He was driving, mother beside him, me in the
backseat of the Mercedes. "Yes, and you won't
believe how good the house is turning out. He has
given me permission to hire an interior decorator, do
the inside however I wish. We plan to live there
after we're married."

Mother was struggling to stay her cool, level-headed
self, but blurted, "Alison, you hardly know the man!
And such a tragic background."

I said calmly, "Yes, the murders were terrible, and
Adam's been hurt, hurt deeply. I want to help him
get over it, go on with his life."

"Are you sure you know what you're getting into
young lady?" My father inquired, glancing at me.

"I know it won't be easy, but I think with time,
Adam will learn to be a survivor, not a victim of his
past."

There was an awkward silence, the Mercedes sailing
along the flat interstate, headlights of oncoming
cars piercing us, rhythmic night traveling.

Mother cleared her throat, said, "We had a lovely
time in Australia, and New Zealand. I wish you'd
come over, we could have..."

"I had plenty to do here, and I did take three weeks
off, went down to the cottage at Pass Christian."

"Did you visit Uncle Rich?"

"No," I answered my father, "I didn't. I did phone
him and Aunt Martha said his arthritis was acting
up."

"Poor Rich, he's suffered with that for the past
fifteen years."

I was fond of my aunt and uncle; they owned
considerable land in Pass Christian, Rich being my
father's eldest brother, now eighty.

Mother ventured softly, "When do you want the
wedding...there's lots to do, arrangements..."

I had dreaded this, but replied firmly, "We are going
to New Orleans, get married there, probably around
September 15th. No church wedding here, I'm
sorry."

Dead silence.

"I was the one to suggest it, not Adam," I quickly
added, looking at their tight expressions.

"Even so Allie, I need to be involved in some way,
maybe a bridal tea?"

I listened to my mother ramble on, stating the social
connections, the obligation to other women in her
clubs, returned favors, etc. and all the while thinking
how I'd lost my faith, my belief in religion, my trust
in God and felt no responsibility about social
obligations...so unlike myself. It wasn't Adam who'd
changed me exactly, it was my awakening to love, to
sexual desire and the sense that certain
conventional standards no longer applied to myself.

"I know you mean well," I told my mother, "but let
me do this my way, okay?"

Father interrupted, "Will you continue at the
paper?"

"I want to take a year off, stay with Adam, maybe
travel and then, I'll be back to work."

He nodded, shrugging. "I want you to be happy,
sweet pea."

That touched me, so I declared, "I missed you two!"

They said they'd missed me and home, then launched
into a travelogue of their trip.

*  *  *  *

Time whizzed by. Adam made a few trips back to
Atlanta, settling his financial affairs there, and also
visiting his parents, telling them the news of our
wedding.

In the meantime, I tried to hide my pregnancy but
couldn't deceive my mother. When she finally
confronted me, I confessed in tears what had
happened; she was very understanding, and
surprised me by saying that at least I hadn't opted
for an abortion. I think she was secretly delighted
to have a grandchild on the way.

While Adam was in town, we tried to see each other
every night, dining out, going to public places
together, giving the nosy citizens their due, showing
that we were "properly" courting. Our marriage
would come as no shock, although I'm sure some
would calculate our child was conceived beforehand.

The day before our scheduled trip to New Orleans,
I got together with Paula and told her all about our
situation. We confided like the dear friends we are,
laughing about it easily, speculating about our
children growing up as buddies.

I was ready and waiting for the departure, anxious
and unable to sleep that night. Around midnight, I
got up, paced the room, aware it was my last hours
of being single... but I was more than willing to be
Adam's wife, at last falling asleep with him on my
mind and in my dreams.

*  *  *  *

New Orleans is bawdy, capricious, fun-loving and
austerely authentic all at the same time, like a
frenzied carnival or stupendous, outrageous
spectacle. It is saturated with blatant sexuality on
Bourbon Street yet old-fashioned and grandly
historic in the marvelously preserved French
Quarter, a bounty for honeymooners, and we were
no exception.

Our wedding took place at a quaint chapel. Adam
knew of this small rustic church outside the city, a
Parson who married many couples either going to
New Orleans or coming from the city. It was very
private, just us and the minister, his wife and her
sister as the witness - but sincerely moving in its
utter simplicity.

Adam remained optimistic, seemingly brighter and
hopeful since the night of his proposal. I had every
reason to believe it would work out, that his
melancholy was gone, forever banished by our
relationship, and our child.

We spent our first night in extravagance, registered
at the Hilton, and Adam's sexual appetite had not
dampened; it was exciting, stimulating for a wedding
night, not hampered by my pregnancy.

Then we toured the city, seeking those special
places for lovers, riding in a horse-drawn carriage,
or on the famous streetcars, viewing the sidewalk
artists' work, getting our portrait done by a
talented artist; then dining at the finer restaurants,
sampling the nightlife till all hours.

I was waltzing in slow motion to the dream that had
come true, Adam and myself married, celebrating
the child I carried.

I was, in fact, so convinced of his happiness that I
failed to realize the sadness behind his cheerful
facade, and only when I found him weeping
uncontrollably the last night did I suddenly feel
jolted out of the fantasy I was enjoying.

I'd gone down to the lobby, asked if we had any
messages, and returned to the room instead of going
to the gift shop as I'd told him I would.

When I came through the door, I stopped, hearing
sobs from the inner chamber; the suite was two
rooms, outer quarters for lounging.

I went to the doorway, peered in quietly. Adam was
sitting on the edge of the bed, his head cradled
between his hands - a defeated gesture I'd
witnessed often - and he was crying openly.

My first instinct was to run to him, comfort him, but
I restrained myself, watching as he cursed, "Why,
why...shit why can't I feel love like I pretend,
dammit!"

I felt weak, dizzy; he'd only been pretending?
Bracing against the door, I couldn't pull myself
away, watched as he started pacing angrily, shaking
almost with rage.

His face was twisted, red and flushed with
emotional anguish; he flopped back on the bed,
exhausted by his outburst.

I knew then, at that moment, he didn't love me, not
really. It was his sense of honor, his sense of moral
obligation for our child...that was why he'd married
me and that only!

I couldn't face him, so I slipped away, hurried back
through the hotel, out onto the crowded streets,
losing myself among the outrageous, irreverent
people in the city.

What would I do? Could I live with him, knowing he
was incapable of love, or ever getting over his dead
wife and son? I hadn't helped Adam heal; I'd only
burdened him with my emotions, my craving for him,
captured him by pregnancy.

I was deeply ashamed, felt humiliated by what I'd
done! I ran blindly, not seeing those around me, not
caring where I went...

It was near ten, and I kept going, rounding corners,
walking fast, oblivious to my direction...

I didn't even realize I'd gotten to Bourbon Street,
until a slick-haired man, his face pencil-thin, beady
vulture-eyes riveted on me, asked harshly, "Lady,
wanna see a sex-show?"

I was taken aback, looked at his face, smelling his
foul breath as he stood close to me.

My voice quavered, "No... I mean, I..."

The night throbbed with steamy vulgarity. People
swayed from liquor, their eyes glazed with lust from
being in proximity to strippers, raunchy, suggestive
music, sexual appetites unleashed on the street...

"I'm sorry, I must have gotten turned around," I
said, edging away from the sleazy man barking strip
shows outside a tawdry joint.

Just then I felt a hard grip on my shoulders from
behind, and when I started to turn, a jab of
something sharp in my lower back. "Do like I say
lady, and you won't get hurt, hear?"

I felt myself propelled backwards, backwards and
being forced into a dark, smelly, dirty alleyway.

I was afraid if I screamed he would kill me, so I
went along fearfully with my unknown assailant...




Epilogue


I was brutally raped that night.

I lost the baby, and I very nearly lost my life - in
some ways, I did lose my life.

It's been several months now, a cold, damp January
day outside my window here at Cypress, a mental
insitution.

I sit here, staring vacantly. I should talk to the
counselor, instead of writing this down - but I can't
speak, haven't since the rape.

Adam comes to see me, and he still has death
haunting his eyes, as I do now. We just look at each
other, him begging me to talk, move, touch him or in
any way communicate I am alive. But you see, I'm
dead in my soul, my heart stone-cold and I can't
give him that false hope.

My parents, seeming to have aged a decade, come
and visit too. They have this tiny spark in them still,
the hope of me recovering. They, you see, have been
untouched by violence and can't conceive of it at all,
no matter how they try to understand.

Just like me with Adam. I thought, oh I thought I
understood Adam's grief, his pain, his emptiness and
could help him cope.

What a fool I was...what a selfish, conceited fool I
was! I no more understood his loss than a blind
person can understand light!

Now...yes now I do understand.

I know all too well the rage that gnaws like a vulture
at your gut.

I know the shock, disbelief and then the
overwhelming emptiness that obliterates your
feelings forever, a black hand smothering you unto
death with grief and loss.

I was raped, stabbed repeatedly and if a passerby
hadn't come to my rescue in that alleway, I'd have
died.

The authorities, of course, never found the man who
attacked me.

It doesn't matter anymore, not really.

You see, I'm already dead, lost to the world anyhow.
I can't feel love again, not like before, not even
when Adam comes here, when he cries, when he says
that we might overcome this together. But his eyes
betray him, still bleak and spiritless.

No.

It won't happen, because like so many in today's
society, I've become a statistic, one of the walking
wounded.

But my scar is deeper, darker than most because it
has robbed me of dignity, my body violated by rape,
my very being repulsed by any man's touch - ruined
and ravaged, lost to this confinement where I'll
never speak, never feel again...

I'm dead, just not buried yet.


                    --The End--

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