Duet for Three Hands Page 3

  “What did you do?”

  “You’ll laugh.”

  He smiled, feeling relaxed for the first time that night. “I promise not to.”

  “I found a book called The Lost Art of Conversation, by Horatio Sheafe Krans. I probably should have read Emily Post instead, but I’m one to look to the masters first, so I muddled through each of the essays, and do you know what I learned?”

  He put his hand up to his heart. “Tell me, Mrs. Bellmont, and save me from a life of solitude.”

  She laughed. “It all comes to this.” She raised one hand in the air like a preacher. “Ask questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “Precisely. Begin every conversation by asking a question of the other person. It never fails me. People love to talk about themselves.” She looked, once again, over at Frances, who was now talking with Mr. Wainwright, and then back at Nathaniel. “Mr. Fye, you must come visit us. This isn’t the setting to talk with Frances properly.”

  “You might think I’m too old for her. I’m thirty-two.”

  “Frances is twenty. Quite old enough to marry. My husband’s ten years older than I am. I see nothing wrong with it. Anyway, her father will like it if you call on her at our home. He’ll be delighted that a man of your reputation is interested in Frances.” She took another sip of her champagne.

  “Do you think she would consider me?”

  Her face softened further as her eyes turned a deeper shade of gray. “I didn’t raise a fool, Mr. Fye.”

  “That’s kind. Thank you.” He forgot himself for a moment, forgot his terrible wanting of young Frances Bellmont and his paralyzing shyness. The room was beautiful and so were his party guests, and, in the company of Mrs. Bellmont, he felt like the kind of man who laughed at parties and thought of questions and answers. It was good, this, to have people around him, and he felt hope, too, for a future that might include the beguiling Frances Bellmont and her lovely mother.

  Then, he noticed Frances and Walt across the room in a corner by themselves. Frances leaned into Walt, whispering something in his ear. Walt flushed and shook his head. A moment later Walt left Frances and came to stand next to him. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bellmont, but it’s getting late, and our prodigy here needs his beauty rest.”

  Mrs. Bellmont set her glass on the table behind them. “Oh, of course. It’s getting late for us, too.” She waved to Frances. “Time to go, darlin’.”

  Frances stood next to Ralph Landry now; he poured more champagne in her glass. “But we just arrived,” said Frances.

  “Nathaniel has a busy day tomorrow,” said Walt. Nathaniel stared at him. He’d never heard Walt sound so cold. What had happened?

  Frances glared at Walt while drinking the rest of her champagne in one swallow.

  Everyone else bustled about, getting ready to leave. Goodbyes were made until it was only the Bellmont women left, standing in the doorway, and Walt, gathering the empty champagne bottles.

  “Good night, Mr. Fye,” Frances said. “It was awfully nice of you to invite us.” Behind them, Walt flung bottles into the apple crate. Frances leaned forward, pulling at the lapel of Nathaniel’s suit jacket, and whispered in his ear. “Please tell me I’ll see you again soon?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “Mr. Fye’s agreed to call on us at the house when he returns from California,” said Mrs. Bellmont to her daughter.

  Frances gave Nathaniel her hand. “Something to look forward to then, even though it seems terribly far away.” She paused, looking up at him from under thick lashes. “I can’t remember a better evening.”

  Nathaniel kissed both women’s hands and bid them good night. After he closed the door, he turned toward Walt, grinning. “She wants to see me again. I can hardly believe it.”

  “I don’t think Frances Bellmont’s a good idea.” Walt went to the table and poured a last bit of champagne into his glass from the open bottle on the table.

  “Why? Did something happen between you?”

  “Let’s just say I know women, and she’s trouble.” Walt downed the champagne in one gulp and thumped the glass down on the table. “You could have your pick of women, you know, if you could conquer this shyness.”

  “I tried tonight, Walt. I thought you’d be pleased.” He deflated, like a cake just taken from the oven into a cold room.

  “I want you to be happy. I know you’re lonely, the way we work all the time. Hell, so am I. But you have to be careful of beautiful women. They come at a price.”

  “They do?”

  “The most important decision of any man’s life is who he chooses as his wife. Remember that.” Walt picked up his jacket from one of the chairs and draped it over his arm. “Miss Bellmont is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That also makes her the most dangerous.”

  Walt was out the door before Nathaniel could think of what to say.

  Later, he tossed about in the large bed, fluffing pillows and then flattening them, moving from one side of the bed to the other in an attempt to get comfortable, thinking about Frances. He thought he heard a knock on the door. Surely he hadn’t? No one would call this late. The knock came a second time. He sat up. It must be Walt. Perhaps he’d forgotten something. Pulling on his dressing gown, Nathaniel walked to the door. “Walt, is that you?”

  “It’s Frances Bellmont. I’ve left a glove.”

  His pulse quickened. He opened the door a crack. She was in the hall, wearing the dress from earlier, but without shoes. Her feet, beautiful like the rest of her, he thought. The sight of them made him almost light-headed. “Come in.” He opened the door wider and searched the hallway behind her, expecting to see Mrs. Bellmont. It was empty.

  “I’m awfully sorry to bother you.” She raised her voice a half octave and put her hands in front of her like a cat batting a string and backed him all the way into the room. She closed the door behind her. “I’m the little kitten who’s lost her mitten.”

  He looked around the suite. The glasses were stacked neatly on the table, the bottles taken away by Walt. “I haven’t seen it.”

  She made her lips into a pout. “Oh, that’s too bad for me, I guess.”

  “I’ll send you a new pair tomorrow.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  I’d spend a lifetime buying you gloves or anything else you want, he thought. Anything to please you.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go tomorrow,” she said.

  “You do?” He stared at her, a flicker of happiness in his gut.

  She looked into his eyes. “I confess I have a schoolgirl crush on you, Nathaniel Fye.” She smiled without showing her teeth and shrugged her slender shoulders. “Do I sound awful?”

  “It makes me sound like an old man when you say it like that.” Why had he said that? He meant to have said something about how nice that was, how much he liked her, instead of another idiotic utterance.

  She came closer until she was only inches away. He smelled talcum powder and the now almost familiar scent of her skin. Gardenias. “You’re awfully handsome for an old man. Yet you have no idea that you are. Do you see how women look at you like they want to eat you?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  She took hold of the bottom of his sleeping shirt, eating the space between them so his thighs brushed the fringe on her dress. “I haven’t thought of anything but you since the moment I spotted you on the street.”

  He swallowed, trying to breathe away his erection, but it was no use. His hands twitched at his sides, desperately wanting to pull her into his arms. “It’s the same for me. How I feel about you, I mean.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “Please don’t make me beg you to kiss me.”

  “Kiss you?”

  “Yes, please?”

  He didn’t know what he would have done next, but it didn’t matter because her mouth was on his by then, her tongue darting in seductive pokes, and her small frame pressed into him. His arms went around her waist as she moved her mouth t
o his ear.

  “You smell delicious, Nathaniel Fye,” she whispered.

  “You. Gardenias.” He could barely speak. It was as if the room had suddenly lost all air.

  “It’s perfume from France. I had to wait months for it to arrive.” She tilted her head backward, presenting her neck to him. “Smell here.”

  He did as she asked, leaning over to breathe in her scent. Her skin was damp and soft. Like rose petals, he thought, once again. Then, he didn’t know how or why, he felt suddenly bold. He moved his mouth to the spot under her ear, and then imparted tiny kisses down her neck until he reached her collarbone. “You’re lovely, so lovely.”

  She sighed as she reached under his nightshirt and touched the skin of his belly lightly with her fingertips. Her touch felt better than it had in his imagination, sure and soft and seductive all at once. He was helpless, unable to move or take his eyes from her, like paralyzed prey in the grasp of a snake. Somehow they moved to the wall; he pressed her into it, his body covering hers. They kissed, and kissed again. If only it could go on like this forever, he thought.

  Suddenly, she shifted, creating space between them and then tugging at the hem of her dress and pulling it up, ever so slowly, revealing, inch by inch, her bare skin: first her knees, her thighs, a patch of light brown hair covering her female parts, a creamy, flat tummy, and finally her small round breasts. Then, in one last, quick movement, she pulled the dress over her head and tossed it onto the back of the chair, brushing into him as she did so. “I have to feel your hands on me. Please, Nathaniel.” The space disappeared between them once again as she put her arms around his neck, hovering near enough to his face that he caught the sweet smell of champagne on her breath. She looked into his eyes, and he imagined he saw the future, but maybe it was only every moment of his former solitude. She kissed him long and hard. Yes, she kissed him because he’d lost all sense of time or place, a slave only to the sensual pleasure and desire he felt for this beautiful creature. They were breathless. Her narrow hips pressed again his erection, and he knew it was impossible now to stop. She pulled away, moving toward the bedroom. He followed.

  It was over sooner than he wished. He regretted it, of course, but he was inexperienced, and it had been so long since the last shameful occasion. He was overcome by his desire, and it made his touches clumsy and grasping. Being inside her felt better than anything he’d ever felt, and he exploded too soon and then felt desperate and unsure and tilted at a precarious angle. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her damp neck.

  “Don’t be.” She guided his hand down to where she was hot and wet. “Use your fingers like you do on a piano.” With her slender fingers she moved his to the hot nub and showed him how to touch soft and quick, then harder until she cried out, her back arched like a small cat in the sunlight. To give her this pleasure, to watch her face twist and hear her moans—it was beyond glorious. Nothing would ever be the same. He was sure of this. No other moment could ever compare to the one that held this beautiful girl in his bed. He would do anything to keep her there.

  She scooted over to her side of the bed and grabbed his cigarettes from the bedside table. His hand shook as he reached over her willowy body for his lighter and lit her cigarette.

  She took a long drag, blowing the smoke upward so that it hovered near the ceiling like words unsaid. “I never imagined you were a virgin,” she said.

  “What?” he sputtered. “No. Of course I’m not.”

  “Oh, I just assumed.” She paused, taking another drag of the cigarette. “Have I hurt your feelings?”

  He stared at her, speechless.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’.” She slid closer to him, stroking his chest. “We just need a little more time together. Don’t you think?”

  “Miss Bellmont,” he began but then stopped. What did he want to say, exactly? How had he let himself get into this situation? It was his fault. She deserved better. He should have resisted. This was not the way he wanted to woo her.

  She smiled, playing with a lock of his hair that had fallen onto his forehead. “I think you can call me Frances. And I’ll call you Nate.”

  “Nate?”

  “It has a modern quality to it, don’t you think?” She took another drag from her cigarette and then blew it out in small puffs, making rings. He’d never seen a woman do this before. There was nothing ordinary about this girl. Frances Bellmont was special. He would get her to marry him if it was the last thing he ever did. He must have her.

  “Tell me about your life in New York, Nate.” Her fingers played with the curly hair on his chest. “I belong there, I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s busy. More people than you can imagine. Never quiet. Even at night there are shouts and laughter, honking and car engines, streetcar noise. I wish for quiet there, much of the time.”

  “Quiet? Oh, it’s dreadfully quiet everywhere I go. I long for excitement, for people, for a less conventional life than Atlanta has to offer. There are so many rules here, mostly invented to keep a girl like me from having any fun. Georgia’s god-awful. So backward and stifling. I spend nights just dreaming of how I might escape.” She looked up at him with eyes the color of smoke. “But I’m a southern girl. I don’t get to make decisions for myself. I have to hope that a man will marry me so that I might move from my father’s house to his, destined to be unhappy like my mother.”

  “The right man, perhaps, could make you happy?” He said this lightly, hoping to sound merely playful instead of desperate, which is what he felt at the moment—absolutely desperate that she choose him.

  “A man like you?” She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray before rolling to her side and propping herself up to look him fully in the face. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her hair was in wild curls around her face. Was it possible she’d grown more beautiful in the last five minutes?

  He smiled. “Yes, a man like me. Will you let me try?”

  “I’ll be here when you return.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I should get back before Mother wakes and finds me gone.”

  She slid out of bed and stood, picking up his right hand, which lay limp on the bed cover. Pulling on his fingers one by one, her forehead crinkled as if pondering a deep mystery. “These fingers are awfully powerful on that piano.” She placed his hand on her bare chest, just above her breasts. “I could grow quite accustomed to them on my body every night of my life.” She kissed the palm of his hand and then let it fall onto the bed. “Please call me when you return. I’ll be waiting. Don’t fall in love with anyone else while you’re away.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Good night, Nate.”

  “Good night, Frances.”

  He collapsed against the bed pillows, miserable and delighted all at once. Everything in him screamed for her to stay. Why had he met her right before he left for months? Framed in the doorway, she slid her dress over her pale skin and then turned to him, blowing him a kiss and fluttering her fingers. It reminded him of a scene in a play or a moving picture, like he was merely a spectator instead of a participant. Then she was out of the frame, disappearing from his view. The door creaked and shut with a bang. And then there was nothing but the beating of his faint heart in a hollow chest.

  Chapter 2

  Lydia

  * * *

  By late afternoon the flowers had wilted and smelled of death. The sickly sweet scent of their dying permeated the parlor of Lydia Tyler’s farmhouse and drifted among mourners eating cake and drinking coffee from her wedding china. Geraniums, sweet peas, and lilies from her garden covered the coffin the men from Sam’s barbershop, her husband’s friends, had cut and constructed from local pine. Only weeks from summer, the late Alabama spring was warm, and they hadn’t much time to wait for burial. News of his death ran swiftly through their small town of Atmore, and Midwife Stone had come at once. There were no babies born that day, only death for William. Lydia could no
t help but think of the days her daughters were born, delivered by Midwife Stone, as William paced the floor of their parlor. The happiest days of his life, he often said, while telling the girls the stories of their births.

  Midwife Stone had prepared him for burial in their very own bedroom, but Lydia had stayed away, lining the newly constructed coffin now in their parlor with their best set of sheets; Lydia had made them only last month from the finest cotton. Every night William had commented on how soft they were as his foot wandered to her side of the bed to stroke her bare calf.

  When William was readied, some men came to place him inside, next to those sheets. Lydia had taken one last look before closing the lid of the coffin. His features had softened in death so that he appeared peaceful, as if taking a Sunday afternoon nap after one of the minister’s particularly long sermons. She touched his face one last time, expecting him to wake any moment and ask for a glass of sweet tea. Then she turned away, wanting to remember him in motion, in life, not this static sleeper. But it didn’t matter, really, if she looked or not. Grief blinded her eyes like blots of black ink on paper, and she saw only the image of William, as if he’d been captured in a photograph during the last seconds of life, waving to her as he came up the driveway for his midday meal. When she told Midwife Stone this truth, the wizened old woman smiled and patted her hand. “That there is a blessing.”

  As she greeted the mourners, Lydia thought more than once, if only he might wake. It seemed everyone in town had come, making the parlor smaller: friends, neighbors, William’s customers at the bank. She nodded her head while accepting condolences and pressed back when hands pressed hers, but their voices were dim, like a glass window separated them. He was a good man. Taken too soon. We’re sorry for your loss. Such a shock for you and the girls, but he’s with God now. He was fair to us, always.