Home Fires Read online

  Irma tucked the pillowcase under her arm and accepted the bag. “He’s gone ahead to the garage to polish the car. I’ll give him a buzz when you’re ready to leave. And … thank you for the rolls,” she added with a self-conscious smile. “You really shouldn’t bother yourself about us.”

  Deanna’s cheeks dimpled as she squeezed the woman’s arm gently. “Don’t be silly, Irma. It was no bother. Enjoy them!”

  “Oh, we will. Pecan rolls are Henry’s favorites. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  Deanna passed off the observation with a sheepish shrug, then began to move away. “I’ll be working in the den for a little while. Will you have Henry bring the car around in half an hour?”

  “Certainly. Your bag is all set to go. I’ll bring it right out Oh, and Mrs. Hunt?”

  Halfway down the hall now, Deanna turned. “Uh-huh?”

  “I thought I’d make a roast lamb for dinner. Is there anything special you’d like for lunch?”

  Deanna considered the matter briefly before dismissing it and continuing down the hall. “Something light,” she called back over her shoulder. “Perhaps an omelet?”

  Irma smiled and shook her head at the disappearing figure. She knew just how Deanna Hunt liked her omelets: moist, with cheese and spinach. It was a simple meal to prepare. She half suspected that Deanna chose it often for that very reason. But Deanna was as undemanding in other things as well, which was remarkable, since she had grown up amid nearly as much wealth as she currently enjoyed.

  Indeed, Irma mused, it would not have been surprising had she been spoiled and demanding, yet she was neither. She was an easy woman to please, her temper calm and controlled even during those times when her eyes held that well of loneliness she kept so stoically to herself. Through the months following her husband’s death she had held her emotions in check. Now over a year had passed and she did no differently.

  It seemed odd that a woman as young and attractive as Deanna Hunt should lead such a simple existence. Not quite the poor little rich girl, she was outwardly content. But surely she should be out more, with people, enjoying life. Surely she should be having fun, leading a less structured life than she did. Perhaps … in time. Shaking her head in silent regret, Irma headed for the laundry room.

  Meanwhile, in the den, Deanna lifted her pen to write another of the letters she was personally sending to each of two hundred potentially major contributors to the hospital project “Dear Monte and Diane,” she wrote, then let the pen fall idle once more. Monte and Diane were friends of Larry’s, contemporaries of his rather than hers. What were her own contemporaries doing with their lives?

  More often now than ever in the past, she wondered what things might have been like had she gone on to college as her brother had, rather than marrying fresh out of high school and becoming Larry’s wife and hostess. Certainly she would have formed a different, if smaller, circle of friends. She might even have married someone her own age rather than a man twenty years her senior whom her parents had known for years. Larry had courted her gently, offering her the care and protection she had come to depend on. He had loved her, and she him, but in a way that was somehow different from what she had imagined it to be in her wildest dreams.

  In place of starbursts and rainbows she had found companionable serenity. While Larry lived, it had been enough. Now, as she faced a future alone, she wondered. What would it be like to do something wild? Something irresponsible? Something selfish? Could she ever kick up her heels and truly let loose? Her brother had done it and the results had been tragic.

  Shaking her head free of the sad memories, Deanna grimaced at her inappropriate thoughts. She was simply not the rebellious type. Even had her brother not died so young, she probably would always have stayed close to home. After all, she did enjoy her life and its comforts. She couldn’t deny that. And there was definite psychological merit in devoting oneself to philanthropic concerns such as those encompassed by the Hunt Foundation.

  “Dear Monte and Diane …” She reread the salutation aloud, put pen to paper and proceeded to complete the letter from one of the prototypes she’d worked out with the public relations department. By the time she had finished and signed her name with a disciplined flourish, it was time to leave.

  This Wednesday passed as did every other Wednesday. Henry dropped her at the club for the morning and picked her up later. She ate lunch back in her suite in the sunny, informal breakfast room, which was never used for breakfast, only for lunch and dinner. The larger, more formal dining room, which seated sixteen easily, had been unused for over a year.

  Her afternoon was spent quietly at home, ostensibly heading the Hunt Foundation from the comfort of her den, in reality serving as a high-ranking social secretary. She received her customary call from Robert Warner, the executive director of the foundation, in whose hands true power rested. The call was filled with pleasant words regarding what she should be doing that day, what the next day’s meeting would discuss and any small tidbits that Bob chose to pass on. There was, in fact, little substance to the conversation. But it had been that way for months. Why should Deanna be frustrated by it now?

  She wrote ten more letters to add to the growing stack, kept up with other personal correspondence to one friend or another of Larry’s who had dropped her a note, then made several phone calls on minor foundation business. She picked up the novel she’d bought the day before and read for an hour before dinner, then for several more after dinner, before bathing and retiring to begin again the next morning.

  But this would be Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays held a special place in her heart. Though the afternoons were spent at the Hunt International offices several blocks away, the mornings were her own. Few people knew that she spent them in the pediatrics ward of the Atlanta General Hospital, talking with, reading to or sometimes simply holding those children whose parents could not be there. It filled a special need of hers and she would have given up almost any other activity before she gave up this one. There was an added lightness to her step when she entered the hotel dining room Thursday morning and took her regular table.

  “Good Morning, Mrs. Hunt.” Frank welcomed her with a half bow and a smile. “How are you today?”

  “Just fine, Frank.” Deanna cocked her head in the direction from which she’d just come. “Was that a slice of honeydew I just passed?”

  The waiter grinned. “It was.”

  “May I have one? And an order of cinnamon toast, please?”

  “With honey?”

  “Without honey.” She cast him a humorous look that recalled the previous day’s chiding and enough was said Frank moved off, clearing the way for her to see to the far corner near the window. Instantly her senses came alive. He was there again, that tall, auburn-haired man, looking at her with that same profound expression that took her breath away. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d return—she hadn’t allowed herself to think it. Yet there he was! Was he a guest at the hotel?

  Fascinated by the unspoken depths of the stranger’s gaze, Deanna couldn’t look away. His presence tugged at her, evoking sensations of silent communication she’d never experienced before. His eyes said “Good morning” and hinted at a smile when hers returned the greeting. “Who are you?” he asked wordlessly, and “Where are you headed?”

  “Here you are, Mrs. Hunt” A gleaming china plate bearing a generous wedge of succulent green melon was slid into place before her. Startled, Deanna snapped her attention back.

  “Oh! Thank you, Frank,” she murmured, then breathed deeply to steady her pulse as she watched the waiter carefully set down a plate of toast with its heat-saving silver dome.

  Who was that man? Deanna opened her mouth to ask Frank, but shut it just as quickly and let the waiter leave without another word. Only then did she scold herself for her foolishness. If Frank hadn’t known the stranger’s name he could easily have discovered it. Deanna often made similar requests when she couldn’t find the name to fit a face she recogni
zed.

  But this was different. He was different. Hadn’t she known it from the start? Though Deanna willed herself not to look up again, his face was indelibly etched in her mind. It was a strong yet gentle face, sun-touched and manly. Today his suit was of a lighter shade, a misty gray that emphasized the dark thickness of his hair and the even darker, deeper awareness in his eyes. Today the distance between them seemed to fade, bridged by an incredibly sensual familiarity. Absurd as she knew it to be, Deanna felt that she had known him for years. She stared at him, stunned by the force that flowed between them. It was as though they were emotionally tuned to one another. It was strange, but she sensed that he needed her.

  Then she caught herself. That was ridiculous! She didn’t know the man! Scoffing at her runaway imagination, she dragged her gaze downward and raised a spoon to the waiting melon. But she paused before making the first gouge that would mar the perfection of the slice. Was it ridiculous? Was there such a thing as an instant attraction that could explain the wild fluttering in her stomach? Wild fluttering? With a quiet chuckle of self-indulgence, she realized that this soft internal fluttering might be the wildest thing she would ever feel. And then she sucked in her breath as an even wilder thought titillated her senses. Blushing warmly, she forced it from her mind with a piercing thrust of her spoon into the melon’s soft flesh.

  Reaching for the morning paper which was always left for her, Deanna applied herself to the news of the day with greater intentness and less success than ever. Had Anthony Broad and his two out-of-town clients, the three old acquaintances of the Hunts, asked her what she’d read when they paused to greet her moments later, she might well have been embarrassed by her ignorance. But it didn’t matter. Her purpose was served. She returned to the paper, ate breakfast with a painstakingly unhurried air, smiled at those who dropped by—all the while denying to herself the presence of that man and his startling effect on her.

  As on the previous morning, the mystery man was gone long before Deanna finished. When she threw caution to the winds and glanced helplessly toward his table there was only a lingering sunbeam to mark where he had been. With a sigh that was as much of relief as disappointment, she forced herself to close the book on a short-lived fantasy. Decisively shouldering her bag, she headed directly for the spot in front of the hotel where Henry and the car were waiting.

  The morning was as gratifying as she might have hoped, as rewarding as it was tiring. Henry picked her up at the hospital at noon and chauffeured her home for lunch, then delivered her an hour later to the executive offices of the Hunt Foundation, where she spent the afternoon in conference with various members of the foundation organization.

  Bob Warner arranged these meetings as efficiently as he did most everything else. He offered Deanna only what information she needed to be generally aware of foundation activities, answered her questions patiently and gave his advice freely. He had been frankly startled when, soon after Larry’s death, Deanna had asked to be given these regular briefings. With her total lack of business training, it might have been easier for her to have handed over the reins completely. But she had needed to participate in some small way, and though Bob’s word was more often than not the law, her twice-weekly presence among the office staff carried a subtle and understated force. She was quiet and unobtrusive, but her questions were pithy, her inquiries pointed. She possessed good common sense and a knack for diplomacy, both of which Bob Warner channeled into useful avenues.

  In this case the avenue was the drive toward the building of the Greater Georgia Children’s Hospital and the bulk of the afternoon session revolved around the fund raising in which Deanna was already deeply involved. After much coaxing, she had finally agreed to hold a series of private dinner parties in her own suite, each courting eight to ten potentially significant supporters of the project. Though Bob and his wife would be at each, along with at least one or two other foundation bigwigs, Deanna had not entertained since Larry’s death and never alone. As intimidating as the thought had been at first, Bob’s argument was valid. There was an emotional value to be gained from Deanna’s visible activity and Larry’s vivid memory. It had been Larry’s last hope to see this project a reality.

  Deanna was exhausted when Henry finally shuttled her home at six. She ate alone, reflecting on the afternoon’s meetings as Irma quietly served her a private feast of rock cornish hen and wild rice. Later she retreated to her bedroom to read before sinking at length into a restless sleep.

  When she arose Friday morning it was with a vague sense of anticipation. She took greater pains in dressing than she had on either of the past two mornings. Even on tennis mornings such as this she would never have thought to show herself in the hotel dining room looking anything less than well groomed. Today, however, she wanted to do even better.

  Sorting through the rack of late-summer fashions, she chose a pale lavender sundress, a one-piece wrap that was strapless, self-sashing and bottomed by gay white high-heeled sandals. Her jewelry was simple: small hoop earrings, a necklace, a ring. But she added an extra coat of mascara to her lashes, giving them the illusion of even greater length, and a second dab of color high on each cheekbone. As always, she swept her thick fall of dark copper-sheened hair loosely to the top of her head, securing it this time with an exquisite gold-leaf clasp before breaking from custom and pulling several tendrils free to wave delicately around her face and neck. With a touch of perfume to the pulse at her throat and the tossing of a lightweight open-weave blazer over her shoulders in deference to the potential chill of air conditioning, she was off.

  Beneath the archway of the dining room, she took a deep breath to fill her lungs with confidence, then slowly let it out in the short walk to her table. She was met there by the maître d’, whom she acknowledged with a smile. “Good morning, George.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Here, let me help you.” He adjusted her chair as she sat down. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, casually reaching for the newspaper as he vanished. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo and she only prayed that she looked more normal than she felt. The news held no special appeal at the moment, but she focused on it to keep from looking elsewhere.

  Frank approached quietly, his voice low. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. You look lovely today.”

  “Why, thank you, Frank.” Would he think so too? The fantasy persisted! “It’s kind of dreary out, though. Do you think it’s going to rain?” With a perfect excuse she glanced toward the far window. He wasn’t there! And it looked as though it would pour. Deanna felt suddenly gloomy herself.

  Frank’s gaze followed hers, though it encompassed only the elements beyond the large bay window. “They say we may get a few showers this morning. I hope you don’t get caught in any.”

  Just then Deanna didn’t care. She had looked forward to seeing that stranger again, and he wasn’t there. Had he gone back to where he’d come from? Or simply gone elsewhere for breakfast? It had been fun dressing especially for him. But he’d let her down. Would she ever see him again?

  Deanna’s Friday proceeded as Mondays and Wednesdays did, with a morning at the club and an afternoon at home. But much as she threw herself into her prearranged activities, she couldn’t shake the image of an auburn-haired man. In those few short moments of visual exchange, he had made her startlingly aware of something she had managed to ignore—that she was a woman, an individual, warm and alive.

  It occurred to her as she analyzed it that she lived in a virtual cocoon, insulated and protected from the outside world. Every move she made, every person she met, was within the limited realm of this cocoon and she was invariably accorded the deference her position merited. To the world she was Mrs. Lawrence Hunt. Not so to this man.

  It was one of the things that made him different He had seen her as a human being, as a woman. His eyes had said as much. And he had shared a need she barely understood herself, had reached out to her with the force of his own inner drive. But h
e hadn’t been back to see her today. Had their visual intimacy been no more than a figment of her imagination after all?

  That imagination drove her to distraction. It was active all weekend through standing appointments at the beauty parlor and with the manicurist, a Saturday luncheon with a cousin who had stopped in Atlanta en route from St Petersburg to Washington and Sunday afternoon’s attendance at the wedding of the daughter of one of Larry’s oldest friends. In between were moments of solitude, moments of intent contemplation, even brooding. She had sensed a growing void in her life, but this stranger’s appearance had accentuated it What was it she truly wanted?

  Her thoughts became sensual daydreams, one as new and unexpected as the next and each involving the nameless vision of a tall, auburn-haired man. She pictured herself alone with him, lying beneath the shade of an ancient chestnut tree in a sylvan setting beyond the city. They talked of their lives and hopes, sharing fantasies without fear. Their only responsibility was to each other and she gloried in that singularity of purpose. Secluded in rural luxury, she held him, reveling in the hard strength beneath and against her that so desperately needed her softness for fulfillment And he held her likewise, caressing her with a tender demand she still sought to comprehend. As the weekend passed, the dream soared higher and hotter until, aghast, Deanna forced the reality of solitude on herself once more. What was it she wanted? She refused to say.

  Monday morning found her back to her routine and relieved to be busy once more. For the moment she was again content to fill the role in life she assumed had been meant for her. But when Tuesday morning came she was jolted out of her complacency when she glanced up from her French toast to find him looking at her. Her breathing faltered; her heart skipped a beat.