her nipples, hard and tingling, straining against the fabric. For years, before she was married to Joseph Greene and working as a house model, she had stood practically nude for hours at a time while designers and seamstresses made alterations. Never had she felt this self-conscious, this aware of her own body.
Forcing down her sudden attack of modesty, she cried,
"You are unbelievably rude! I told you that I needed a few more minutes."
Lance was finding it difficult to talk. His brain didn't seem capable of transmitting the correct message to his tongue. He gulped and said with as much severity as he could muster, "And I told you that time was up."
"Will you at least let me take a pill? I missed one today." She was fishing in her makeup bag, willing her hands not to shake so visibly. She found the package of penicillin and pushed a tablet out of the foil backing.
There was no glass, so she tossed the pill down her throat and then cupped several handfuls of water into her mouth, swallowing the tablet with difficulty. When she straightened, she saw Lance in the mirror, staring at her hips as she leaned over the sink. He hurriedly averted his eyes and mumbled, "You can leave your things in here if you want to. No one will bother them." He walked softly down the hallway in his stockinged feet.
His suggestion was accepted without a comment from her. She'd leave her suitcases in the bathroom. He wasn't gentlemanly enough to offer to carry them for her, and she felt drained of the energy or will to carry them herself. It was easier to not argue with him, to switch off the light, and to simply follow him meekly down the hallway to the paneled study.
Desultorily she entered the room and saw that Lance had turned out all the lights except one small lamp on the table beside his chair. She spread out one of the blankets on the leather sofa, placed a pillow in the corner of it, and sat down, stretching her legs along the couch and covering them with another blanket.
Lance waited patiently, staring moodily into space, not speaking. He made no effort to turn off the light and Erin couldn't lie down while it was still on. That would make her too vulnerable, too exposed. Trying hard not to look at him, she glanced around the room, an occupation that had filled most of the afternoon.
"There has never been a fire in that fireplace," she remarked idly.
Lance didn't move his head, but his eyes shifted toward her. "What?"
"Did you notice that there has never been a fire in the fireplace? It has a lovely carved wood mantel, the logs are stacked, but there is no soot on the bricks. I can't imagine having a fireplace and never lighting a fire in it."
"That's a very keen observation. Maybe you should have gone into my line of work." She looked across at him to see him smiling at her from his slouched position in the chair. Without having to think about it, she smiled back.
"Do you have a fireplace?" he asked.
"Three."
"Three?"
She laughed at his astonishment. "Yes. I live in my parents' house, the one that I grew up in. When Dad died, Mother wanted to sell it. I begged her to lease it for a while, and she did for several years. Then when I left New York and came back home, I moved into it. It's modest, but very old and full of character. I've redecorated and refurbished it."
"Sounds nice."
"Most people would never give it a second look, but to me it's home. I guess when you've been adopted, it's very important to establish family traditions, things like that.
It's almost an essential part of your life to secure an identity."
They were quiet for a long moment and then Lance asked, "The O'Sheas, they were good to you?"
"They were wonderful parents. No one could have asked for better. Dad was tall and robust. He always seemed huge to me, even after I was grown. He was the gentlest man I've ever known, despite his size. He was a carpenter. Mother is petite, spunky, and has laugh lines around the bluest eyes you've ever seen." Besides
Forcing down her sudden attack of modesty, she cried,
"You are unbelievably rude! I told you that I needed a few more minutes."
Lance was finding it difficult to talk. His brain didn't seem capable of transmitting the correct message to his tongue. He gulped and said with as much severity as he could muster, "And I told you that time was up."
"Will you at least let me take a pill? I missed one today." She was fishing in her makeup bag, willing her hands not to shake so visibly. She found the package of penicillin and pushed a tablet out of the foil backing.
There was no glass, so she tossed the pill down her throat and then cupped several handfuls of water into her mouth, swallowing the tablet with difficulty. When she straightened, she saw Lance in the mirror, staring at her hips as she leaned over the sink. He hurriedly averted his eyes and mumbled, "You can leave your things in here if you want to. No one will bother them." He walked softly down the hallway in his stockinged feet.
His suggestion was accepted without a comment from her. She'd leave her suitcases in the bathroom. He wasn't gentlemanly enough to offer to carry them for her, and she felt drained of the energy or will to carry them herself. It was easier to not argue with him, to switch off the light, and to simply follow him meekly down the hallway to the paneled study.
Desultorily she entered the room and saw that Lance had turned out all the lights except one small lamp on the table beside his chair. She spread out one of the blankets on the leather sofa, placed a pillow in the corner of it, and sat down, stretching her legs along the couch and covering them with another blanket.
Lance waited patiently, staring moodily into space, not speaking. He made no effort to turn off the light and Erin couldn't lie down while it was still on. That would make her too vulnerable, too exposed. Trying hard not to look at him, she glanced around the room, an occupation that had filled most of the afternoon.
"There has never been a fire in that fireplace," she remarked idly.
Lance didn't move his head, but his eyes shifted toward her. "What?"
"Did you notice that there has never been a fire in the fireplace? It has a lovely carved wood mantel, the logs are stacked, but there is no soot on the bricks. I can't imagine having a fireplace and never lighting a fire in it."
"That's a very keen observation. Maybe you should have gone into my line of work." She looked across at him to see him smiling at her from his slouched position in the chair. Without having to think about it, she smiled back.
"Do you have a fireplace?" he asked.
"Three."
"Three?"
She laughed at his astonishment. "Yes. I live in my parents' house, the one that I grew up in. When Dad died, Mother wanted to sell it. I begged her to lease it for a while, and she did for several years. Then when I left New York and came back home, I moved into it. It's modest, but very old and full of character. I've redecorated and refurbished it."
"Sounds nice."
"Most people would never give it a second look, but to me it's home. I guess when you've been adopted, it's very important to establish family traditions, things like that.
It's almost an essential part of your life to secure an identity."
They were quiet for a long moment and then Lance asked, "The O'Sheas, they were good to you?"
"They were wonderful parents. No one could have asked for better. Dad was tall and robust. He always seemed huge to me, even after I was grown. He was the gentlest man I've ever known, despite his size. He was a carpenter. Mother is petite, spunky, and has laugh lines around the bluest eyes you've ever seen." Besides
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