The Love Talker Part 5

And still he refused to look at her.

Laurie was sure it was deliberate, and by the time the meal was over she was quite annoyed. They went back to the parlor for coffee. When Jefferson had served them and taken a modest place a little outside the circle around the fire, she turned to him.

"Aunt Ida tells me you write, Mr. Banes," she said.

He stared at her for a moment, his dark eyebrows lowering. Then he grinned broadly, white teeth flas.h.i.+ng like a toothpaste commercial.

"How well you put it Ms. Carlton."

Against her will Laurie felt her lips curve in an answering smile. He had caught the sarcasm in her question. Score one for him. No-score two. He had not taken offense. His voice had been amused, not malicious.

"What are you writing, exactly?" she asked.

"A book."

"She means," Aunt Lizzie explained, "what kind of book, Jefferson. Fiction, poetry, essays-"

"Oh, I see." Jefferson pondered, his eyes downcast. He had very thick lashes. Miniature brushes, they shadowed his cheeks. "Well, now, I could synopsize the plot, but that doesn't really give one the flavor of a book, does it? Rather like those trots one buys to get through English-lit, courses. Besides, I haven't figured out the ending yet."

"It is a novel, then?" Laurie persisted.

"Yes. A historical novel. Set in fourteenth-century France."

"But that's my field," Laurie exclaimed. "Medieval history."

"I know." The firelight set red sparks dancing in his eyes. "You have some devoted fans here, Ms. Carlton; they talk about you and your brother all the time."

"How boring," said Doug.

"Not at all. One of the reasons why the book is progressing so slowly is that I've had to do a lot of research. I feel," Jefferson said earnestly, "that a historical novel should be true to fact, insofar as the facts are known."

"Absolutely," Laurie agreed.

"Maybe you can give me some tips, then. Seeing as it's your field."

"I'd be glad to."

"Great." Jefferson put his cup down and rose. Muscles rippled; Laurie tried not to stare. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get to my ch.o.r.es now."

"Oh, don't go just yet," Lizzie said.

"Temptress." Jefferson s.n.a.t.c.hed her plump hand and raised it to his lips. "Get thee behind me, Miss Lizzie. Work before play. That was a super meal, by the way."

He kissed her hand enthusiastically, restored it to its owner, swept the circle with an ingratiating smile, and went out.

"I'll help him," Laurie said.

"Oh, no." Lizzie lifted a warning hand. "That is one of the little tasks Jefferson prides himself on doing. He won't allow anyone to a.s.sist him."

"But he has so much else to do."

"Oh, and he does it all so well. Isn't he sweet?"

"Nice fella." Uncle Ned, in his favorite position before the fire, nodded solemnly. He leaned toward Laurie and said in confidential tones, which were clearly audible to everyone in the room, "He talks that silly way to Lizzie 'cause she likes it. But he's sound otherwise. Good with his hands."

There was a pause. Laurie realized that three pairs of eyes were fixed on her. They were waiting for her comment. Was it so important to them that an outsider should admire Jefferson? She said cautiously, "He seems like a treasure." She knew she had said the right thing when three pairs of lungs emitted a long, blended sigh. And, she told herself, if Jefferson had happened to overhear, that patronizing comment would annoy him very much.

"He certainly is," Ida said. "Without wis.h.i.+ng to sound selfish, I must say that I hope his novel will prove to be very long."

Laurie tried to catch Doug's eye, and failed. He was slouched on the sofa, his hands in his pockets, his legs stretched out, his eyes focused on the tips of his shoes. She turned to Ida, who had taken out her knitting. Her busy needles flashed in the firelight.

"What are you making, Aunt? That's pretty wool; such a lovely pale pink."

"Pink for girls," Ida said. "One of the neighbor children."

Silence descended. Uncle Ned rocked back and forth, whistling softly under his breath. Doug sulked. Laurie had no doubt that he was sulking, though she was not sure why he was in a bad mood. Part of it was probably jealousy. He was accustomed to being the family pet, and now Jefferson seemed to have supplanted him. Well, the man has earned it, Laurie thought.

She looked at Lizzie, who was fussing with the cups on the coffee tray.

"Auntie, how about showing me your wardrobe? You promised you would."

"No fair." Jefferson had returned. Smiling, he took the cup Lizzie held out to him. "You can't take my opponent away, Ms. Carlton. I owe her a million and a half already, and I insist on my revenge."

"A million and a half what?" Laurie asked.

Lizzie chuckled. "Matchsticks. Isn't that quaint? We play for matchsticks. Of course Jefferson is exaggerating the amount. But he will wager so wildly!"

Jefferson had taken a gameboard from the cupboard under the bookshelves. He opened it on the table in front of Lizzie and sank gracefully to a sitting position, his legs crossed.

"Checkers?" Laurie said in surprise.

"Most sophisticated game in the world," Jefferson said blandly, setting out the pieces. "Okay, Miss Lizzie-black or red?"

"Oh, dear, it's so difficult to decide . . ."

Doug rose. "I think I will run into town."

"Of course, dear," Ida said graciously.

"I'll lock up when I get back. Now don't you wait up for me."

"I know better than to do that." His aunt gave him a glance which, for her, might almost be described as roguish. "But don't be too late, Douglas."

"No, ma'am." He leaned over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. "Good night, all."

Laurie followed him into the hall.

"What's the idea of running out on me?" she demanded.

"Want to come along?"

"What for? The night life of Frederick is not exactly uproarious, as I recall."

"You never knew anything about the night life of Frederick, you innocent creature. I'll find something to do, don't worry."

"I'll just bet you will. Why can't you spend a quiet evening with the old folks?"

"I refuse to watch Jefferson play checkers. I mean, there are limits."

"You mean, you don't want to watch him ingratiating himself. You can't stand being in second place, can you?"

Doug smiled smugly.

"Aunt Ida still likes me the best."

"So far. She won't be so crazy about you if you sneak off to the fleshpots of Frederick every chance you get."

"You don't understand. Aunt Ida expects a young man to sow a few wild oats. Listen, sweetie, I have carefully maintained relations with a few old buddies in town; Ida accepts that. But it wouldn't do for you. Your suitors will have to call at the house, hat in one hand, corsage in the other."

"Like Hermann Schott," Laurie said gloomily. "Ida thought he was just the type."

"Good old chubby Hermann. I remember him well."

Laurie s.h.i.+ed back as Doug made a gesture that might have ended in a hearty brotherly smack on the bottom. Doug started up the stairs.

"I don't know what your gripe is," he said. "You're obviously having a sensational time. Go back in there and continue drooling over Mr. Rochester."

"You've got your Bronte heroes mixed," Laurie said. "You mean Heathcliffe."

"Aha. You noticed."

Laurie made a rude face at Doug's retreating back and returned to the parlor.

Jefferson had lost another ten thousand imaginary matchsticks by the time the clock on the mantel chimed ten. Laurie had to admit he lost very cleverly-and it is not easy to cheat at checkers. He finished the final game and rose to his feet, shaking his head ruefully.

"Time I got back to my high-born heroine. Thanks, Miss Lizzie. Shall I leave the board? Maybe Ms. Carlton would care to give you a game."

"I can't afford to lose any matchsticks," Laurie said.

"I don't know why you are being so formal," Lizzie said, shaking her head in playful reproof. "I'm sure Jefferson won't mind if you call him by his first name."

"You may call me Laura," said Laurie, as Jefferson turned toward her. "Prefaced, of course, by Miss."

"She's joking," Lizzie explained.

"I see," Jefferson said seriously.

"On the other hand," Laurie went on, "I can hardly call you Mr. Jefferson."

Jefferson grinned. "Make it Jeff."

He held out his hand. After a moment, Laurie took it.

All the same, he was a little too good to be true. Hunched over the dressing table-which had surely not been that low a few years ago-Laurie brushed her hair and scowled at her reflection in the mirror. She had checked the kitchen before coming upstairs; it was immaculate, every surface s.h.i.+ning like the mirror in front of her. What the h.e.l.l, she asked herself, was a man like that doing out here in the country catering to the needs of three old people?

Well.. . maybe he was writing a book. She was in no position to sneer at the eccentricities of literary types, not when her thesis topic caused raised eyebrows or guffaws of hearty laughter. Jefferson was getting room and board-and what board!-in exchange for the ch.o.r.es he did. Lizzie had mentioned other help, including a professional cleaning team, so there wasn't all that much to do. With a minimum of organization-and Jefferson looked capable of organizing his life well enough-errands and shopping and chauffeuring could be kept to a minimum. No doubt he had plenty of time for his great American novel.

He seemed genuinely fond of the old people. Some men were like that, Laurie a.s.sured herself-nice, kind to others. Perhaps he had lost his mother or grandmother early in his life and was giving the Mortons the sort of cheris.h.i.+ng he would have given them. Perhaps he was an orphan and was enjoying the pleasures of family life.

Anyway, it was none of her business. So long as he did his job, his motives were his own affair.

Laurie decided she had better find an engrossing book and stop thinking about Jefferson. It was barely eleven o'clock-the shank of the evening-but she was in no mood to work, although she had dutifully brought some of her notes. She yawned. It must be the fresh air. She was tired, and she felt no envy of Doug, on the loose in Frederick.

Squatting down before the bookshelves, she looked with more favor on the collections of fairy tales. Maybe Doug was right; they had gotten too worked up about Lizzie's latest kick. If Ida had been really worried about it she would have said something by now. After all, Ida was no spring chicken. Probably she had lost her temper with Lizzie one day and had dashed off those two letters . .. had told Jeff to make sure they were mailed ... and he, misunderstanding her urgency, had sent them special delivery.

Laurie decided to start on the Oz books. She could read all the early volumes, the ones written by Baum himself, in a couple of weeks. It would be relaxing to read about a world removed in every way from the grim period of history she had been studying-a world without s.e.x or violence or torture or betrayal. Even the Wicked Witch wasn't particularly violent. She talked a lot, but she didn't do much.

Her hand was on the spine of The Wizard of Oz when she noticed the book next to it. Her eye had pa.s.sed over it the night before, noting only the word "fairies" in the t.i.tle; now she realized that this was not one of the worn, familiar books of her childhood. Curious, she drew it out.

An Encyclopedia of Fairies. The back cover quoted a review from the Southern Folklore Quarterly, and other comments, such as, "a valuable reference book." Not fiction, then. The book was new, its paper cover bright and unworn.

Opening it at random she saw that the entries were arranged alphabetically. "Grey Neighbors"-one of the euphemistic names for the fairies-was followed by "Grig," which, the author remarked primly, was "rather a debatable fairy. The Oxford Dictionary gives the word as meaning a dwarf, or something small. . . ."

Laurie raised amused eyebrows. No, not fiction. She turned over a few pages at random and, more and more intrigued, took the book to bed with her. She now remembered having read a review of this volume, or of one like it. The "little people" had always been a legitimate subject for folklore, of course. No doubt Lizzie had bought the book because of its t.i.tle and had squirreled it away among the children's library in order to hide it from Ida's critical eye.

Laurie leafed through the book, finding some of her old favorites neatly cla.s.sified and labeled. One that particularly delighted her was a version of the Rumpelstiltskin story. In this case the uncouth dwarf that saved the girl from her boastful folly was named Tom t.i.t Tot, and it was "a little black thing with a long tail, that looked at her right kewrious." It twirled its tail rapturously every time the girl guessed its name wrong. It wasn't Bill, or Sammle, or Methusalem. " 'Well, is that Zebedee?' says she agin."

" 'Noo, 'tain't,' said the impet. An' then that laughed an' twirled that's tail till yew cou'n't hardly see it."

" 'Take time, woman,' that says; 'next guess an' you're mine.' An' that stretched out that's black hands at her."

"Wow," Laurie said under her breath.

The girl got the name right next time, and the impet shriveled up and blew away.

Laurie went on to learn about "Trooping Fairies," and the Pwca, a Welsh version of Puck, and "Queen Mab," who was, as she had surmised, the queen of the fairies in the sixteenth and seventeenth-century stories. Then she came upon the Love Talker.

His other name was Ganconer. He appeared to maidens in lonely valleys and made love to them before fading away and leaving them to pine to death.

/ met the Love Talker one evening in the glen, He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men, His eyes were blacker than the sloe, his voice sweeter far....

"Oh, bah," Laurie said, and closed the book. "Blacker than the sloe...." She wondered what a sloe was. It sounded very poetic. Probably a bug.

She did not want to read any more about fascinating supernatural male creatures with black eyes and sweet voices. Turning out the light, she went to open the window.

The night was so beautiful that she lingered, though the cold air made her s.h.i.+ver. Clouds had gathered in again while they sat in the drawing room, and now snow was falling, softly, silently, out of a sky like dark-gray silk. Already it had covered the scars made earlier on the lawn by booted feet, and the dim, soft snow blanket reflected the gray of the sky. Rather apprehensively Laurie looked at the enclosing circle of trees, but though she strained her eyes for several minutes there was no sign of the strange light she had seen the night before. She got into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Snug in her nest of blankets she soon grew warm, but sleep did not come. Her mind flickered from one subject to another as her hands had flipped through the pages of the book. "Black as a sloe ..." A vegetable? Like an eggplant, perhaps? Checkers was a stupid game. Black pieces, like round empty black eyes. The fleshpots of Frederick . . . roadside taverns, with neon jukeboxes and bars made of gla.s.s blocks, and bored high-school girls in tight skirts... . "I met the Love Walker___"