WINTER AFFAIR Doreen Owens Malek Originally Published as WINTER MEETING – Published by Gypsy Autumn Publications P.O. Box 383 • Yardley, PA 19067 – Copyright 1985 and 2012 By Doreen Owens Malek www.doreenowensmalek.com The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher. First printing October 1985 All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. Table of Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 About the Author Recent Releases by Doreen Owens Malek Chapter 1 Snow blew across the windshield and gathered on the frozen grass as Leda Bradshaw turned the car into the narrow, dirt-packed lane. It threaded through the brown lawns, thickly frosted now with white, as the grave markers on either side of the passage rose out of the storm like sentinels. “It’s the last one on the right,” Aunt Monica reminded her. “I remember,” Leda answered quietly, slowing the car to a stop near the marble memorial. She had never been back to see it since her father’s funeral. And now this year she was back in Yardley on the anniversary of his death. Aunt Monica had talked her into the visit, hoping to exorcise the ghost that had haunted Leda since the sudden loss of her parent. And somehow, with Aunt Monica along, the prospect of it did not seem as terrible as it had in the past. They got out of the car and turned toward the forest of markers, the sounds they made muffled by the wind and the driving, drifting snow. The storm had enhanced the effect of early winter dusk, and it was almost dark as Leda made her way to her father’s grave. Aunt Monica followed on her heels, her boots silenced by the powdery carpet beneath her feet. A twilit hush had settled over the cemetery, and the sighing of the wind in the trees and the hiss of falling snow combined to enclose the two women in a still, breathless world. On such a day it was easy to believe that the sleep of the dead who rested there was peaceful. Leda stopped short as she caught sight of her family’s name. A magnificent spray of holly decorated the grassy mound in front of the marker. She turned to the other woman. “He always loved holly, Aunt Monica. Thanks.” “I cut it from the bush out by my patio,” Aunt Monica said. “I put it there last week, on Thanksgiving.” She studied Leda’s absorbed expression. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.” Leda nodded, her eyes on the carved lettering and the numbers below, which delineated the short years of her father’s life. Such a brief span of time, and now it was over forever. All that remained was a handful of ciphers on a stone slab, and a single mourner on a raw December day. Her vision blurred with tears as Aunt Monica walked off into the trees. Leda moved closer, wiping her eyes with a gloved finger. It was several seconds before she realized that there was a man standing on the other side of the grave. Leda halted in surprise. He was half turned away, standing at a distance from the memorial, as if he didn’t want to approach it too closely. It was an odd time of day for a visit, but more importantly, she had thought she knew all her father’s friends. She didn’t recognize this man, who stood half in shadow, his collar turned up against the chill. He obviously wasn’t aware of her presence. Leda’s approach had been silent, cushioned by the snow, and something indefinable kept her from calling out to him. He moved slightly, stepping into the light from an overhead lamppost as he jammed his bare hands into his pockets, and she got a better look at him. He was tall and slim, but not too slim, with broad shoulders and a lean, graceful build. He seemed to be in his middle thirties, and was dressed too lightly for the weather, wearing only jeans and a shirt and an ancient leather flight jacket. This was of an indeterminate dark color, worn to gray at the seams, softened with age and use, unzipped to the waist. A beige wool scarf was draped ineffectively around his neck, doing nothing to keep him warm, but he seemed impervious to the cold. He stared fixedly at something on the ground before him as snowflakes settled on his clothes and hair. Leda remained motionless, fascinated. Who was this man? His expression was grief stricken, as if her father had meant something to him and he missed him. He had to be here for her father; they were at the end of the row and there was no other grave close by them. Leda could see only the visitor’s profile, but it was handsome if a trifle severe, with a strong nose and a straight, uncompromising mouth. His hair was dark, deep brown or black, and the melting snow caught in its thick layers made it glisten with silvery moisture. He’ll catch a cold, Leda thought. His hair is wet and he’s wearing only those thin soled running shoes on his feet. As she watched he bent and retrieved the object he’d been studying. It was a bunch of late season flowers, asters and marigolds and mums, blazing amber and russet and gold against the white blanket of snow. He carefully arranged the waxed paper covering around the blooms, his face intent and serious. Leda walked toward him, waiting for him to notice her. He didn’t. She was almost on top of him when she reached out and touched his arm. The man started visibly, as if he’d been wrenched away from painful thoughts. He whirled to face Leda, who withdrew her hand as if burned. He looked down, and she looked up; he was very tall. His eyes were gray, the cold gray of a bullet casing or the windswept gray of a bleak November sky. His lashes were long and curling, like a child’s, with sparkling snowflakes caught on the tips. His face, full on, was as spare as his profile, with high cheekbones and a firm, chiseled mouth. His aspect was one of strength and determination rather than conventional good looks, but the effect on Leda was unmistakable. She froze as her gaze locked with his. The man’s lips parted. His eyes, their ebony pupils surrounded by rings of platinum, searched her face, and Leda saw comprehension dawn in them. He knows me, she thought with sudden insight. Why don’t I know him? Aunt Monica’s voice pierced the silence. “Leda, what are you...” The words trailed off into nothingness as she saw Leda’s companion. The man glanced at the older woman, and his face went blank. In one swift movement he dropped the flowers on the grave and stepped past Leda, moving toward the road. He turned once, to meet Leda’s eyes again, and a shiver went through her at the intensity of his gaze. Then he strode swiftly away. The snow enshrouded his departing figure as Leda and her aunt looked after him. Leda stared into the distance for some seconds after she could no longer see him. Then she turned to her aunt, who was looking in the same direction, her eyes narrowed, her mouth drawn into a prim line. “Who was that?” Leda asked. “Aunt Monica, do you know that man?” Her aunt faced her in surprise. “Don’t you?” Leda shook her head, hugging herself as a sudden gust of wind cut through her clothes. “But whoever he is, I feel sorry for him. He looked so sad.” Aunt Monica made a disgusted sound. “Don’t waste your pity on him, my dear. He doesn’t deserve it.” “Why not?” Aunt Monica’s plump face puckered with distaste. “Leda, that was Kyle Reardon, the man responsible for your father’s death.” Leda steered her car off the town road and into the paved driveway of her aunt’s house. Her tires cut through the two inches of fresh snow on the asphalt, disturbing the perfection of the vanilla frosting surface. She stole a glance at Monica, who stared straight ahead, her hands clamped firmly on the large purse in her lap. Leda sighed. “I don’t think he meant any harm, Aunt Monica,” she said gently. Monica snorted. “How would you know? You were away at school when the whole thing happened. In my opinion, that man is capable of anything. I can’t believe he had the nerve to come to your father’s grave. You’d think even a jailbird would show more respect. Fresh out of prison and already up to no good.” Her fingers tightened on the leather strap she held and she tossed her head contemptuously, still talking. Leda bit her lip as she slowed the car to a stop next to her aunt’s back door. Monica had been fuming about Reardon’s presence in the cemetery all the way home. Leda was almost glad to be dropping her off at last. She could use a break from the woman’s tirade. “I don’t know what he’s doing back here anyway,” Monica muttered. “Doesn’t he know he’s not welcome in this town?” She yanked savagely on the side handle and snow billowed in through the open door. “He served his sentence,” Leda said shortly. “You can’t prevent him from taking up his life again.” Monica sniffed. “I would if I could,” she responded. She peered at Leda in the dim yellow light shining from her kitchen window. “Are you sure you won’t come in for a cup of coffee or some hot chocolate? It’s so cold. Or maybe you should spend the night. I don’t like the looks of this storm.” “I’ll be fine, Monica. It’s early yet, and it’s only two miles back to my place.” “Call me when you get home,” Monica persisted. Leda smiled indulgently. “All right.” This behavior was typical of Monica. Leda’s mother had been Monica’s sister, and ever since her death when Leda was a child, Monica had filled in for her sibling with a vengeance. After Leda’s father died also, Monica became worse. She found it hard to accept the fact that Leda was a grown woman in pursuit of a career, and still reminded Leda to take her vitamins and wear her galoshes in wet weather. Leda loved her, but occasionally found her fussbudget ways a trial. “And go home the back way, avoid the bridge. It’ll freeze before the road,” Monica said, delivering her parting shot as she got out of the car. Leda waved in agreement, waiting for Monica to enter the house before backing out of the driveway. Monica was a widow who lived alone, since Leda had resisted all the older woman’s attempts to convince her niece to stay with her. But although Leda insisted on her independence she worried about Monica, who was in her sixties and no longer as agile as she once had been. Leda didn’t pull away until she saw the porch light go dark. Leda deliberately concentrated on negotiating the slippery streets, avoiding all thoughts of Kyle Reardon until she was safely home. She parked her car in the street and scuffled her way through the snow to the door of the duplex she shared with a local art teacher. Leda would have to get up early to dig out her car in order to make her audition first thing in the morning. She unlocked her door, noting that Claire’s lights were out, indicating that she probably wasn’t home yet. When Leda’s father’s business had folded after his death, she’d salvaged enough after paying his debts to buy the duplex. She occupied half of the building and rented the other half to Claire. The rent had kept her going between acting jobs more than once, and she was happy she’d heeded her lawyer’s advice to invest in real estate. Leda removed her boots on the porch and unlocked the door in her stocking feet. She stepped into the living room and switched on the lights, dropping her coat wearily on an armchair. She headed for the kitchen to call Monica and make a cup of tea. Once she’d hung up the phone and put the kettle on the stove, Leda couldn’t stop thinking about Kyle Reardon. She’d been a teenager at the time of his trial, living at a girls’ school out of state, but she vividly remembered the tide of feeling that had risen against her father’s former employee. Monica and the rest of her family had kept Leda sheltered from the controversy, making sure she stayed at the private school far from home. But since that time the name Reardon had become synonymous in Leda’s mind with destroyer, with enemy. The enemy had been faceless until today. Leda didn’t recognize the man because she’d never seen him. Years ago she had managed a peek at some newspaper photos, but those were grainy and poor, with an uncooperative subject. It was no surprise that the man she’d encountered in the graveyard had appeared to be a stranger. But Monica knew him. She had remarked to Leda as they were leaving the cemetery that prison hadn’t changed Reardon much. He still had the look, the manner, the presence, that had deceived Leda’s father and everyone else. Leda couldn’t argue with that. She had stood face-to-face with him for only a few moments, but she remembered every glance, every movement, every gesture, of his with a crystalline clarity she would not have thought possible. Never in her life had a chance meeting with another person left such an indelible impression. She was shaken by the experience, unable to dismiss it from her mind. As she moved about the kitchen making a snack, she reviewed what she knew about the man who had ruined her father’s business and his life. Eight years earlier Reardon had been a test pilot with her father’s aeronautical engineering company. He had been working on developing a new jet fuel that wouldn’t catch fire in the event of a plane crash. Headstrong and ambitious, but brilliant in his field, Reardon had a reputation for flashes of insight coupled with an incautious nature. He became convinced that his fuel was ready to be tested in flight, but Leda’s father disagreed with him. According to testimony given at the trial, Reardon waited until Leda’s father was out of town and then ran the test anyway, without the top man’s permission. The test failed and the robot plane exploded, killing several of the onlookers. The shock of the accident that resulted in the deaths was so severe it caused Leda’s father to suffer a fatal heart attack almost immediately. Reardon, as the responsible party, was indicted for criminal negligence and involuntary manslaughter in the deaths at the testing site. Leda was only seventeen at the time, but she remembered that Reardon was blamed for all of it, and convicted at his trial. His appeals took a couple of years, but he finally began serving his sentence after he lost the last one. Monica had told Leda that Reardon had just been released from prison the previous week. Leda filled a mug with hot water, watching the tea bag stain the liquid until it gradually became the color she wanted. Reardon didn’t look like a monster, she thought as she tossed the used bag in the trash. He looked like a man to be reckoned with, all right, imposing and memorable, but not quite like the ruthless opportunist Monica described. But then, how much could she really tell from a silent encounter that had lasted only a few minutes? Intuition and hunches didn’t stack up too well against the mountain of evidence that had sent Reardon to jail. Leda glanced at the clock above the stove and resolved to make it an early night. She had to catch the 6:53 train from the Yardley, Pennsylvania, station into New York for her audition. It was a test for a shampoo commercial, and almost certain to be a disappointment. Leda had the requisite shimmering blond hair, but so did a hundred other actresses, and one could never be certain what the advertiser had in mind. In the past few months she’d been deemed too tall or too short, too heavy or too thin, too pretty or not pretty enough, and on one disconcerting occasion, “not clean enough.” Alarmed at this report, Leda had been relieved to hear that this meant she was considered “sexy” rather than “wholesome.” The product to be pushed was white bread, and apparently sexy didn’t cut it. Leda made a face at the muffin she was slicing. Commercials were hardly the theatrical triumphs of her college dreams, but they paid the bills. She would much rather be doing Shakespeare in the park than extolling the virtues of lemon fresh detergent, but she had to start somewhere and she had to keep from starving before she got where she desired to go. The life of an aspiring actress