Page 13

Whipping around, I saw Joel had trailed behind Bart like a well-trained puppy and at his heel he stopped, his head low, his hands still tucked up those invisible brown homespun sleeves. "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away," mumbled Joel again.

Why the devil did he keep saying that?

Uneasily I looked from Joel to Bart and found his admiring gaze again riveted on Melodie, who was in arabesque position, waiting for Jory to sweep her up in his arms. I didn't like what I saw in Bart's dark, envious look, the desire that burned hotter by the hour. The world was full of unmarried women--he didn't need Melodie, his brother's wife!

Wildly Bart applauded as their dance ended and both were gazing transfixed at each other, forgetting we were there. "You've got to dance like that at my birthday party! Jory, say that you and Melodie will."

Reluctantly Jory turned his head to smile at Bart. "Why, if you want me, of course, but not Mel. Her doctor will allow a little mild dancing and practicing, like we just did, but not that strenuous kind needed for a professional performance, and I know you'll want only the best."

"But I want Melodie, too," protested Bart. He smiled charmingly at his brother's wife. "Please, for my birthday, Melodie, just this one time . . . and you're not so far along anyone will notice your condition."

Appearing uncertain, Melodie stared at Bart. "I don't think I should," she said lamely. "I want our baby to be healthy. I can't risk losing it.

Bart tried to persuade her, and might have, but Jory put a brisk end to the debate. "Now, listen, Bart, I told our agent Mel's doctor didn't want her

to perform, and if she does, he might get wind of it and we could be sued. Besides, she's very fatigued. The kind of easy fun dancing you just witnessed is not the kind we do when we're serious. A professional performance demands hours and hours of warm-ups and practice and rehearsal. Don't plead, it's embarrassing. When Cindy comes she can dance with me."

"No!" Bart snarled, frowning now and losing all his charm. "She can't dance like Melodie."

No, she couldn't. Cindy wasn't a professional, but she did well enough when she wanted to. Jory and I had trained her since she was two.

Several feet behind Bart, like a skinny dark shadow, Joel's hands came out of wide sleeves and templed beneath his bowed head. He had his eyes closed, as if again in prayer. How irritating to have him around all the time.

Deliberately I turned my thoughts from him to Cindy. I couldn't wait to see her again. Couldn't wait to hear her breathless girlish chatter that told of proms and dates and the boys she knew. All the things that brought back to me my own youth, and my own desires to have what Cindy was experiencing.

In the rosy glow of the evening sunset, I stood unobserved in the shadows of a great arch overhead and watched Jory again dancing with Melodie in the huge foyer. Again in leotards, this time violet ones, with the filmy tunic to flutter enticingly, Melodie had bound violet satin ribbons under her small, firm breasts. She appeared a princess dancing with her lover. Oh, the passion Jory and Melodie had between them stirred a wistful longing in my own loins. To be young again like them . . . to have the chance, to do it all over . . . do it right the second time around .. .

Suddenly I was aware that Bart was in another alcove, as if he'd waited to spy . . . or, more generously, watch as. I watched. And he was the one who didn't like ballet and didn't care for beautiful music. He leaned casually against a door frame, his arms folded over his chest. But the burning dark eyes that followed Melodie weren't casual. They were full of the desire I'd seen before. My heart skipped.

When had Bart ever not wanted what belonged to Jory?

The music soared. Jory and Melodie had forgotten they might be observed and became so involved in what they were doing that they danced on and on, wildly passionate, entranced with each other, until Melodie ran to leap into his outstretched arms. Even as she did her lips pressed down on his. Parting lips that met again and again Hands that roamed to seek out all the secret places. I was as much caught up in their lovemaking as Bart, unable to back away. Their kisses seemed to devour one another. In the heat of kindled desire, they fell to the floor and rolled onto the mat. Even as I strode toward Bart, I heard their heavy breathing, growing louder.

"Come, Bart, it's not right to stand and watch when the dancing is over."

He jumped as if my touch on his arm burned. The yearning in his eyes both hurt and frightened me.

"They should learn to control themselves when they're guests in my home," he said in a gruff voice, not taking his eyes off the forgetful pair rolling about on the mat, arms and legs entwined, sweaty hair wet and clinging as they kissed.

I yanked Bart into the music room and softly closed the door behind us. This was not a room I favored. It had been decorated to please Bart's very masculine taste. There was a grand piano that no one ever played, although I'd seen Joel finger it once or twice, then snatch his hands away as if the ivory keys singed him with sin. But the piano lured him so often he just stood staring at it, his fingers flexing and unflexing.

Bart strode toward a cabinet that opened to reveal a lighted bar. He reached for a crystal decanter to pour himself a stiff scotch. No water or ice. In one gulp he downed it. Then he was looking at me in a guilty fashion. "Nine years of marriage. Still they aren't tired of one another. What is it that you and Chris have that Jory has captured and I haven't?"

I flushed before my head bowed low. "I didn't know you drank alone."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, dear Mother." He poured a second scotch, I heard the slow gurgle of the fluid without looking up. "Even Malcolm had a drink once in a while."

Curiosity filled me. "Do you still think about Malcolm?"

He fell into a chair, crossed his legs by placing one ankle on the opposite knee. I looked away, thinking that once my second son had the most irritating ways of putting his feet on anything available, ruining many a good chair with his muddy boots, and bedspreads suffered early deaths. Then my eyes went back to his shoes. How did he keep the soles so clean, so they appeared never to have walked on anything but velvet?

Bit by bit Bart had lost all his messy ways on the way toward manhood. "Why do you stare at my shoes, Mother?"

"They're very handsome."

"Do you really think so?" He gazed down at them indifferently. "They cost six hundred bucks, and I paid another hundred to have the soles treated so they'll never show scuff marks or dirt. It's the 'in' thing to do, you know. Wear shoes with clean soles."

I frowned. What psychological message did that impart? "The tops will wear out before the soles do."