Eye of the Storm (Hudson 3)

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When the doorbell sounded only a little after

twelve. I knew it couldn't be my mother. Grant and Aunt Veronica. It was too early. My first thought was it might be Mr. Sanger, my lawyer, who must have decided he had to stop by and give me advice.

Instead. Corbette Adams stood there looking in at me after I opened the door. Corbette had played George Gibbs to my Emily Webb in the Dogwood High School production of Our Town that had earned me Mr. MacWaine's admiration and the invitation to study the performing arts at his school in London. Easily the most handsome boy at Sweet William-- the sister school to Dogwood, the private school I had attended while living here with Grandmother Hudson-- Corbette had moved like some soap opera star over our campus, basking in the swoons of so many of my classmates.

He was the first boy with whom I had made love, and confronting him now filled me both with angry heat and guilt. Who could blame me, however, for falling beneath the power of his charm and good looks then, especially me, someone so overwhelmed by all the wealth and privilege he and all the others enjoyed? I had been lifted from one world and dropped into another with little or no preparation.

Corbette's familiar sapphire orbs brightened once again at the sight of me. He didn't look much different from the last time I had seen him. His brown hair with hints of copper was still unruly, curling upward at the nape of his neck, the only imperfection in his otherwise perfectly respectable appearance. Despite the position of esteem his family held in the community, there was always something defiant in Corbette, a danger which made him even more attractive and exciting to most girls, and admittedly, once to me.

His strong lips opened and fell back in a soft smile.

"You're even prettier now," he said. "Or else I have just forgotten how beautiful you were."

"Hello. Corbette." I said coldly.

I stood there in the doorway not backing up to let him in. He wore his Sweet William dark blue blazer over a light blue shirt, jeans and a pair of white tennis sneakers. In his right hand he carried a bouquet of white roses and quickly extended them toward me.

I didn't reach for them and the smirk of displeasure remained on my face. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Sorry about Mrs. Hudson's death," he said. "My family went to the funeral and I heard how beautiful and dignified you looked. Many people were impressed with how sad and upset you appeared for a girl who only had been Mrs. Hudson's ward and for so short a time. too. There's a lot of gossip about you, about what she might have left you in her will," he added, still smiling with that unrestrained selfconfidence that I had come to despise.

After all, once he had succeeded to have his way with me, he couldn't wait to brag and then treat me like some trophy he could cast off cavalierly.

I still didn't take the roses. Remaining unimpressed. I looked from them to him.

"What do you want. Corbette?" I asked briskly.

"Oh. I just came to see how you were doing and pay my respects."

"I didn't think you knew what respect meant," I snapped back.

Confronting him now. I realized that time had done little to diminish the embarrassment and belittlement I had felt that day he had brought some of his friends over from Sweet William to watch me horseback riding. From the lusty smiles on their faces. I knew immediately that he had told

them everything about our intimate night after the play performance. He tried to get me to sleep with one of his friends, offering me up as if I belonged to him now and he could give me to whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Seeing me continue to stand like a stone statue in the doorway, he nodded and lowered the roses.

"I know. I know." he said. "You've got every right to be angry at me."

"Thanks for giving me permission," I said.

"I was a jerk back then. I wanted to show off and it was wrong," he said. He shrugged. "You know how boys can be stupid sometimes. I was more in love with my own reputation and image than I was concerned about doing the right thing. Our male egos get us into more trouble," he bemoaned shaking his head. "That day I was just plain immature. I'd be the first to admit it. I wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the nose."

His eves clouded with remorse.

I shook my head. How easily he could assume different attitudes, pretend different emotions. No wonder he had been his school's best actor for so long. When a girl looked at that handsome face with its perfect nose and beautiful eyes, it was difficult to be hard and cautious. You wanted to believe him. You wanted him to mean every sweet thing he said to you and you would deny all the signals and warnings to the contrary.

Men were always complaining about women using their good looks and sexuality to snare and trap them. Corbette Adams was a good example of the shoe being on the other foot. Catherine and Leslie, my two French girlfriends back in London, loved to think of themselves as femme finales, I remembered. Corbette was about as fatal for a femme as any woman could be for any man.

"I'm happy you feel badly about that. Corbette. Maybe the next girl you seduce won't feel as low and dirty as you made me feel. Thanks for stopping by," I added and started to close the door on him.

"Wait," he cried putting out his hand to prevent it from shutting. "Can't I spend a little time with you, catch up on things? I'm leaving for college in another two weeks and won't be back for months."

"I really don't think we have much to say to each other, Corbette."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said. I've had a couple of girlfriends this year. but I haven't known any girls as nice as you or as intelligent. It didn't take me long to realize how stupid I was to treat you badly. C'mon," he pleaded. "Let me at least apologize properly. Then, if you still want to throw me out. I'll even help."