Tempest in Eden

She stomped up the stairs and ran the coldest water she could stand. But, rather than calming her, the shower fueled her agitation. "What a boor," she muttered as she dressed in a swirling skirt and peasant blouse of printed muslin. The soft, sheer fabric felt good against her skin as she lifted her arms to sweep her hair into a careless topknot. She let several curling tendrils lie with beguiling negligence on her neck and cheeks.

Ian Douglas represented everything she disdained. He was judgmental, stodgy, unyielding in what he considered to be the rules of propriety. He looked upon people like her with stern disapproval for their liberated outlook on life.

After nearly thirty years, she couldn't change herself, nor did she want to. Her father had been the only one who'd ever understood her. He alone had encouraged her independent nature, her liberal tolerance, her freethinking, her mischievous personality. When he had died, she'd lost not only a loving parent, but also her closest friend and staunchest ally.

She missed him still. He had been a physician, a man admired by his patients and constituents, adored and pampered by his wife, and loved by his daughter. They had shared a rare relationship, open and honest. While her mother had always been reluctant to discuss certain aspects of life with her daughter, Shay's father had always gone to great lengths to answer her every precocious question in detail. He had found her curiosity refreshing and entertaining, and had admired and encouraged her acceptance of other people, no matter what their lifestyles or philosophies. To those who had criticized her sometimes unorthodox behavior, he had defended her as being forthright and unpretentious.

Above all, Shay hated narrow-mindedness and those who would impose their brand of stuffy, stodgy, supercilious prudery on others. She tagged Ian Douglas as one of that breed. She only wished he looked more the part he played: with a nose that seemed perpetually turned up in distaste, myopic eyes that searched out indiscretions, and a pointed chin. Somehow it was hard to hate a flawless body that defined masculinity and a face that would have made Narcissus weep with envy.

It suddenly struck her that she was being unusually harsh and judgmental herself, jumping to conclusions about a man she'd only just met, but she pushed the thought aside impatiently.

"To hell with him," she said flippantly as she doused herself with a seductive scent. "I didn't ask for his opinion. I don't care what he thinks of me. Once this weekend is over, I don't ever have to see him again."

With that attitude, she descended the stairs. John and Ian were sitting in easy chairs, sipping chilled white wine from tulip-shaped glasses. "Shay," John called out, standing up, "come join us for a glass of wine."

She beamed at him and ignored his scowling son. "No thank you, John. I'm sure Mom can use my help in the kitchen." With a saucy swirl of her skirt, she pushed through the swinging door.

"What can I do?" she asked cheerfully. Her mother was bending down to pull a heavy casserole from the oven.

Her cheeks flushed becomingly from the heat of the stove, Celia turned around and sighed with despair. "You can march right upstairs and put on a bra, that's what you can do." Hands on hips, wearing a ruffled bibbed apron, her hair mussed, Celia Douglas looked anything but commanding.

"Why?" Shay asked breezily, going to the relish tray and popping an olive into her mouth.

Celia sputtered her answer. "Because … because I can see your … dew drops."

Shay nearly sucked the olive down her throat as she gasped a laugh. "Dew drops?" When she caught her breath, her eyes were dancing with mirth. "They're called nipples, mother. Nipples. And every woman since Eve has

had them. They're part of the female anatomy. God created them. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

"They're nothing to flaunt either," Celia said with another weary sigh, conceding the argument, as she always did, to her daughter's winning pragmatism. "What will John and Ian think of you?"

Shay's grin melted, and she frowned. She went to the window and looked out at the lovely twilight-washed landscape. Unwittingly her mother had disarmed her in the most effective way. Shay was reminded of divided loyalties, personality conflicts, and failures to please. In her entire life, had she made anyone proud of her? "Are you ashamed of me, Mother?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, Shay," her mother said with instant remorse. "Of course not, darling." She came to her daughter quickly and placed a slender arm around her waist. "It's just that I wanted this to be a fun weekend with as little tension as possible. You've already had a run-in with Ian. By the way, what happened?"

"Nothing much. Just an instant, total, and unalterable dislike for each other." Shay saw no reason to explain the episode that afternoon any further.

"And you certainly didn't keep your aversion to yourself." Sighing, her mother released her and continued getting the dinner ready for serving. "When will you learn some decorum, Shay? I told your father he was courting disaster when he exercised no restraint in letting you see and hear things that a properly brought-up young lady should never be exposed to. He was far too liberal in his thinking, and it rubbed off on you."

"And I thank God for it," she said heatedly. When she saw her mother's anxious expression, she softened. "The dinner looks lovely, Mother. Your chicken paprika, if my nose doesn't deceive me." Taking up a tray to carry into the candlelit dining room, she added, "I'll try not to disgrace you in front of your new husband and stepson, Mom."

Celia's dinner did her proud. She had a knack that made stoneware and stainless look like priceless china and silver. She had arranged spring flowers in a crystal bowl for the centerpiece. Her cooking was unsurpassed. The years she had lived alone in widowhood had deprived her of the opportunity to use her home-making talents. Now she was again in her element. Shay winked at her with a proud smile.

They commenced eating after John had asked Ian to say grace. Had it not been for Ian's deprecating glances across the linen tablecloth, Shay would have enjoyed the dinner immensely. John was a gentleman in every sense of the word, bridging the infrequent lapses in conversation with new topics of discussion.

"Your mother tells me you work in a gallery part-time, Shay," he said politely.

"Yes." She blotted her mouth with a napkin and pushed aside what little remained of her strawberry shortcake. "We cater to clients with excellent taste but limited budgets. For someone with a discerning eye, we carry an appreciable number of artworks."

"You must know quite a bit about art, then," John said, lighting an aromatic cigar with one of the candles.

"I should." Shay laughed. "I spend a great deal of time in art studios with artists."

"Oh? In what capacity?"

"She's worked for some of the best," Celia inserted nervously. "She's… They say no one else… Her…"

Shay's eyes slid across the table to Ian, who was sitting with his chin propped on his fist. His elbows rested on the arms of his chair. Candlelight gleamed on his black hair, which seemed perpetually tousled. He was staring into space with vacant blue eyes, apparently bored with the conversation.