Tempest in Eden

"Th-thank you," he stuttered, Shay's playful hands giving him no respite. "We'll… I'll be right down."

He took her hands away and held them off him. "Let's try to get respectable."

Fifteen minutes later they were the picture of decorum as they descended the stairs, Shay's arm folded in the crook of Ian's elbow.

"I'm sorry we were … uh … busy when you arrived." Ian addressed the group politely from the wide door of the living room.

"We were doing some painting in the bathroom," Shay said with a deceptively angelic smile. Surreptitiously Ian pinched her on the bottom, and everyone jumped in startled surprise when their minister's wife yelped loudly for no apparent reason. "Won't you have some punch?" she said graciously and much more humbly as her husband led her into the living room.

The new year promised them happiness. Every day Shay came to love her husband more. She had been welcomed into the church with loving arms, and though some people found her way of accomplishing things a bit unorthodox, they couldn't criticize what she accomplished.

Shay found doing projects around the church immensely satisfying, but not quite energy-taxing enough to suit her. When a charming shop on the square attracted her attention, she bought several items for the parsonage there. The stock wasn't as elite as what Vandiveer had carried, but the gift boutique had a certain warmth that appealed to her. She made the acquaintance of the owner, and when she learned that his assistant was taking pregnancy leave in the spring, she applied for the job. It was only for three afternoons a week, but it would fill in the extra time she had on her hands. When she mentioned her plans to Ian, the idea met with his wholehearted approval. Shay was impatient for spring to arrive so she could begin working.

One snowy afternoon, Ian returned home stamping slush off his boots, clapping his gloved hands together, and shouting at the top of his lungs. Shay was stirring a pot of homemade soup at the range. She whirled toward him with excitement, her cheeks flushed.

"Guess what!" they said in unison, then laughed together.

"You go first," she said.

"No, you."

"Mine's better. You go first."

He pulled off his gloves with his teeth and clasped her shoulders with cold, red hands. "The basketball team is going to the tri-state playoffs, and they've asked me to go along." His blue eyes sparkled like a child's. He assumed a solemn expression and cleared his throat pedantically. "For spiritual guidance, of course."

"Oh, darling, that's great."

"I get to ride on the bus and everything."

She laughed at his boyish enthusiasm.

"Now you tell me your news. But first a kiss." He bent to plant a hard, damp kiss on her mouth as his hand stole under her sweater.

"Ach!" she wailed, spinning away from him. "That's cold."

"Come on," he said, stalking her around the kitchen, his arms outstret

ched, his lips smacking the air in an exaggerated pucker. "Give me a kiss."

She laughed and tossed a dish towel over his head. "Not on your life. Not until you warm up those hands."

"Tell me what's got you so excited," he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot she had warming on the stove.

"You'll never guess. My agent called, and Peter Zavala wants to photograph me. He's been asked to do a one-man show at the Metropolitan Museum next summer. I'm only one of many models he'll test-photograph, of course," she went on excitedly, "but he wants to do the entire study around one model. If I'm the one selected, I can't tell you what it would do for my career."

"Or mine." His comment echoed in the sudden silence between them.

She stared at him. Her first reaction was a flare of temper. She'd thought he'd be glad for her. Instead his face looked like a thundercloud as he stared into his coffeecup. In an effort to keep their relationship on an even keel, she licked her lips and said patiently, "He's the best, Ian. He specializes in photographing women. He's right up there with Avedon and Scavullo. It's an honor even to be asked to pose for him."

Ian pushed angrily away from the counter. "I know who he is. I've admired his work. I'm not that much a provincial puritan, as you're so fond of calling me."

"Well, then you can appreciate—"

"I can't appreciate my wife getting excited about taking off her clothes and posing for a photographer, and I don't care if he's the King of Siam!" he shouted. "Furthermore, I can't think of anything worse than having you displayed in the Metropolitan Museum, sprawling naked for all the world to see."

Rage, hot and fierce, coursed through her veins. "I do not sprawl," she retorted. "Zavala takes classic photographs, beautiful studies of the human body."

"And we all know how proud you are of your human body, don't we? You're always eager to show it off."