Roses in Autumn by Donna Fletcher Crow

word. What made him think she was coming back? Whenever she wanted more of his debauched philosophy she could get it in any X-rated movie for a lot less money. But then, she should have expected all this. After all, Kyle Larsen was a man. Her mother had warned her. They were all alike.
    Tom was out when she got back to the room. Fine. That would give her a chance to get some writing done. Now that she was getting to know Gwendolyn better, she could do one of her character development exercises for her. Yes. Good idea.
    Ten minutes later, as Laura stared at the still-blank sheet of paper in front of her, she decided that trying to write must have been a bad idea. Strange, her technique of listing everything she knew about a character, then everything she wanted to know, and then doing an imaginary talk show interview with her character never failed. But it had this time. It seemed it was taking so much energy to keep her anger at Kyle Larsen under control, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
    She wandered listlessly around the room, trying not to wonder where Tom was. The ringing phone shattered the silence that her intense concentration always created. Tom? Calling to say he was on his way? She sprang to the phone. “Hello.” Silence. “Hello?”
    No, not silence. Breathing. Someone was on the line, but not speaking to her.
    She dropped the receiver back in the cradle with a shiver. It was as if the room had been invaded. Where was Tom? She looked around for something to do. She tried reading some of the books she had bought but couldn’t focus on Canadian history. Her mind kept wandering back to Kyle Larsen’s words. Slowly, amazement replaced her initial anger.
    She had no idea there could be debatable theories—philosophy and theology—behind her feelings. She had been taught that things were black and white, good and evil. Now this man had said the correctness of such thoughts could be discussed. It gave a whole new approach to an issue that had been only emotion to her before.
    All right, she would try his approach and see what happened. Reading the Bible couldn’t hurt anything, could it? She yanked open the drawer of her bedside table and took out the Gideon Bible. Song of Solomon, he said. All right, she’d show him. She would read the whole thing, then march back into his office and tell him exactly what she and God thought of his depraved ideas. No, she wasn’t going back. Well, she’d see about that.
    Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee …
    Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon … Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green.
    Why, this was beautiful. This was the most beautiful poetry she had ever read. Why had she not seen that before? The richness of metaphor, the flow of language—Laura felt herself surrounded by warm, spiced oils, scented flowers, silken fabrics, rich foods, and the music of words carrying her on.
    Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant? Behold his bed …
    Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold thou art fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks … Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee … Thou hast ravished my heart … How fair is thy love … A garden inclosed … a fountain of gardens … Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.
    It was several moments before the knocking at the door penetrated her consciousness. Oh, it must be Tom. Had he forgotten his key? She ran to the door and flung it open as a maiden opening her garden to her lover.
    The startled man in a houseboy’s