Only late at night, after that last lingering phone conversation with Charlie, did she lie in her bed and allow her mind to drift. Only then did she allow herself to admit that she missed him. She missed him emotionally, though they did their best to support each other. And she missed his companionship, his laughter, his silliness, even his flares of temper. But she had missed him in these ways for years.
She missed him physically. And that was new.
The places on her body that he had touched with his mouth and his warm fingers now craved his touch. She'd learned what longing meant. She longed to turn in her bed and roll against him, and lie with him, skin to skin. To hear his even breathing when he'd sleep, and to stroke him, soothe him, when he couldn't. Her nights now were spent yearning and she wondered—hoped—that he spent his nights yearning, too.
Molly straightened from the packing box she was bending over and shoved her hair off her face. She should have braided it. She'd gotten out of the habit, wearing it to please Charlie.
Hands on hips, she surveyed Tobie's room. The surfaces were cleared of his belongings, the bed had been stripped, most everything was packed. Only the bookcase remained. She started sorting through Tobie's books and games, searching for heavier objects to put on the bottom of the box.
Under his magic kit she found the four bulky volumes, all bound in maroon with gold lettering. Her high-school yearbooks. She hadn't looked at them in ages.
Easing back onto the mattress, she pulled them on to her lap. She opened the one from freshman year first, the only year she and Charlie had been at school at the same time. She turned to his senior-class picture, unprepared for the wave of wistfulness that swamped her.
Even dressed like all the other boys, in tux, formal shirt and black tie, he drew the eye. His hair was long, waving down over his collar. A little different from the style he was sporting now, she thought with a chuckle. His generous smile spread across his face and crinkled his eyes. She traced a fingertip over his mouth, remembering that was the year he'd taught her to kiss and forever spoiled other men's kisses for her.
The photograph revealed him pretty much as he was. Good-natured—good-looking, the girls had been all over him that year—maybe a little bit of a ruffian. Among those who knew him then, teachers and students both, the general consensus had been that likeable though he was, he'd never amount to much.
She had never, ever shared that opinion. Her only explanation for their misappraisal of him was that they had never looked in his eyes, where the hunger and determination lurked. She had seen that drive early on and believed he was destined for great things. She'd always thought that, kind as he was to the gawky girl who adored him, he would leave her behind. And so it hurt, but it didn't surprise her when he did.
Only now, she reflected, it seemed that he hadn't left her. She lifted the book and hugged it against her chest, biting down on her bottom lip. She had thrown him out of her life, and he had never known she needed him back.
She spread the book over her lap again and flipped the pages to the freshman class. For the first time in many years, she stared at Lucy's picture. The Cochrane mold, female version. High-spirited, sassy, spoiled well beyond what was good for her. But Molly had loved her then, and loved her memory still. She'd been full of pranks and adventure, and Molly's experiences had been so restricted. It wasn't until later, when her exploits turned wrong and dangerous, that they'd drifted apart.
Of all the boys, Charlie had been closest to Lucy. Both in age and spirit. Molly knew, rightfully or not, he blamed himself for some of the wrong turns his sister had taken in life. She could see no possible gain from telling him now that Lucy had kept them apart. He seemed willing to forget the past. She had no reason to complain about his treatment of her.
Molly looked once more at the photograph of her old friend. They had kept each other's secrets as children. She would keep this one now.
Chapter 10
Molly stood and walked across the wooden floor to lean against the porch post. Mrs. Cochrane was nodding over her book in the wicker rocker. Her husband sat on the top step with Tobie, sipping iced tea and regaling the boy with stories of Charlie as a youngster. Molly thought she'd stand by to defend her man's honor if need be.
The Cochranes had driven in that morning from Wheeling. They'd finally been able to meet Tobie, though they had talked to him numerous times by phone. He'd only been out of the hospital a week, and his contacts with other people were still severely limited. Infection could cause a major problem for months to come.
She'd been a little uneasy about Charlie's parents' reaction to her, but she needn't have worried. She had no idea what he had said to them about her, but it was clear they were delighted with Tobie and ready to accept her as a daughter. They were waiting now for Charlie to arrive. The benefit was tonight and then he'd be home—he'd be hers—for two weeks.
"You really shouldn't smoke, Grampa."
Molly's head whipped around to where her father-in-law was shaking out a match, cigarette in hand, guilty look on his face. "Tobie..." she began in a remonstrating voice.
Mr. Cochrane waved her comment off. "It's okay, Molly. The boy's right." He took a long, long drag on the cigarette and then pinched it out, stuffing it back in the pack. "I'd like to quit," he said to his grandson, "but I haven't been able to. Your dad used to smoke, but he stopped a few years ago. Did you know that?"
Tobie shook his head.
"Mmm-hmm. Smartest thing he ever did," the old man continued. He lifted his gaze to Molly. "One of 'em."
"Mom never smoked."
Mr. Cochrane's eyebrows rose and he glanced at Molly over the rim of his glass, clearly unwilling to contradict her if that was what she had told her son, and just as clearly itching to set the story straight.
She made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Oh, go ahead before you burst, Dad." Charlie's parents had let her know how they preferred her to address them, and she was happy to accede to their wishes. They'd been like second parents to her years ago, anyway.
Mr. Cochrane set his glass on the porch floor and cleared his throat. "Your momma did smoke one time." He shot another glance at her. "That I know of."
Molly crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Just once," she said.
Tobie, all eyes and ears now, swiveled his gaze from her to his grandfather.
Mindful of his rapt audience, the old man took his time with his tale. "Your dad had a younger sister. She's gone now." He paused for a moment and stared down at the step. "She died before you were born. Anyway," he sighed, "Lucy and your mom were like that." He raised two fingers and crossed one over the other.
"Lucy was full of ideas, not all of them good ones. We had a little tomato patch behind our garage and when the girls were back there, you could be sure they were up to no good."
He took a deep breath. "One day your father caught them behind the garage puffin' on cigarettes Lucy had filched from one of her brothers." He shrugged. "Maybe me, who knows?"
"From Cleeve," Molly said.
"From Cleeve." He acknowledged her with a nod. "See there, I learned something today. Well, like I said, your daddy caught the two of them and lit into them like gangbusters. Said if they were gonna smoke, they should smoke, not those timid little pantywaist puffs they were taking."
Molly felt Tobie's eyes turn her way again and she rested her elbow on the arm across her chest, chin in hand, but she didn't interrupt her father-in-law.
"So, he kept lighting the cigarettes for them, one after the other, till they were puffing like locomotives and your momma was as green as this floor." He paused and tapped a finger on the wood for emphasis. "But she got even."
Molly covered her face with her hand, feeling herself go as red as one of those tomatoes from the patch. Tobie stole another quick look. "What did she do?" he asked, entranced.
"She threw up all over his boots," the old man answered with a satisfied grin.
"Wow, Grampa! And he forgave her?" Tobie slapped
his hands on his knees, laughing. "He could forgive her anything!"
"Yes, son, I think he could," he said, his grin softening. He looked at Molly over the boy's head. "He was sweet on your momma even then."
Molly met his gaze for a moment, but was quickly distracted by the glint of sunlight on something off at a distance coming up the drive. She felt her heartbeat kick up and the adrenaline jolt through her. Must be Charlie.
In less than a minute the airport limousine pulled to a stop in front of the house. Charlie had flown, while the rest of the band members would be arriving with the buses. He had barely unfolded himself from the car before Tobie, streaking down the stairs, grappled him around the waist.
They removed their hats, laughing and doing a quick comparison of their respective hair growth. Tobie's was still black, though coarser in texture than it had been. Charlie's was black and sleek, not long by any means, but thick, like a shiny fur coat.
Mr. Cochrane's aged knees got him down the stairs a little more slowly, but he gripped his son's shoulder and shook his hand, his love and pride obvious. Charlie climbed the steps to greet his mother with a kiss and a hug.
Then he turned to Molly. She touched his wrist and he pulled her close. Holding his hat beside their heads for privacy, he kissed her. A fairly proper, in-front-of-company kind of kiss. You'd have to be watching real close to catch the slide of his tongue along her lips. But his eyes said, "Later."
They separated, gathered the luggage the driver had left at the foot of the stairs and, with the others, piled into the house.
She hadn't seen Charlie perform live in years. Oh, she'd watched the videos and the television appearances, even the public-service announcements about drinking and driving he'd been involved with since his sister died. But the live performance, just Charlie on a stool with his guitar and his music—she hadn't seen that since they'd split.
She'd forgotten the effect he had on a crowd.
He'd been on stage most of the evening, introducing the various acts and plying his brand of low-key banter. After all, this benefit was his baby, the fund to be named in honor of his son, and these were his friends doing their part to help him out. He'd been tireless in his efforts all night long.
And now it was just him on the stage for some slow ones. The wrenching songs of love and loss that he did so well. Molly watched from what had been her vantage point all evening, behind the curtain to the side of the stage. He'd been able to send her a smile and an occasional wink. He'd even mouthed that she looked pretty at one point—he'd gotten there a lot earlier than she had to rehearse and hadn't talked to her before the show.
She could see him in partial profile, a little from the side and the back. A single spotlight shone on him. He'd started out the evening in one of those flashy shirts with the big splashes of color and the pearlized snaps that many of the country singers affected. The lights were hot, though, and he'd peeled that off some time ago.
Now he wore just a black T-shirt that clung like a coat of paint, black jeans—they clung, too—black boots. Black hat. She watched the swell of the muscles in his back and arms as he cradled and stroked his guitar the way he would a woman. She was close enough to see the trickle of sweat that ran from his hairline down his cheek to be slowed in the stubble of his beard.
He didn't give what could be called a polished performance. Nothing easy, or glib, or superficial. He sang the way he did everything else, with all his heart. Eyes closed, neck veins distended with his effort, his face a study in concentration, he seemed to wrest the words from deep in his soul. The impression he left was one of potent masculinity, raw sexuality, barely contained.
He had this audience eating out of his hand. This crowd of movers and shakers and their glittering women. Not the usual hard-core country fans. But every man here tonight wanted to be him. And every woman thought he was singing just to her.
Molly knew. She remembered how it felt when he had sung just to her. She watched until she recognized the first chords to "Bad for Each Other," the song he had written for her, and then she couldn't watch any more.
She made her way backstage to his dressing room, where she could follow what remained of the show from closed-circuit TV. Covering her face with her hands, she gave herself up to the memories the song evoked. Those early days when she had lost him. Those first years of his success when he'd had a reputation for dancing from heart to heart. When he'd had his pick of bed partners after a show and women clinging to him like the seeds of a stickweed.
How could she live with that? What would she do about it, if that was how he chose to conduct himself? Now there was Tobie. Her doubts and misgivings poured over her in a torrent.
She had no idea how much time passed before she realized the television was showing snow. Not long after that, the door opened and Charlie entered, a smile on his lipstick-smeared
face.
"I wondered where you—" he began, then stopped as he saw her face. His smile faded. He glanced at himself in the mirror, grabbed a towel and wiped the bright streaks from his cheek and around his mouth.
"What is it?" he said. He threw the towel on the dressing table disgustedly and followed the towel with his hat.
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that, Molly. Something's got you bent all out of shape."
"This isn't a good time to discuss anything, Charlie. You're tired—"
He'd walked to the door and pushed it shut with the flat of his hand, then turned and sagged against it, eyeing her. "Yeah. I'm tired." His mouth thinned and his eyes glinted. "I'm tired of you lookin' at me, and seein' your daddy."
She stiffened. "I don't." But she did. He was more perceptive than she had imagined.
"Yeah, you do, Molly. You always have." He shoved away from the door and approached her. "I've got something to tell you, and I'm only gonna say it one time, so you listen good."
He had her backed against the dressing table. She pressed her hands on it to keep her balance. He was as angry as she'd ever seen him. A muscle twitched near his eye and his throat worked. His voice was tight, but even, when he spoke.
"I'm not your daddy. I don't cheat." Something in her face must have touched him. His tone softened. "I know what your father was like. I know what it's done to you."
She couldn't meet his eyes. She stared at his throat, willing an expression of control she didn't feel. "My father was a drunk and a womanizer. You have no idea what it's done to me.
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "He was those things, Molly, but that's not all he was."
"You're right." She smiled up at him, her voice imbued with a false brightness. "He was a liar, too."
"Molly." He sounded so pained, she looked away. "And I'm those things, too. Is that how you feel?"
She shrugged.
"Dammit, Molly, look at me." She did, her eyes fierce and tearless. "Why will you believe the stories? Why not me?"
"I believe what I see, Charlie."
She knew in an instant she'd gone too far. His expression became shuttered and he backed away slightly. "That's what this is about, isn't it? That last blowup. What we fought about that last time."
"I don't remember," she whispered.
"You don't remember who, maybe. But you know it was a woman. It was always a woman."
He strode to the door and locked it, the click echoing loud in the silent room. ' 'You know the saying, Moll, believe half of what you see and none of what you hear?" He flung himself into a chair, lounging back, legs spread. "What did you see?"
Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. "I don't want to talk about this."
"We have to have this out, Molly. Nothing will be right between us until we do." He lifted his chin and held her gaze. "Come here. Show me what you saw."
She shook her head slowly.
"Then, go. You come to me, Molly, or you go."
"Please, Charlie."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a gut-wrenchi
ng sigh. "Come here," he said, finally, lifting his hand to her, beckoning, inviting. "Help me do this, honey. Show me what you saw."
She went to him slowly, reluctantly, slipping out of her shoes along the way. The woman she'd seen hadn't been wearing shoes. He reached both hands out to her as she neared, guiding her over one of his knees, positioning a long, nylon-clad leg on each side.
"So pretty, Molly. Did you wear this dress for me?"
Just for him. She'd bought it with the vision of the approval she'd see in his eyes guiding her choice. A simple shimmering sheath. No froufrou at all. Long-sleeved, scoop-necked, clingy, short. Covered in coppery sequins, the color of her hair. She set her hands on his shoulders and nodded to him.
He smoothed his palms over her hips and nudged her nearer. "Is this the way it was, honey? Is this what you saw?"
She focused her eyes on the wall behind him for a moment, remembering. Then she bent one knee and placed it on the chair between his thighs, close to, but not touching him. Not yet.
One of his hands slid up her arm to her shoulder, fingers hooking in the neckline of her dress and pulling the stretchy fabric down, her bra along with it, exposing her breast with its nipple already beaded, pleading for his lips. He touched his tongue to it, the rough surface abrading, and Molly inhaled sharply, arching. He closed his mouth over her, suckling so strongly it caused his cheeks to hollow, before he moved his face to the warm, sweet valley between her breasts, nuzzling gently. "Is this what you saw, Molly?" he whispered against her skin.
"No." Her answer was a barely audible puff of her breath.
"No," he repeated, his whiskers rasping on her tender flesh. "You didn't see this, because it didn't happen."
She couldn't swear to that. She'd been behind the woman. But she hadn't seen it.
He moved his hands to the backs of her thighs and let them glide up under her dress to cup her bottom, his calluses making a scratching sound on her panty hose. His fingers kneaded her buttocks, the tips probing into the moist heat between her thighs until he'd wrung a "Charlie!" from her.
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