by Janet Eaves
After bologna and cheese sandwiches on a Lake Legend paddle boat, Dorothy McClain arrived to pick up her great-niece. Accustomed to doing so, the two women quickly moved the car seat from Chloe’s Jeep to Dorothy’s sedan, and LizBeth Ann cheerfully climbed in. “I read with Aunt Dorthy. Her liebarry.” She grinned and pulled a board book from the backpack beside her on the seat, clearly looking forward to an afternoon in Charles and Dorothy’s beautifully renovated library.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet. A couple from Nashville who had read Damien Phillips’ review stopped in en route to Washington, DC. They didn’t buy anything, but promised to stop again on their way back. They also took a few of her new flyers. Greg knew about the changes to the flyer, the sign in the window, and the updated website, and they mattered to him. She was glad she’d made the effort.
Chapter Fourteen
After the brief discussion “over tea,” Chloe felt better about the way things stood with Greg. She thought he might call her or drop in. She even considered the possibility that he would simply show up early one morning with a sack of donuts and two steaming cups of coffee. Days passed, and none of those things happened. It was okay, she told herself, she’d been happy before Greg came into her life, and she’d be just fine now. The only problem was, she had had a taste of something good, and she wanted more. How to get it without looking like a junkie? She didn’t want to be obvious, after all.
Two weeks passed without any word from Greg. She hadn’t even seen him in town. Enough of this. My pride is going in the dumpster. She went through her cell phone statement and got the number that had called her the first day the guys had worked on her building.
“Hello?” A loud male voice answered, but there was a lot of background noise.
“Greg?”
“Yeah. Who is this?”
“Um. Chloe. Chloe McClain. Sorry, but it doesn’t sound like you.”
“You just calling to give me grief about the way my voice sounds on the phone, or do you want something?”
She wasn’t going to admit how much she wanted something. Him in particular.
“I just called to…” Why hadn’t she made up a story? She had mistakenly assumed he’d be happy to hear from her, and would just ask her for a date. Stupid, since they’d never had a date. And since when had Chloe become so passive?
She cleared her throat and stood up a little straighter. “Um. Just called to ask you for dinner tomorrow night. Sort of a post-project celebration. I’ll bake bread.”
“Dinner? Well. Why not? Can I bring something?” He certainly didn’t sound overly enthused.
“Um. Sure. A bottle of wine?” There. That made it a little cozier, didn’t it? A strictly business post project celebration surely wouldn’t include a bottle of wine. She might as well send the right signals to Greg, so he’d have an idea that she was planning to seduce him. She sincerely hoped he wouldn’t make it difficult, because she was out of practice. His reaction to the invitation didn’t seem to bode well.
****
She worked on dinner off and on throughout the next day, mixing up the yeast dough, letting it rise, and then putting it into the oven at about six o’clock. The rest of the meal was nice, but not too expensive. She was lucky to have family members with gardens, and she hadn’t been shy about sponging off them. Money would continue to be tight for the foreseeable future. It was nice to live where she worked, because she still had the shop open while she fixed dinner. Of course she had always lived where she worked, just not so fancy. Or so expensive. Every day without a sale, like today, was disheartening. Maybe tomorrow would be better.
Greg arrived right at seven o’clock. She had left the gallery door unlocked so he could let himself in. “Hey, Chloe! You in here?”
Suddenly Chloe’s palms were cold and sweaty. She wiped them on her jeans as she went downstairs to meet her guest.
“Hi, Greg.” She smiled, or at least tried to. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight.”
“Not like my social calendar is that busy. Thanks for the invitation.” He held out the bottle of wine. “This okay? I’m more of a six pack of beer kind of guy.”
She took the bottle. “Yes. This is wonderful.”
“You can thank Midnight. I figured she has good taste, so I asked her what kind to get.”
“She definitely has excellent taste, and this is the best you can buy in Legend. I’ll be sure to thank her.” She turned and headed back up the steps. “Come on upstairs—oh, do you mind to lock the door first? We’ll turn off the shop lights when you get upstairs.” Did that send a message that she wanted privacy? She definitely wanted privacy, and wanted Greg to know it.
Was she acting like a complete idiot? It sure felt that way.
“Door locked, lights off.” Greg flipped the switch at the top of the stairs. “You’ve got the place looking nice up here. Homey.”
“Thanks. I spend a lot of time here.” Okay, yeah, that was pathetic. I have no life, so basically it’s my apartment or the shop. Unfortunately, it was also true.
“Curtains are closed. As I recall from our conversations on the topic, you’re a natural light kind of girl. It’s still plenty light outside.” He turned from the window and faced her, his arms crossed. “Chloe McClain, just what’s going on here? Did you ask me here for something other than dinner?”
He certainly didn’t look shocked or unhappy about the possibility. But there wasn’t a knowing smile or lopsided grin either. Basically, he was just staring at her without much expression. So… He was bored with the idea?
“Dinner. With bread and wine. You want more than that, you’ll have to ask nicely.” Even though her plan had been to seduce him, she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t feel like getting into a conversation about it, for goodness’ sake. If you’re seducing someone, you just do it, right? Obviously, Greg wasn’t going to make this easy. She took in his appearance—a green pocket t-shirt nearly the color of his eyes, jeans without holes in them and deliciously snug. He hadn’t dressed up, but she was sure he had showered and put on clean clothes after finishing his workday. She could even see a little dampness of the blonde tendrils around his face. He was growing a goatee, and it looked terrific on him. His attitude might not make it easy, but the way he looked was helping. And the way she felt when she looked at him. Still, she needed to ease into things a little.
“I like the facial hair,” she said, stepping closer and smoothing one finger down the goatee.
He caught her hand. “Thanks. Harder to keep this thing looking neat than to shave clean every day, but I thought I’d give it a try. Do you think it makes me look mysterious?”
She laughed, a little breathlessly. “Not sure about mysterious, but it will go great with that pirate outfit at Halloween.” Chloe got busy in her tiny kitchen, but Greg didn’t lounge in the living area.
“Need help?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“Like taste testing?”
“I’ll do what I can. It smells out of this world.”
****
Having the wine with dinner and eating more than usual made Chloe feel cozy and a little sleepy. Maybe too much wine? Hm…
In spite of her protests, Greg helped clean up, and they even washed dishes together. There was something intimate about performing this simple task. Was it the proximity? The fleeting touches of their hands in the rinse water? By the time she had put away the dried dishes, Chloe was on edge. On edge, slightly tipsy, and very hungry for that fix…
Greg poured another glass of wine for each of them and carried it to the living area. He sat in the exact center of the short sofa, so Chloe could sit either next to him or in one of the chairs. A seducer would not sit in a chair. She sat next to him and picked up her wine glass.
“Mmm. This is delicious. You’re a good sport to drink wine when you’d prefer beer.”
“There’s one point for me. Hey—I like it fine. Goes better with the evening anyway. If we go to my place s
ometime and I grill burgers, there might be beer instead.”
That sounded promising. He was almost saying he might invite her over sometime.
Chloe leaned back into the couch, cradling her glass in both hands. She closed her eyes and sighed, happy with the way the evening had turned out.
“This is nice. I’m so glad you’re here. It’s a post project celebration, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” He leaned forward and she felt the couch cushions shift as he did so. “You getting all mellow on me, Chloe?”
“Mmm. Maybe. Just feeling delicious.”
“I imagine you are. Delicious, I mean. It’s been a while since I had a taste.”
She raised her heavy eyelids. Greg’s face was just inches from hers. Her breath caught. “Need another taste? Just to be sure?” Unintentionally, but in anticipation, she licked her lips. She set her glass on a low table and turned toward him. He was so handsome, and so dear to her. Yet something wasn’t quite right. She needed to know…
“Greg. Why didn’t you call? After we talked that day when I picked up LizBeth Ann, I thought things were better. I thought you would call.” And it hurt like fire that he hadn’t.
He frowned. “Well. Wasn’t sure. Of you or of me.”
“You’re still confusing me with that other woman.”
“No. You’re nothing like her. And I’m not the same guy I was back then.” Greg stood and began to pace. “I got to thinking about it, after you and I talked a few days ago, and you know what? Although she used me, I was using her, too. Her family had connections that could make my business a big success. That’s an issue with us, if there ever could be an ‘us.’ You’re a McClain, and your family can make or break my business. Plus you’re like famous or something… I guess I don’t want anybody to get the idea that I’m using you… Sure don’t want you to get that idea.”
She laughed. Threw her head back and laughed. “You have got to be kidding me! I’m not anybody special. I’m just a girl who paints pictures and is up to her eyeballs in debt. I have a big family, but if you’ll pardon the colloquialism, we’re just folks. Not any better than anybody else. Everybody is important in Legend. Everybody is special. We all do our part, and genuinely care about each other. That’s what makes this such a wonderful place to live—what makes it home. Not the buildings or the scenery, wonderful as those are. The real Legend is the people.”
“Even people like me?” He was genuinely concerned about this. And at least he had stopped pacing.
“Especially people like you, Greg. Come here.” She stretched out her arm, palm up, and he took her hand and sat next to her on the couch. “Especially people like you. You’ve tried very hard to hide it, but you really care—I’ve seen it in the way you deal with your crew, the way you were playing with LizBeth Ann the other day. The way you’ve helped me, after your paid job was done. You wear a pretty believable mask with that pirate costume, but I know what’s under the mask. A wonderful guy who was badly hurt and isn’t quite over it.”
He raised a hand and caressed her face, teased her lips with his thumb.
“You see that in me?”
“That and more. Let me show you.” She got up and walked across to an antique secretary, opened the hinged door and took out the figure. Returning to him, she laid it in his palm. “This is you.”
Greg picked up the Little Legend figure of himself and looked closely at it. “This one looks different than the one you have in the case downstairs.”
“Had in the case. I painted over it. Just made the glass clear on the Deluxe Home Improvements building. This little guy,” she said, gesturing toward the figurine, “is going to be standing outside.”
Greg looked down at the miniature of himself. It didn’t look scruffy like the fellow who’d been in the window. “Why’d you make a new one?”
“The other Greg was one-dimensional. When I painted that, I didn’t know you. This one is three-dimensional. Like you.”
“Not only does this guy look less like a criminal, he looks happy.” He glanced at Chloe. Were those tears in her eyes?
“I painted his face the way I remember you the day you brought donuts. You were happy and relaxed and teasing. That’s the real you, isn’t it, Greg?”
He looked away. “I guess. Used to be, anyway.” Greg tried to focus on the framed needlepoint piece hanging on a wall. “Home Sweet Home” it told him. “Yeah, I used to be that kind of guy.”
“That’s the person I fell in love with.”
What? What did she say?
“You kidding me?”
“No. Absolutely not.” She took the little figurine and set him on the table next to her wine glass. “I am in love with you, Greg Andrews. You’re going to have to deal with it. Love me back, or tell me you’re not interested. It’s up to you, and I’m tired of wondering.”
“Well then.” Taking her into his arms, he kissed her softly, slowly. Then he leaned away, sat up again. “I choose to love you back. You and your dangly earrings. You and your cute little butt. You and your wonderful way of capturing a moment in time and saving it forever with your art.” He sighed, full of hope. “I definitely choose to love you back.”
And that’s what he did, for a very, very long time.
THE END
HARVE ST MOON
A Legend After Dark Novella
By Janet Eaves
Winifred Butler believes she is finally free of her sadistic husband’s horror. But he continues to torment her from the grave as his secrets and lies, treason and terror, bring Agent Tom Green to her Legend, Tennessee door step.
She is as determined to keep her past a secret as Tom is committed to bringing her secrets to light. Only one of them can win. So both must fight the attraction to the other, knowing they have everything to lose…
****
The autumnal equinox nears
Foliage sheds its leaves
Ghost long buried appears
Sinister on the breeze
Moon rises full and bright
Seems near and oh so vast
Blazing orange then snowy white
Exposing a shame-filled past
Chapter One
Winifred Butler sat ramrod straight in the velvet-draped folding chair as Father Murphy conducted the graveside service. She went through the motions of prayer mechanically–the sign of the cross as false a ritual to her as the sentiment she was expected to express.
Nearly everyone in the tiny town of Legend, Tennessee, was accounted for, as was the custom when a resident passed, but she knew this time it was purely from obligation. No one had liked her husband. His loud, obnoxious behavior had offended most people and had embarrassed her to the extent that she’d spent the past year avoiding her neighbors, hoping they would forget what a terrible mistake she’d made. A mistake born of innocence.
Well, she wasn’t innocent anymore.
The hundred and fifty acre farm Jack took her to following their whirlwind courtship and marriage had accommodated her need to hide the shame in which she’d consistently lived. Unfortunately, it had also given Jack ample opportunity to enforce what he’d deemed his “husbandly rights.” The only escape she’d found was to attend Mass as often as he’d allowed, since he’d stopped going himself years before.
Though she wasn’t Catholic, she’d found attending his previous wife’s church an acceptable way to escape him. It was literally the only time he’d allowed her out of his sight, outside of the electronically fenced-in perimeters of the farm. He’d complained about those brief periods of freedom constantly, but hadn’t stopped her, though it had quickly become difficult to show her face there. She’d only kept going out of desperation for those blessed moments of sanctuary.
Shame heated her cheeks beneath the netting of her widow’s hat; a hat she’d worn to cover her face in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with anyone attending the funeral. She didn’t want to be rude, but there was nothing she had to say about the man she was buryi
ng, and there was nothing she wanted to hear about him, either. She lifted a gloved hand and covered her mouth and nose with the soft scents of her fabric-softener-freshened handkerchief. The motion soothed her. She’d learned to lose herself in the scent, to pretend the April freshness removed her from the degradation of being horribly used by a man who smelled of his pigs.
Following the horror of their wedding night, she’d worked hard to disassociate herself mentally from the physical reality she was forced to endure. It took months, but she’d finally found a way, by fantasizing he was anyone else, and breathing through her mouth rather than her nose. The males of her fantasies were born from the hundreds of romance novels she’d read while taking care of her father all those years, though she’d had to fight hard to shut out the sight of Jack’s flabby folds being held out of the way so his thick, short penis might reach her. Breathing through her mouth had been equally necessary, to minimize inhaling the nauseating odors that permeated his skin.
After months of failed attempts to either arouse her or satisfy himself, he done the unthinkable, something she’d never confessed to anyone, nor would she. He’d turned her over and rammed her from behind. The pain had taken her breath away. Once she’d been able, she’d screamed, but he hadn’t cared, having declared that was exactly what she deserved for making him feel inadequate.
She’d learned two very important lessons that night. No matter the consequences, she had to escape him, even if it meant she was guilty of committing a mortal sin. And, as her face was pushed hard into her bedding while he’d repeatedly penetrated her anally, that romance novels were all a lie.
Men were pigs, their dicks weapons to inflict pain.
And, if she ever escaped him, she’d never allow either to get near her again.
She’d barely been able to walk to the bathroom that night to clean herself up. Had sobbed through the process of scrubbing herself all over until her skin burned raw, then returned to cry out her sorrow and pain into the April fresh smell of her tear-splattered, freshly laundered sheets. And even though he’d left her alone to do whatever it was that he went out to do each evening, she’d still felt smothered by his horrible pigpen odor.