Charlotte's Homecoming

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “Mmm.” It seemed to be agreement. He stopped so suddenly she almost ran into him. “It’s too bad there isn’t an easy way to illuminate the maze well enough to have it open on Halloween. Can’t you picture jack-o’-lanterns at every Y?”

  Ones carved with wicked grins, or with tarantulas instead of faces. Of course, the candles would be too dangerous, but the idea was tantalizing. “We could issue flashlights,” she mused.

  “Think how many you’d have to buy. And it would be too scary for the younger set. Maybe dangerous for the older kids.”

  Having a rape happen in their cornfield would not be good PR for the Russell Family Farm business.

  “No, you’re right,” Charlotte said regretfully. “Too bad. It was an idea.”

  “There might be a way to make it work.” His eyes were narrowed as he considered his own vision. “Maybe do it for a charity. Have volunteers dressed as ghosts or what have you placed at regular intervals.”

  It could be amazing—no pun intended, she realized. Forget haunted houses, their maze would be talked about all year long.

  But I won’t be here by then.

  Charlotte brushed by him and started walking. “Talk to Faith,” she advised, over her shoulder, hoping she sounded breezy instead of brusque.

  “Maybe I will.”

  They hit another dead end, and another. He scuffed an X on the ground, then laughed in surprise when they came on it a surprisingly short while later with no awareness they’d made a circle.

  “Your sister’s good,” he said with apparent admiration.

  “No kidding.” Charlotte pushed her hair back from her face and blinked salty drips out of her eyes.

  His hair was darkened by sweat, the brown deepened to bronze, the sun streaks to old gold. As she watched, he undid another button on his shirt and peeled the collar away from his neck. The throat he exposed was tanned. The glimpse of chest and a few curls of light brown hair made her mouth go dry and her knees feel weak.

  Charlotte averted her gaze. He could strip and it wouldn’t do any good; she was roasting even in the thin tank top and shorts.

  “I hope you don’t have any meetings this afternoon,” she said.

  He looked ruefully down at himself. His shoes were covered with dust. The circles of sweat under his arms had spread, and she could have told him his shirt was damp down his back, too, where it was plastered to his spine and to more muscles than she might have guessed he possessed. Dried bits of corn stalk dusted his shoulders and clung in his hair. “I’ll go home and change. I am seeing clients this afternoon.”

  “If we ever get out of here,” Charlotte teased.

  Damn, he had the most beautiful smile! Relaxed, sexy, warm, just a little crooked. She knew by the humor dancing in Gray’s eyes that he enjoyed laughing at himself, not just at others.

  “Ten more minutes and your sister is supposed to come looking for us.”

  “It’s been twenty minutes?” Charlotte’s back stiffened. “To heck with that!”

  “Trust me,” he said, “and I’ll lead you out.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You can see over the top?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she asked indignantly. “And cheat?” He was trying hard not to grin, she could tell. “Charlotte, Charlotte. I thought better of you.”

  She made a sound of such disgust, he gave a shout of laughter. “Ah, Charlotte. I’m going to have to kiss you.”

  Alarm kicked in, as good as a mule’s hoof to the chest. “What?” She backed up, and felt the rustle of leaves behind her.

  His laugh was gone, his eyes intent on her face as one long step brought him close enough to crowd her. “You’re gutsy about everything but me.”

  “Maybe I’m just not interested.” She was dismayed to hear her voice emerge too high, betraying panic or desperation. “Did you ever think of that?”

  “Hmm.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Why don’t we find out?”

  She was dizzy, from heat, from the thick air, from the frantic pace of her pulse. Would it be so terrible to find out what it felt like to be kissed by Gray?

  Yes. But she’d never yet backed away from an accusation of cowardice, and she wouldn’t do it now.

  Be honest. You don’t want to back away.

  Waiting, she felt a tremor under her breastbone, an inner quake that was almost enough to make her break and run. Almost. Native stubbornness and, oh, yes, temptation kept her where she was, head tilted back to meet his narrowed gray eyes.

  “Good for you,” he murmured, in a voice like thick, dark honey. He wrapped one hand around the nape of her neck, fingers tangled in her short dark hair. He bent his head slowly, watching her the entire time.

  He must have seen flickers of panic—she wasn’t that good an actress—but she didn’t act on them. At the last second, his gaze lowered to her mouth as if it were a bite to eat. A spoonful of vanilla ice cream, maybe. Her final, foolish thought was, He must know I’m more complicated than any one flavor.

  And then her eyes drifted shut and his lips brushed hers. Softly. So softly a shiver moved over her, despite the hot, still air. Charlotte didn’t move, just waited, suspended in time, until his lips came back to hers.

  This time they brushed, then clung. He tugged gently at her lower lip; the tip of his tongue stroked it. Nothing in her life had ever felt as good, and that scared her. Why didn’t he just kiss her, like most men did? Grind his mouth against hers, stick his tongue in, grope her? Why did he have to be so damn subtle?

  His fingers spasmed on her neck; for one fleeting instant, his mouth hardened with intent she understood. But then he lifted his head fractionally, nuzzled her nose with his and said in that husky, thickened voice, “We’re running out of time.”

  Time? For several seconds, she had no idea what he was talking about.

  Her knees were all but buckling. Pride kept them stiff. When he let go of her and turned away as if nothing had happened, she might have swayed for a second, but he wouldn’t have noticed, because he’d already started down the path to the left.

  Charlotte followed dumbly. Indignation was trying to snatch for a foothold in her chest, but it was finding tough going. She felt too much like pudding inside, a fact that should and would infuriate her once she froze up again.

  Pudding! she seethed. Did she have to come up with another sweet analogy? How about like a sponge? Or pulp, like a pumpkin that had been smashed?

  Ahead of her, Gray said casually, “Nope, dead end,” and waited while she turned around and went back the way they’d come. A moment later, he turned her left with a hand on her lower back, then right at the next intersection. He was moving with confidence now, even if she wasn’t. She clenched her teeth, mad at the realization that he’d gained that confidence at her expense. In fact, he was whistling under his breath, clearly pretty damn pleased with himself. He’d had every intention of kissing her from the moment their eyes first met, she knew he had, and now he’d succeeded.

  Yeah, but this kiss was just a preamble. He’d tasted her. Taunted her, so that she’d want more.

  And, God help her, she did, but if they ever got out of this hateful maze so that a breeze could cool her overheated skin and she could breathe, she’d find the resolve to make sure that didn’t happen.

  “Here we are,” he said, a last twist showing them the arched exit only a few feet ahead. Ye Be Saved, it proclaimed.

  Charlotte stumbled out. No breeze, but at least the air wasn’t so close. “I feel like I should fall to my knees and kiss the ground,” she muttered.

  Gray laughed. “Come on. It was fun. Admit it.”

  “Fun?” She leveled an incredulous stare at him. “It was like the outer circles of hell. Quoting Dante was more appropriate than I realized.”

  He just laughed again, his good cheer apparently not punctured. “Here comes Faith, right on time.”

  Hand shading her eyes, Charlotte’s twin had emerged from the barn. On seeing
them, she grinned and waved.

  Charlotte flipped a limp hand in return as they started across the field. “Fiend. Now she’s going to think I’m qualified for rescue operations, when I have absolutely no idea how we got out of there.”

  “Remember that most of the day you can use the position of the sun to help some.” Gray pulled his shirt away from his chest. “God, I need a shower.”

  “Me, too.” Charlotte felt sticky and disgusting. Gray had probably kept the kiss brief because of her body odor.

  Except, she reminded herself, he was sweating every bit as heavily, and she didn’t remember noticing any smell except pure male.

  “If you want to go on to the house, I’ll tell Faith you’re taking a quick shower,” he suggested.

  “Good. Great.” Grateful to have her path diverge from his, she cut away immediately.

  His voice followed her, quiet and very, very serious. “I’ll call, Charlotte.”

  She didn’t answer, just kept walking. But she had to press a hand to her chest, because those inner tremors not only hadn’t gone away, they now hurt.

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS a quiet affair. Charlotte was exhausted and Faith was subdued enough to suggest she felt the same. Dad’s color was better, Charlotte thought, but every time she looked at him his brow was furrowed and his mouth tight. From pain? Or something else?

  “Do you need a pill?” she asked, setting down her empty plate. “I can get you another glass of iced tea.”

  “I’m all right.” He’d only eaten one cob of corn, and this a man who’d been known to have three or four when it was sweet and crisp, just picked from the field like this. But then, Charlotte reminded herself, he wasn’t burning very many calories, either, lying in bed all day. Unless enduring pain and frustration counted as an exercise plan.

  “Thank goodness they came out so quick to replace the window.” Faith set her plate aside, too. “If we’d called, we probably would have had to wait two weeks.”

  Charlotte was watching and saw the way her father’s face tightened at the reminder of the scare.

  “Insurance won’t cover that window,” he said.

  After a minute, Faith dipped her head. “The cost was within our deductible.”

  “What’s it going to take, a week’s receipts to pay for the damn window?”

  Faith flinched.

  Charlotte scowled at him. “What are you trying to do, make her feel guilty? Is it supposed to be her fault that Rory’s nuts?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He frowned at them both, but some color ran over his cheeks, making her think he felt some chagrin. He pushed the tray table aside, swearing when it lurched after the wheels bumped up against the rug. Faith automatically rose to her feet, but Dad snapped, “Sit down! I’m not completely helpless!”

  But he felt helpless, and hated it. His daughters knew it, and he hated just as much seeing the knowledge in their eyes. Charlotte wished she was better at pretence, so she could spare him.

  He let out a harsh and unhappy breath. “It’s going to be weeks before I’ll be any help.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Faith’s muscles tighten.

  “You’re getting better every day….”

  “Yeah, three weeks from now I may be able to hobble out to the kitchen and get myself a cup of coffee. It’ll be well into the fall before I can get back on a tractor or split wood or give you a break out in the barn.”

  “We’re doing okay,” Charlotte said quietly.

  His fierce gaze swung to her. “Just how long were you intending to stay? A week? Two weeks? I’ll bet you weren’t planning on eight, were you?”

  No. If she’d had any idea when Faith called that she might be needed that long, Charlotte was horribly afraid she’d have thought of an excuse. But…now that she was here, it was different. It hadn’t taken two days here for her to understand that she wouldn’t be able to abandon her father and sister anytime in the near future. Just lately, she’d begun to realize that she wasn’t here just for them; she was here for herself, too. She’d needed to come home. Daddy and Faith’s troubles had given her an excuse.

  “No, but I don’t mind,” she said, no longer shocked because she meant it. “I’d hardly begun applying for jobs and no one has even called me for an interview. You and Faith need me, and I’m glad I can help.”

  Faith was staring at her, but Charlotte didn’t look away from her father’s penetrating gaze. It hurt a little to know that he hadn’t expected her to be willing to stay, and that maybe he didn’t believe she’d stick to what she said.

  Would she have, if she’d still hated being here as much as she once had? It made Charlotte ashamed to have to wonder. Maybe part of her need to be home was regaining some lost self-respect.

  Dad turned his head against the pillows just enough to pin Faith with that same piercing look. “And you, missy. You’re going to have to start getting your classroom ready any day now, aren’t you?”

  “I have another week or two,” Faith mumbled, her mouth sulky.

  It was being called missy that did it, Charlotte knew. That word, in that tone, was calculated to make either of them feel about eight years old and foolish.

  “Uh-huh. And then what? You expecting Charlotte here to take over the whole damn place?”

  Faith stole a desperate look at her sister. “You know I don’t! Once her kids are back in school, Marsha wants to work for us again. I can do watering and suchlike in the morning, and then take over when I get home after school every day, just like I did last fall.”

  “Last fall,” he said, sounding implacable, “we didn’t make enough money to justify having an employee.”

  “Business keeps picking up….”

  “Does it? What did we make today?”

  Her mouth opened and closed. She clearly didn’t want to say, and Charlotte knew the day’s receipts were pitiful. Most of the drivers who’d pulled in had wanted some of the early corn, but at five ears for a dollar, the corn wasn’t that profitable. And the Russells were no longer growing enough of it to make it profitable; not nearly enough, for example, to sell it to one of the frozen-food processors. Back when the farm was a going concern, Daddy had grown both corn and peas for frozen-food packers, but times had changed. He didn’t have enough acreage compared to huge farm conglomerates. He’d gone to selling locally to grocery stores, adding strawberries and raspberries, but there was too much competition from other small farms, the strawberries were labor intensive to pick, and one year some kind of rust had wiped out the raspberries. All three of them knew the harsh realities. Faith’s plan had been a last-ditch hope, staving off the inevitable for over a year now.

  “We never do as well with everyone thinking back-to-school. Come September…”

  “It’s time for us to think about selling,” he said, his gruff voice becoming gentler.

  Faith shot to her feet. “No! Small businesses take time to build. You know that! So today was slow. Weekends we’re hustling nonstop. Aren’t we, Char?”

  Charlotte nodded, even though she knew how many of those weekend customers ended up buying no more than a couple of pots of petunias or a single jar of jam. People enjoyed browsing the antiques, but they rarely bought. Faith had admitted that the armoire and the table were the only furniture sales in the past month. The maze, Charlotte thought, would bring in money, and the pumpkins ripening in the field beyond the barn would be popular, but once Halloween was past she couldn’t imagine the farm drawing any business until close to Christmas. And would anyone at all stop in January, or February, or March? Seasonal sales were all very well when they were adequate to carry a business over the dead time, but theirs weren’t. And Christmas tree farmers, for example, didn’t pay an employee year-round, which Faith had been doing.

  “I’m just asking you to think about it,” Dad said. The ruddy tones of his skin color were turning gray again, Charlotte was dismayed to see. He fumbled for a button and pushed. The bed whirred, the head of it lowering.
He didn’t let it go far. Now he was reaching for the bottle of pain pills and then the glass of iced tea, though the ice had long since melted.

  Faith started to rise again, but at his glare she sank back down on the sofa. Her expression was so well controlled, it might have been carved from marble, but shame and anguish seemed to be seeping from her pores. Charlotte could feel her misery. She’d almost forgotten how she could once do that, just as Faith knew immediately when she was in turmoil. Charlotte would have sworn, back then, that she would know if Faith was ever really in trouble even if they were hundreds of miles apart.

  But she’d found out she was wrong. She hadn’t had an inkling that her twin sister’s husband was beating the crap out of her. She’d had no idea, even when she was home for the holidays and Rory and Faith were right here in the same room with her, sitting around the Christmas tree opening presents and sipping mulled cider as if everything was fine.

  So maybe, Charlotte thought, I’m wrong right now about what I think Faith is feeling.

  Only, she knew she wasn’t. Just as she knew—was afraid—that her sister wouldn’t talk to her about it. She’d stand up, just as she was doing right now, and take her plate and Dad’s as casually as if the meal had come to a natural end and now it was time to clean up.

  “We don’t have pie or anything, but we do have lime sherbet if anyone would like some,” she said.

  Charlotte rose, too, picking up her own plate. “Not me.”

  “Never did have a sweet tooth,” their father grumbled, which was a flat-out lie. Oh, how he’d loved Mom’s blueberry pie! Or her apple pie, warm with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

  He’d lost weight since Mom died, Charlotte realized. Grown gaunt. Maybe pie didn’t taste as good to him anymore. She had a flash of memory, Dad at Christmas dinner last year pushing away his plate without going back for seconds and declining the offer of pumpkin pie, another once-upon-a-time favorite of his.

  Her heart cramped, and after following Faith to the kitchen, Charlotte asked in a low voice, “Does Dad go for regular checkups with his doctor? He didn’t look good even before the accident, did he?”