Son of a Preacher Man

by Karen M Cox

  “Mrs. Miller wanted me to come for supper tonight. I really couldn’t have stayed here to eat with you.”

  She pulled a face. “Dinner with Marlene—lucky you.”

  I grinned and stood up straight. “The food’s pretty good, so I guess I can take the company.”

  Her nose wrinkled in an expression of mild disgust. “The food must be to die for to put up with that shrew.”

  “Well, Doc and Charlie will be there too.”

  She pushed off the rail. “Come on then, I’ll walk you to the turn off.”

  We ambled down to the road, swinging our joined hands as we went. The air was thick and humid, and the wispy curls around her face and on the back her neck grew damp and stuck to her glowing skin.

  “You wore your hair up today.”

  “It’s too hot to wear it any other way. I had to get it off my neck.”

  I caught myself staring hungrily at those darkened curls. If I kissed her there, would her skin taste salty like I imagined the ocean did? Not realizing I’d done so, I tugged on her hand to bring her closer. The two days of wandering around and thinking she didn’t want to see me anymore had made me begin to ache for her in a whole new and frightening way. Right then, I only wanted to be closer to her. That was all—not take from her, just be closer.

  We stopped when we reached Linden Road, and she looked up into my eyes.

  “Oh, dear,” she teased gently, but her voice seemed a bit wistful too. “I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  “Never mind.” She waved her hand as if to wave her comment away, but I could guess what look she meant. I tried to rearrange my expression. The last thing I wanted to do was remind her of some knuckle-dragging cretin in her past.

  Her free hand came up and pushed a lock of hair off my brow. I turned my head as her fingers descended over my cheek, just in time to brush her palm with my lips. She hesitated, and I brought my other hand up to hold her fingertips against my jaw. It had been a lifetime since anyone had touched me in such a gentle way.

  She looked grave as she said to me, “This will change you, Billy Ray. It’s already started.”

  “Is something wrong with that?”

  She smiled ruefully. “No, it’s inevitable, I suppose, but part of me is a little sad. I like you the way you are.”

  I grinned. “I like you the way you are too.”

  Her voice was almost inaudible. “Why?”

  I drew her into my arms and whispered against her ear. “So many reasons.” It was a lame response, but I couldn’t seem to articulate how the world was more exciting, relaxing, bright, and interesting when I saw it with her beside me. I touched my lips to her neck and tasted, just like I’d imagined about a minute earlier. Her skin was dewy and hot like the air around us and softer than a kitten’s fur. She shivered as if she were cold, which surprised me, and I stepped back and rubbed my hands over her bare arms to warm the chill bumps I felt there.

  She cleared her throat. “I’d better get back and help Mama start supper.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow?” A blissful breeze stirred the tree limbs and cooled my skin. It did nothing for the roaring in my ears, however.

  She nodded as if making some momentous decision. “Yes, tomorrow.”

  “I’ll meet you at the library after work.”

  “Okay.” Her smile was hesitant, almost shy, and I was utterly charmed.

  “Bye, Lizzie.”

  “Bye.” She turned and started walking.

  “Bye,” I called again. Walking backwards so I could see her as long as possible, I ambled toward the crossroads until I saw her disappear over the rise.

  Chapter 12

  I didn’t think it was possible to be any happier than I was those weeks between the laundromat and when Dad came back to Orchard Hill for Baby Susie’s christening. But I was wrong. Spending nearly every spare moment with Lizzie was even sweeter because of those days when I feared she had turned her back on me. We both knew we were on borrowed time because I was leaving for school in a few weeks. Somehow, though, we managed to put that eventuality aside in favor of living in the present. It did, however, lend a sense of urgency to our time together, a gray cloud that grew heavier as September drew near.

  The air was heavy with a smothering expectancy as I approached Lizzie’s house that third Saturday in August. When I walked up the drive, I heard the sounds of a mandolin and a whiskey-timbered voice bringing forth the strains of a familiar hymn, the lyrics declaring how we’d understand our trials and tribulations better “by and by.”

  Tom Quinlan was sitting on a stool, singing and watching me as I came up the drive. I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, and we eyeballed each other—a mutual sizing up, I supposed. Finally, he jerked his head toward the door, indicating I should come up and knock. Although he had stopped singing, he still strummed the mandolin in a frenetic, relentless rhythm. Sensing that he didn’t want to make conversation, I nodded, and he stood up and walked to the porch railing to look out over the hills and trees.

  I knocked on the screen door, and Lizzie came bounding in from the kitchen. The warm light she carried around inside her stirred my senses even before I could see it shining through her eyes.

  “Hello there!” she said, her smile full of joy.

  I gestured with my thumb toward the creek that ran along the side of the Quinlan property. “Care to take a walk, Miss Lizzie?”

  “I was hoping you’d come around today. I made us a basket. Let me get it.” She disappeared and returned with an egg basket covered by a threadbare cloth.

  When she reached the porch, she called over her shoulder. “Daddy, Billy Ray’s taking me out walking.”

  With his back to us, he nodded but didn’t stop his strumming or singing. I leaned over to take the basket with one hand and held out the other elbow in an exaggerated courtly gesture. She laughed and took my arm, and we proceeded to stroll down the hill to the other side of the barn.

  “I didn’t know your father was a musician.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He was singing gospel.”

  “Well, usually he’s singing about some kind of awful vice, like ‘that good ole mountain dew,’ so you must’ve caught him in a serious mood.”

  I persisted. “That hymn he was singing—it’s about faith and endurance, and that we’ll understand God’s purposes for our trials but perhaps not while we’re here on Earth.”

  “It’s one of his favorites. I suppose we have to believe that there’s a reason for our trials, or we just wouldn’t keep going. I think Daddy sometimes sings that song to keep himself going.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “At what?”

  “That he would turn to a hymn for comfort.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think your father had much to do with God.”

  “He doesn’t have much to do with church. That’s different.”

  “The church is an embodiment of Christ. How can you live on the Earth and have one without the other?”

  “He had a falling out with Mr. Collier a long time ago, and he hasn’t been to church since then except for Susie’s christening.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. It was years ago. I wonder if even they remember it.”

  “Has he tried to mend his differences with his brother in Christ?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows why people do what they do, Billy Ray? I certainly can’t fathom it.”

  I let the subject go, but it bothered me that Tom Quinlan would let a grudge keep him away from church, especially if he needed the Lord’s comfort to keep going.

  As we meandered along the path by the creek, I slipped my arm around Lizzie and rejoiced when she put hers around my waist. We found a grassy knoll beside the creek where the tall trees reached out and formed a canopy over the sun-dappled ground. Lizzie spread out a blanket for us and we sat a spell, watching the creek run by. She pulled out a mason jar filled wit
h sweet tea, took a few drinks and handed me the jar. I took a sip and set it down beside me, reaching into the basket for a blackberry tart. Lizzie leaned against me and put her chin on my shoulder, murmuring in my ear.

  “How about a little nibble off that tart?”

  I leaned back to look at her, marveling that she somehow managed to look mischievous yet innocent as a baby bird with its beak open.

  I broke off a bite-sized piece and fed it to her, feeling my blood stir as she licked my fingers. She closed her eyes and purred like a kitten. “Mm, that is so good.”

  I threw the tart back into the basket and whirled around on her. “That’s it, you rascal!” I rolled over her, catching her head in one of my hands to protect it before she hit the ground, and keeping my full weight off her with the other. She giggled, her eyes filled with a joyous mirth.

  I laughed too, although I was trying to make my face stern. “Just for that, I’m going to kiss you senseless.”

  Typically, our outings didn’t lend themselves much to kissing. We were usually in town somewhere, and that little exhibition outside the library had taught me to control myself in public places. I kept her hand in mine a lot, or my arm around her, but kisses, except for pecks on the cheek or lips, were a rarity. But today, I felt brave. There wasn’t a soul in sight and virtually no danger of being caught unawares. And we were laughing and joking, and all felt right with the world, so…

  I leaned down and brushed her mouth with mine, once, twice, and the third time I stayed there, while her lips slid slowly over my own. After an eternity that lay inside a moment, I raised my head and gazed down at her face. That moment froze in time, and I knew I would never forget it, that instant that I knew I loved Lizzie Quinlan.

  Her eyes were closed, her curls lay soft in my hand, and her lips bloomed rosy as a result of my kisses. A sweet smile and a sigh told me she was happy, and a bolt of lightning came from the sky and cleaved my heart in two. One part stayed in my chest, and the other half went to her. If only I could persuade her to give me half her heart in return, then I might feel whole again.

  Oblivious to my revelation, she whispered, “If this is what it’s like to be senseless, I kinda like it.” She opened her eyes, and immediately her expression sobered.

  “Lizzie”—I choked out—“Lizzie, I love—”

  She pulled me back to her with surprising force, mashing her lips against mine and undulating farther under me.

  I couldn’t finish my declaration because my voice was gone, stuck somewhere in my throat. I kissed her again, trying to put all those unexpressed feelings inside her, first with my mouth and then, as her lips gave way, with my tongue. I was no longer myself, no longer the square, the aspiring healer, the preacher’s son. I was a wild man, a plunderer, a devil-may-care rake who took what he wanted, growled “Mine, mine!” to the world, and dared anyone to stand in his way. I pressed my body into hers, dimly realizing that she had opened her legs and I lay cradled against her. I sought comfort in her softness, mindless with lust and unrequited love. A groan laced with pain escaped me, and I tore myself from her, scrambling up and walking to the creek, leaving her splayed on the ground and panting.

  I knelt down at the water’s edge. Reaching over and cupping my hands, I splashed cold water on my face and ran my fingers through my hair. With a determined sigh, I stood up, fists clenched, and stared across the creek. A hand touched my shoulder, and I turned to face her. Her eyes were round, her expression unsure.

  “Are you angry at me? You look angry.”

  “I’m angry at myself because I got carried away. I didn’t mean to disrespect you with my behavior.”

  To my surprise, she chuckled. “Billy Ray, I don’t think you could disrespect a woman if you tried.”

  “But…I acted wrongly toward you.”

  She sighed in exasperation. “You acted like a man—nothing more, nothing less.”

  I pressed my lips in a thin line. I wanted to be special to her, not just any old fella who thought only of himself.

  She tugged on my arm. “Hold on a second, will ya? And stop frowning. I’m not trying to insult you. What I mean is, whatever else you are—and you’re many incredible things, things you haven’t even discovered about yourself yet—while you live on this Earth, you are a man. And that means the urge for a woman’s body is part of you. There’s no escaping it and no way to just shunt it aside. A powerful yearning drives a man and woman to be together and compels them to create life.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’m not an idiot, Lizzie.”

  “Of course, you aren’t. It’s a sign of your non-idiotness that you even think about what’s on the other side of this”—she gestured back and forth—“this thing between us.” She laid her hand against my jaw and turned me toward her. “But fighting that impulse is like fighting the tide and just as pointless.”

  When I looked down, embarrassed and ashamed, she lowered her hand and sat down on the bank of the creek. She patted the ground beside her, and I plopped down on the soft grass. “Tell me, have you ever been to the ocean?”

  I shook my head.

  “When I was a little girl, my daddy was in the Navy, and we lived on the coast.” She leaned back on her elbows, staring off across the creek. I knew she was seeing the seashore in her mind’s eye.

  “I love the ocean. It makes you feel tiny and beautifully invisible. It can swallow you whole, but if you can rise far enough above the water, you can see forever. You could float to the ends of the Earth with no one to stop you.

  “On Sundays after church, Daddy would take Jeannie and me to the shore. We would build sandcastles and play in the waves all afternoon until supper time. As the waves came in, no matter how hard I tried to stand against them, sometimes they knocked me over. It made me so angry, and it hurt too when they drove me into the sand. Finally, one afternoon after a particularly rough one slobber-knocked me, I went to Daddy bawling. And you know what he told me?”

  “No, what?” I wanted to lean back on my elbows too, but my flesh was still too proud, and I didn’t want her to see.

  “He said, ‘Lizzie honey, you can’t fight the tide. If you try to defy it, it will knock you on your keister, but if you watch out for it and just dive in, well, then it will pass right through you. Sometimes it will even carry you back to shore.’

  “So, years later, when Mrs. Gardener explained the birds and the bees to me, she told me it was a natural force like the tide, and then it all made sense to me. Love has power we disregard at our peril. But if we let the mighty waves pass over and through us, it’s true we might lose control for a bit, but then we can regain our footing and learn to enjoy it—like I learned to enjoy the water.”

  I looked at her in wonder. Never had I thought about physical love in that particular way, but over the summer I had learned that Lizzie’s perspective on the world was unique.

  Unbidden, some questions needled the back of my mind. How much did she actually know about physical love? Was this Mrs. Gardener’s influence? Or did someone else give her that perspective? Was it gleaned from experience? That last question unsettled me, and before I could stop it, my skeptical side had to ask. “But did you ever consider how dangerous the waves can be? The destruction they can cause?”

  “I have considered it.” She nodded sagely. “You’re right, and there’s no doubt about it.”

  We sat there in silence for a long time. I listened to water flowing over rocks and birds chirping in trees and felt myself calming down.

  Lizzie reached over and took my hand in hers. She brought it to her lips and kissed my fingers. Then she held it against her cheek. When she spoke, her voice was soft and gentle.

  “I can ease you, if you want me to.”

  “Pardon?” It was hard to pay attention when she touched me, especially when she talked in riddles at the same time.

  “I can ease you, make it so you don’t feel so…desperate, so frustrated.”

  My eyes widened as I suddenly realized what
she offered me. “No, we can’t do that—not until we’re married.”

  She smiled patiently. “I don’t mean intercourse.” She held onto my hand when I tried to pull away from her. “No, now, don’t get all embarrassed. It’s just a word.”

  My face flamed hot. “It’s a word that means something. Something…”

  “Shameful?” she asked softly.

  “Momentous.” I looked at her, fighting through my embarrassment. “Life-changing. Significant.”

  “Yes,” she answered, holding my gaze with a fierce burst of emotion. “Fateful. Important.” She shook her head, grinning. “You understand. Without ever experiencing it, you still understand. How do you do that?” she asked, a touch of awe in her voice.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I admitted.

  She laughed and put her head on my shoulder. I chuckled in bewildered response.

  After a minute of turning that over in my mind, my inquisitiveness resurfaced. “Do girls ever feel…desperate?” I asked in cautious tones. “Like guys do sometimes?”

  “I’m not sure it’s exactly the same, but yes, they do. I think it’s worse for you fellas because you’re such physical creatures. It’s the way you’re made. You men go out in the world and you do things, seek adventures, build things up, and tear them down. Mrs. G says women are the ones who really rule hearts and homes. They’re the center of families. It’s an important job, and they should be mindful of their responsibility and not take selfish advantage of a man’s nature.”

  “Mrs. G has some interesting ideas.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “My father would say the man is head of the household.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Mm-hmm. I thought he might.”

  “But I haven’t really seen him be the head of our household since Mama died. I think it’s because there was no household left, just two separate people—him and me.”

  Lizzie’s voice was sympathetic and kind when she replied. “See? Your mama was the center. The head isn’t the center of the body”—she touched my temple with her delicate yet strong fingers and then moved them to my chest—“the heart is.”