Danger, Sweetheart

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “Ba-dum-tsshhh!”

  “Cripes’ sake.”

  “This was all worth it to have you touch me. Infections, fever, the possible onset of delirium—”

  “Possible?”

  “Worth it. All of it.”

  “You’ve lost your damned mind,” she said, not without admiration.

  “It’s probably Venice-Rake. Messaging my butt. Venice-Rake is different from Terrible-Rake.”

  “Okay.”

  “Rake is not terrible. Mitchell Banaan is terrible.”

  This time she was the one who nearly pulled them back downstairs. “Oh, man. Got to have a face-to-face with the prince of darkness, huh? What was he even doing in town?”

  “Satan’s intern.”

  “Okay, that didn’t clarify anything.”

  “Well, Satan needed an intern; what’s so difficult to understand?” Blake shuddered against her. “He was terrible, Natalie. My grandfather. Not Satan. If Mom gives me my money back I will buy every company he ever works at and fire him, except he’s probably retired, so I can’t actually do that. I’ll just dislocate his arms.”

  “Blake…”

  “I know; it’s not a perfect solution.”

  “Almost there, Blake.”

  “Not almost.” He leaned down and nuzzled the top of her head. “Cherries. Odd.”

  “It’s just shampoo.”

  “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Not almost. Home. We’re already there, didn’t you know? Not almost home. Home. Even if Sweetheart is dying.”

  “It’s not.” Step, step, heave. Step, step, heave arrgghh so heavy! “Town’s like you; it’s going to recover.”

  “What a tender metaphor. I may be in love with you.”

  She closed her eyes. This was worse than finding him unconscious in the kitchen garden. He was saying things she never knew she wanted to hear, wonderful things she could see herself getting greedy for. She wanted him to never stop. And of course he was going to stop. He loved her in his delirium; in his right mind he would remember she had lied because of money.

  “It’s fine,” he said when she hadn’t responded. “I know you aren’t. I would never have expected it. I don’t look for it now.”

  “Blake.” It came out a croak; she had wept more this week than she had in the last five years and dammit now she was crying again. “Blake, you’re right; I don’t feel the way you do.”

  He sighed into the top of her head. “Ah.”

  “I know I’m in love with you.”

  I’m in love with you. Cripes, was it really that simple and stunning? From the beginning she had wanted him to think well of her, wanted to impress him, had taken pride in how hard he worked, and hated him because she knew he would leave. Told herself she hated that he was leaving the town. The deeper she got with her lies and manipulation, the worse for both of them—him because he deserved the truth. Her because she knew it would all end soon enough and she’d have no one to blame but herself. Her mother had called her Irish/Native American … Irarican! “The pride and stubbornness of both cultures, Nat, poor kiddo.” In that moment, she wanted her mother more than she had since the dizzying numb weeks after the funeral.

  “I should have told you. I was too chickenshit. I love you and I love all your weird ways, because our weird ways complement each other.”

  “This is a wonderful day.”

  She smiled. Only four hundred steps to go, subjectively speaking. “Is it?”

  He squeezed her waist, radically reducing her air supply. “Are you in love with my fever?”

  “Definitely not. What’s funny is, even though you’re delirious, this isn’t even the weirdest conversation we’ve had.”

  “Is this Florence Nightingale syndrome? No, that would apply if it was me falling for you.” He gasped. “Do I have Florence Nightingale syndrome?”

  “There’s a lot going on with you right now, Blake, but Florence Nightingale syndrome isn’t part of it.” At last they were in the attic. “Going to put you on the bed now.”

  “Finally! Ravage me, Natalie Lane!”

  She eased him down as carefully as she could, relieving him of his phone on the way. “Okay, first things first, time to make some calls.”

  “No, you have to undress me first; I don’t think we should explore the kinky end of the spectrum just yet. It’s not that I won’t make love with you while you dial random strangers; I would just prefer something more straightforward for our first coitus.”

  “For God’s sake.”

  “Rake said using ‘intercourse’ to describe coitus was preventing me from having intercourse.”

  “Yeah, but that’s … that’s not better.”

  “Call it what you will.” He flung out his arms dramatically, tried to roll over, failed. “Ah, you don’t mind the woman-superior position, do you? I’m feeling a bit light-headed.”

  “Here’s what I like: missionary for intimacy, on all fours for intensity, and me on top for fun.”

  He stared at her. “I can work with that.”

  She felt bad for teasing him. “Never mind. When you’re feeling better, okay? I mean … if you still want to. I meant what I said earlier. I won’t hold you to any of this.”

  “How unfortunate for you, because I intend to hold you to all of it. Also, did you take my phone so you can strip me, pose me in humiliating positions, and then take pictures and send them to everyone on my contact list?”

  “I took it to call your family, ya idjit.”

  “I love your adorable pet names for me. Idjit, moron, Vegas Douche—”

  “I don’t call you that anymore,” she was quick to assure him. “And I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who does.”

  “Excellent! You’ll solve my Mitchell Banaan problem; how clever you are. This is odd.”

  “Got that right.” His iPhone was passworded, which wasn’t acceptable. She needed family contact info.

  “This is odd.”

  “You said that, baby.”

  “Baby. Yes. I want to have your baby.”

  She giggled. “It has been a long time since you’ve had intercourse if that’s what you think will happen.”

  “Odd.”

  “Yes, okay, what’s your password?”

  “When I’ve pictured you standing over me while I’m in bed, I’m always erect.”

  “It’s just the fever, baby; you’ll be getting it up again in no time.”

  “I like that you aren’t afraid to show confidence in my penis.”

  “Password, moron.” She tried for stern, but exasperated fondness came out instead.

  “WWND.”

  “Okay. Something to do with the House of Lancaster or Richard the Third?”

  “What Would Natalie Do.”

  “Dammit, Blake!” She bent and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. “You’re wonderful, even when you’re out of your head.

  “Did you hear that?” He was relaxing into the bed after trying to grab her and missing by two feet. “You said I was wonderful.”

  “Rest, Blake.”

  “You always have good advice.”

  “Close your eyes, baby.”

  He did.

  Thirty-five

  When Blake next opened his eyes, his mom and grandmother were bending over him. “Aaagghh! My heart. Christ.”

  “How are you, boy?” Shannah asked, anxiety making her normally firm contralto thready and unsure.

  “My brain is on fire.”

  “That’s not far from the truth.” Blake noticed another woman preparing to leave. She had gorgeous deep brown skin with reddish undertones, high cheekbones, and small, wide-set dark eyes. Her hair was cut in a neatly trimmed Afro streaked with silver, and she was holding a bag, preparing to depart, but turned when he’d shouted. In his fright upon waking with Shannah and the nuclear option looming over him, he hadn’t noticed anyone else at first. “You’ve got an infection, Mr. Tarbell, and a temp of one-oh-two, an improvement over one-oh-four, which we’re bringing
down.”

  “It’s okay, Blake,” his mother said, as if worried he was going to leap to his feet and charge the woman with malpractice. “I told Dr. Wen about allergies and things.”

  “I’m not allergic to anything.”

  “I told her that.”

  The nuclear option spoke for the first time. “You’ll be eating antibiotics for a few days, Blake.”

  “The breakfast of champions,” he muttered. He took a closer look at the doctor. “What is this? Is this a house call? Really?”

  “Really,” Dr. Wen assured him. “The clinic closed down and the nearest hospital is over two hours away. For something like this, unless your fever won’t break or the infection worsens, it’s fine to treat you at home. If it does worsen, there’s always the air ambulance.”

  “A house call,” he mused. “Then … how long have I been asleep? How did I go back in time? It’s 1920, right?”

  “If it was 1920,” was the dry response, “would I be a doctor?”

  “Excellent point. All right, run along to the next century, then.”

  “Good advice.” She glanced at Natalie, who was sitting on the foot of the bed, gnawing on a knuckle. “You’re right. He’s engaging.”

  “Yes, I’m engaging to Natalie! And she’s engaging to me. After I propose. Mom, may I have some money for a ring?” There was no response, and her eyes seemed overly bright. He peered at her and realized, “Are you in your pajamas?”

  Shannah glanced down at herself. “Yes.”

  “Pity, I was hoping it was a fever dream.” His mother was inordinately fond of ankle-length velour nightgowns and matching velour robes and slippers in various pastel shades. In winter, she was a walking electric chair, at times generating so much static she fried the thermostat.

  “We came as soon as Natalie called us,” the nuclear option explained. “Your mother had more important things on her mind than outfit coordination.”

  “S’fine, Nonna,” he said, drowsy again. “Natalie will fix it.”

  “Whatever you say, Blake.” A soothing pat, and Blake noticed his hands had been cleaned and bandaged. He was also wearing his last pair of clean black boxers, and a clean T-shirt.

  “No!”

  “What?” Every woman in the room turned her full attention on him, including Dr. Wen, who hurried back to his bedside.

  “What is it? Pain? Are you having trouble breathing?”

  “I missed our sex!” he cried to Natalie, gesturing to his clean clothes. “It must have been incredible!”

  “You … um—” She was so pretty when she blushed. “We didn’t. Do that, I mean.”

  Oh. He hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud. No problem, it wasn’t at all embarrassing, like it would have been if he had said he dreamed of pressing his lips to every inch of her, repeatedly, for the next fifty years.

  “Blake.”

  He knew she would taste even better than she looked and he couldn’t wait to catalog all her flavors.

  “Blake! Maybe we can talk about this later?”

  My God, Natalie is telepathic! She’s reading my mind! This is incredible!

  “I’m not telepathic, ya idjit. You’re still saying these things out loud.”

  “The last ones,” his grandmother said helpfully, “you shouted.”

  “So wise, Natalie.” He sighed. “Come here and sex me again. I promise to pay attention this time.”

  “I didn’t sex you the first— No. I’m not going to try and have a logical discussion while you’re sick.”

  “So wise. If I die, clear my browser history.”

  “Now that,” she said with a grin, “is the first sensible thing you’ve said in a while.”

  Blake slept.

  Thirty-six

  Natalie woke with a start; she’d nodded off in the chair beside Blake’s bed, which was a miracle. It was a rickety wooden chair she’d dragged up from the kitchen, and not even a little comfortable. It was late morning by the looks of it; the attic was splashed with sunshine and she realized for the first time in forever that she was ravenous. And that she needed to brush her teeth.

  As if picking up on her hunger

  (heh, maybe Shannah’s the telepath),

  the door to the attic opened and Natalie heard Shannah and Ruth coming up the stairs. She could smell the muffins and met them at the top.

  “Mind readers,” she said, then promptly snatched a blueberry muffin and wolfed it in four bites.

  “Chew, dear; you’re no good to Blake if someone has to give you a tracheotomy. Here.” Ruth handed her a large glass of orange juice, which Natalie decimated in three swallows.

  “Oh God, thank you. I had no idea how much I needed that until I smelled you.” She was already settling back in the chair beside him. “Uh, smelled the food, I meant. Not that you guys smell.” I probably smell, she realized. I think I showered the morning Blake got sick … or was it the night before? Cripes, what day is it?

  “Natalie, I want you to take a nap,” Shannah told her. “I haven’t seen you sleep since we got here.”

  “No, I’m fine. He might want me. I’m fine.”

  “He absolutely does want you,” Ruth said dryly, “and don’t you think you should get your rest so you’ll be ready when he is?”

  Is Blake’s grandma telling me to rest up for sex?

  “I’m fine.”

  Blake rolled over on his side and slept on. Every woman tensed when he moved and relaxed when he kept sleeping. Natalie didn’t know she was going to brush his hair away from his eyes until she did it.

  “It’s my fault he’s sick.”

  “Do not start, young lady,” Shannah warned her. “My son is a grown man and has been taking care of himself since before he was voting age. I warned him about his hands myself.”

  Natalie couldn’t accept it. Shannah was just being nice. Granted, she didn’t exactly have a strong rep for that behavior, but it was the only explanation that worked. “Dammit! I knew he felt too warm when we were hugging in the barn.”

  Ruth cleared her throat. “Oh? Is ‘hugging’ a euphemism for—”

  “Hugging is hugging, ma’am. Cripes.”

  Shannah was staring down at him with an expression Natalie had never seen, thought no one could ever see, on her face: helpless and hopeless. “If you’re to blame, Natalie, then I am, too. I put him out here and I knew he’d be in over his head. You at least showed him what to do. I just abandoned him there.”

  “Not true. I know you kept calling him, offering to come to the farm, or asking him to come have supper with you at the B and B. He’s the one who didn’t want to—” Spend time with you, but that wasn’t at all tactful, so she swallowed the rest.

  “But when it all came out—when you were having lunch at the bed-and-breakfast the day Ruth came—”

  “I remember.” She did. A day of infamy, to be sure, and one she never wanted to relive.

  “Why didn’t he just ask me for his money back?”

  Natalie stared at Shannah for a long moment, and Ruth leveled her with a look. “What an insanely stupid question.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to hear herself, and her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Well, yes. I suppose it is.”

  “He gets a double dose of pride,” Ruth added. “Tarbell-Banaan pride.”

  “Banaan-Tarbell pride.” Flustered, she started to pace, and Natalie realized with utter amazement that Shannah Banaan was wringing her hands like a helpless heroine out of a fairy tale waiting for the men to swoop in and save her. “D’you know what Roger told me?”

  “Roger’s a soon-to-be-retired pig farmer,” Natalie explained. “Blake stole his last pig. Um, liberated the White Rose of York is what I meant.”

  Ruth remained unruffled. “All right. I want to hear the rest of Shannah’s story, but then we’re going to come back to the pig thing, dear.”

  “Yeah, I don’t blame you. Half the town thinks he’s crushing on your daughter-in-law.”

  “Really?
Any truth to that rumor?”

  “I think so. And I’m pretty sure she likes him back. She tolerates him way more than she tolerates anyone else. I think if she wasn’t hanging with him, she’d be a lot less pleasant. I mean, coming back here to try to fix her family’s mess before the judgment of the whole town is her worst nightmare. Roger makes it bearable, I think.”

  “Why, he sounds lovely.”

  “Ladies.” Shannah saw she had their attention and continued but didn’t look as irked as Natalie would have anticipated. “Roger told me my father came to town and he and Blake almost got into a fight! That was how he met his grandfather.”

  “That pompous ass,” Ruth said dismissively. Natalie felt her eyebrows arch, and Shannah swung around to stare at her mother-in-law. “What? He is.”

  “Yes. But how did you know? You haven’t been in town long enough to hear much gossip about him.”

  Ruth said nothing, just stepped to the dresser and began arranging Blake’s medication bottles.

  “Mrs. Tarbell?”

  No response. Natalie started to get nervous. What was she missing? And would the women come to blows? Was she expected to referee? Maybe I’ll take that nap. Is there a way to retroactively nap so I miss the entire conversation leading to the brawl?

  Shannah tried again. “Ruth?”

  The nuclear option turned back around and beheld her daughter-in-law with an expression of fond annoyance. “I called him, of course.”

  “You— What? When? Before you came to town?”

  “Years ago. When the boys were teenagers. When I got to meet you for the first time. And you were very polite, though you didn’t want me there, and the boys were lovely, and so protective of you. Even when I explained who I was they wouldn’t take that at face value. They watched how I behaved for a long time before relaxing their guard. Before letting themselves think of me as family. I thought— I thought if your family knew how hard you had worked and what a good mother you were, and how wonderful the boys were, they would regret cutting ties. They would want to be in all your lives. I thought they would help you.”

  Shannah smiled, a bitter grimace that made her look like she’d been chewing lemon rind. “They weren’t interested, though, were they? Not until you told them your son had left their grandsons millions of dollars. I always wondered how they found out. I knew I didn’t tell them.”