Spring fancy

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Her lips opened and she wet them. Her nostrils flared, and the hint of tears sparkled in the downward corners of her eyes. But she didn't know how to answer. How could Joseph think Paul had to measure up to her when she was the one who'd betrayed him? The strong hand left her cheek and brushed the hair back beside her ear, then fell to rest on the narrow space between their chins. "Tell me what he does to make you happy." She tried desperately to think of one single thing but could come up with no answers. "What about in bed?" Joseph pressed. "Has he ever done what I just did to you?"

  Her eyelids became half-shuttered as she dropped her gaze. His knuckles pressed up on her chin, forcing her blue eyes and blushing cheeks to confront his direct gaze. "Has he?"

  "No," she whispered.

  "Has anyone?"

  Her blush deepened. "No."

  "The first time…" he mused wondrously. His forefinger measured the width of her lower lip, then slipped inside and touched her teeth. "Why with me?"

  She tried to turn onto her back and shift her gaze to the ceiling, but he wouldn't let her. "Why did you let me?"

  "Just because… because you… you tried it, and it… it felt right."

  "You mean nobody else has ever tried it with you before?"

  "There haven't been that many, Joseph."

  "How many?"

  "Four. You're my fifth."

  "And who are the others?"

  "My high-school steady and two others during college before I met Paul. And now you."

  "And now me…" At close range he saw that her eyes had startling aquamarine depths scattered within the surface blues. That unconscious single-lidded blink came at what-by now-he considered quite the appropriate time. "On the day you dropped your wedding invitations into the mail, you allow me liberties you've never allowed even the man you're going to marry. Why?"

  "Because I feel free and open with you, and at the moment it happened I felt committed. I wanted… it seemed…" She tried to cover her face with one hand, but he grasped the wrist and prevented it.

  "Don't be ashamed before me… not ever, Winn. There's absolutely no reason to be. It seemed what?"

  "I've read about it before and seen pictures, but it always seemed… perverted. And then with you it became…" She picked at the bedspread between their chins and finally lifted her eyes to his. Such eyes he had. She loved his eyes. "Exalted," she finished quietly.

  His intense eyes studied her somberly. He sighed-a wholesome sound-and kissed the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, then lay back, studying her again.

  "And after that you could still marry him?"

  Angrily now, she sat up, slipped from the end of the bed and crossed the hall to the bathroom, from where she informed him, "You don't realize what all is involved, Joseph! You're not the one whose mother has hired caterers and cake decorators and florists and laid down big chunks of money as deposits for every service about to be rendered!"

  He rolled to his back, cupped the back of his head in both hands and snorted at the ceiling. "So it's the money?"

  He heard the rush of water, then what sounded like the slam of a drawer. Her voice grew louder and closer as she reappeared and came to stand at the foot of the bed, still naked. "Joseph, you don't quite understand about my mother. I'm a bastard she had to raise without a penny of help from anyone. She went through a pregnancy without a man and had me with no father to sign the birth certificate, and she's lived the twenty-five years since as frugally as it's possible to live. Security-that's always been her hang-up. And to her, money was the only security she could obtain, because she had no man for emotional security. So money came to mean a lot to her, and she slowly earned more and more of it but hoarded it very jealously.

  "Until now. When I became engaged to Paul, she loosened the purse strings for the first time. She's giving me the kind of wedding she thinks is most socially acceptable. Can you imagine her chagrin if I were to go to her now, after the invitations have been sent, after the announcement has been put in the paper, after showers have been planned, and announce that I changed my mind?"

  His eyes held none of their devilish twinkle now. They bored into her while he lay with his armpits exposed, his belly hollow. Unexpectedly he snapped up, stretching out a hand to her. "Come here. Could we please continue this conversation tucked cozily under the sheets together instead of like cold angry strangers?"

  Immense relief flooded her as she leaned to place her hand in his. He gave one hard tug, and she fell half on top of him. He held her upper arms tightly and informed her, "I don't like arguing about it any more than you do, but we both knew it'd happen once we made love, didn't we?"

  "Yes, I suppose we did."

  Their troubled eyes clung, and hers were on the verge of tears when he released her and ordered, "Get in. I'm shivering."

  She crawled on hands and knees to the top of the bed, and he slipped in beside her, snuggling under the blankets and wrapping both arms around her, settling the top of her head just beneath his chin. She rolled on her side and circled his ribs with one clinging arm.

  "Is it because I haven't asked you to marry me that you won't call it off with him?" he asked.

  "No, Joseph. It's the thought of canceling all the social obligations, all the commitments that scares me to death. I'd look like a fool, and that I could handle, but so would my mother and Paul, and they don't deserve that."

  "What other social commitments?"

  She sighed and rolled away from him slightly. He wouldn't have it and pulled her back where she'd been. "Tell me," he ordered.

  She told him succinctly, listing everything she could think of: invitations, postage, caterers, personalized napkins, champagne, limousine, unity candle, photographer, jeweler, tuxedo rental, bridesmaids' dresses, bridal gown, registration book, ring bearer's pillow, garter, gifts for her attendants, organist, the singer and even the special stem glasses for the nuptial toasts. When she finished almost breathlessly, the hand that had been squeezing her shoulder fell limp onto the mattress.

  "Oh, my God," he muttered.

  She laughed, and it was such a relief. "See, I told you."

  "You mean everybody goes through all that when they get married?"

  "No. Only the stupid ones."

  "You mean you don't want any of it at all?"

  "I always thought the perfect wedding would be to get married with only my favorite relatives and my best friends present, maybe in some pretty garden or field someplace when the lilacs are in bloom. Then maybe a quick dinner at my mother's house and slip away to the North Woods and sleep in a tent in two zipped-together sleeping bags for one solid week, with nothing but bears and raccoons and porcupines for company."

  His arm came around her again, caressing her naked back, her spine. "Mmm…" he murmured against her hair. "Sounds perfect. Let's do it."

  "Jo-Jo, be serious!"

  "I think I'm getting more serious by the minute. You and I find more in common the longer we know each other." He yawned all of a sudden.

  She closed her eyes, wholly content, curled up against his warm naked limbs. "Jo-Jo, I can't marry you," she said lazily. "Besides, you said you haven't decided yet."

  "Did I?" he murmured disinterestedly.

  "Mmm-hmm."

  Her hand fell still in the midst of fanning across his chest. Beneath her fingers the rise and fall of his breathing became long and measured. The lights still burned. But neither cared. Their limbs grew liquid and their eyelids twitched. A gentle snore sounded through the room, and Winn's eyes flickered open. At the sight of his relaxed lips and face she smiled sleepily and curled up tighter into her pillow, her fists beneath her chin and her forearms pressed against his warm ribs.

  His snoring grew a little louder, and she nudged him. "Roll over, Joseph."

  "Wh-" His eyes flew open, disoriented.

  "Roll over."

  He rolled onto his right side, and she right behind him, circling his belly with an arm and pressed her body securely against his nake
d backside. There was no spot on earth she would rather be.

  * * *

  In the morning they awakened almost simultaneously and smiled at each other with the unaccustomed joy of greeting the face of the one each loved first thing in the day.

  "I like sleeping with you." He lifted both arms above his head and posed like Charles Atlas, everything bulging and quivering from chin to waist.

  "That's because I don't snore."

  "Did I?"

  "Just a little."

  His arms hauled her close. "Mmm… I'll have to make up for it some way, won't I?"

  "And also for the extra charge on my light bill." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh, did we leave it on?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  "You just wanted to check and make sure it was me with you if you woke up in the middle of the night with your hand on anything important."

  "Yup!" she agreed, and they both laughed as he rolled her beneath him and braced up on both elbows.

  "Come with me today," he urged.

  "Where we goin'?"

  "To the auction in Bemidji."

  "Ohh, the auction. I'd forgotten."

  He smiled into her eyes. "Will you come?"

  She twisted one of his curls around her finger and smiled up at him very naughtily, then purred, "Try me, big boy."

  "Oh, for shame!" he teased.

  She looped her arms around his neck. "Well, you can't blame a girl for getting to like it, can you?"

  "Winnifred Gardner, I'm shocked."

  "Yeah, I can feel the shock absolutely growing on you."

  "Oh, that. Well, you can't blame a boy for responding to the off-color innuendo of a fiery little sexpot who-"

  "Fiery little sexpot!"

  "Fiery little sexpot who keeps a cup in her kitchen with the nickname Killer on it."

  "You take that back, Jo-Jo Duggan, or I'll make you sorry!" She yanked the curl.

  "Ow! Watch it, Killer, you're askin' for it!" He got her by both wrists and showed her who was master here.

  "Yes, Mr. Duggan, I am," she simpered.

  He kissed her finally with a mock show of uncontrolled passion, writhing around as if he were swimming on top of her. She was laughing beneath his mouth, and her words came out muffled.

  "Are you going to ravish me?"

  "You bet, and you're going to love it."

  "Am I supposed to fight you or cooperate?"

  He mellowed. His squirming turned to undulation. He was assaulting her mouth, chin, throat, then breasts with breathtaking tenderness. "I never did care much for unwilling females."

  "Have you had many… unwilling ones?"

  His stubbled jaw was like a steel brush against her tender breast, and she loved it. "None."

  "And what about the other kind? How many of them?"

  He reared up, meeting her eyes. "My share. Does it bother you?"

  She had a flippant remark on the tip of her tongue, but instead she cupped his face in both hands and spoke earnestly. "Oh, yes, Joseph Duggan, I hate every one of them for having you before I did. And I have no right."

  "You have every right. After last night."

  Tears sprang into her eyes, and her soft lips parted on a quick indrawn breath, not quite a sob, not quite a sigh. It had to be said. Feelings this strong simply must be voiced.

  "God help me, Joseph, I love you."

  "Then God help both of us, not just you."

  This time when his body slipped inside hers, it was with great tenderness. Their coupling was totally different from the first time. It was rich with slowness, unfrenzied, almost studious. They watched each other, both faces and bodies, and loved with eyes, as well as the physical parts that joined. They neither spoke nor called out, for their union was not meant to ease, but to blend their spirits. And so it did. Only Joseph reached a climax, but it mattered little to Winn. This she could give, yet be the grateful one when it was over.

  And this physical union, for all its simpleness-wholesomeness almost-was shattering.

  "I love you," he vowed when it ended.

  "And I love you," she answered. Then she cried.

  * * *

  They made a pact afterward that those would be the last tears of the day, that they'd be carefree, happy, and speak of no other people but themselves.

  They spent the day going to Bemidji in Joseph's 1954 Cadillac pickup, a funereal gray monstrosity twenty-two feet long, with all its coffin rollers intact and sporting four doors, velour upholstery sumptuous enough to be used in any coffin and a roomy three feet of space behind the seat, from which the name "flower car" had been derived: the space for carrying the funeral flowers.

  But the vehicle was luxurious to a fault. During much of the five-hour ride, Winn lay sprawled across the seat with the soles of her feet hanging out the window and her head snuggled in Joseph's lap.

  Five miles outside of Bemidji they followed directions on the auction-sale billboard and parked the Caddy beside the narrow gravel road lined with cars on both sides for a quarter mile in either direction. They spent the day meandering the farmyard amid farmers wearing bib overalls and wives with their pin curls tied up in blue handkerchiefs knotted above their foreheads.

  Joseph and Winn kept their promise. They forgot about all the outside forces working against them and enjoyed only each other, holding hands, laughing, occasionally dipping behind a large piece of machinery to exchange kisses. The '41 Ford was a rusted, wheelless heap that wasn't worth bidding on in Joseph's estimation, but they loved listening to the silver-tongued auctioneer calling the sale with mercurial glibness.

  "Heep – hayy – o – what – am – I – bid – for – this – little – beauty – of – an – automobile – do – I – hear – five – hundred – to – start – five – hundred – five – hundred – do – I – hear – five – hundred – hayy – oo – take – the – safety – pins – off – your – pockets – folks – do – I – hear – four – fifty – she's – a – racy – little – number – just – needs – a – little – dip – in – penetrating – oil – do – I – hear – four – fifty – they – don't – make – 'em – like – this – anymore – four – fifty – four – fifty – do – I – hear – four – fifty – to – start – all – right – we'll – do – this – the – hard – way – do – I – hear – four – hundred – to – start – f our – hundred – what – am – I – bid – fooooour – fooooour…"

  Jo-Jo laughed. Winn joined him. It was utterly refreshing, holding hands in the sunshine, listening to the red-faced potbellied auctioneer plying his trade. Dogs and children scampered through the crowd, while housewives from neighboring farms poked and prodded amid the housewares on display, gleaning bits of the personal lives of those holding the sale from the oddments strewn across the yard: chairs, books, tables, pot-bellied stoves, doilies, pickling pots, carpet sweepers, bales of twine, dishes, hog feeders, treadle sewing machines, hay balers, scrolls of music from a roller piano and a claw-footed swivel organ stool with four amber marbles clutched in its feet.

  "Imagine what we'll have strewn all over our yard when we're seventy years old and having an auction sale," Winn mused.

  She and Joseph sauntered along between a line of blossoming honeysuckle bushes and a set of eight oak spoke chairs. He swung their hands between them. "Are we going to be seventy years old and having an auction sale?" He grinned down at her and kicked his feet out idly with each step.

  "I said imagine."

  "Oh… imagine. Okay, let's see. There'll be a whole truckload of old beat-up tennis shoes and an even bigger one of rackets, and ragbags full of grungy sweat pants and sweat shirts with the arms cut off."

  "And the bellies," she put in.

  "And the bellies," he seconded. "And what else?"

  "And a yard full of your vintage cars, Joseph, all in mint condition, and we'll get rich, rich, rich from them and spend our eighties cruising oceans in the height of luxury."

  "And there'll be a shed ful
l of white plastic containers and white fluffy powder puffs."

  "Oh, almost forgot them." She squinted an eye at the sun while peering up at him. "But why a whole shed full?"

  "Because I'll have used up a lot of Chanel No. 5, powdering you every night for fifty years."

  "Every night?"

  "Every night."

  "But, Joseph, you'll be seventy years old!"

  He grinned luridly. "Imagine how good I'll be at it by then." He leaned down and bit her nose.

  "We are talking about powdering, aren't we?"

  "That, too."

  "Quit talking dirty, old man, and tell me what else there'll be."

  "Oh, the cribs and high chairs from when our kids were babies."

  She jammed her hands into her hip pockets and confronted him belligerently. "Joseph, we are not selling our children's furniture, so just put the idea out of your head!"

  "But why, my little flower?"

  She sauntered on saucily. "Because we have our grandchildren coming to visit, silly. We'll have to leave the crib set up for them."

  "Oh, of course, you're right, Killer. But can I sell that set of china with your nickname on it?"

  "What set of china? It's only one cup."

  "Well, I'm growing tired of the queer looks people give me when they see it sitting on the kitchen cabinet beside our liniment and Geritol. I always wonder if they think it belongs to me!"

  They eyed each other, snickered, then snorted, then broke into gales of laughter while he tossed both arms around her and held her loosely, rocking back and forth at the sheer joy of enjoyment. Then he tugged her hand and sat down on one of the honorable-looking old kitchen chairs. "Come here." He pulled her down onto the chair next to his. Its seat was toasty warm from the sun beating down on it all afternoon. Around the honeysuckle hedge before them, bees buzzed and gathered pollen. Down the yard the auctioneer still called, his voice lifting to them faintly through the mellow butter yellow afternoon.

  Joseph still held Winn's hand, sitting beside her on the heated wooden chair with an ankle draped casually across a knee.