by James, Ella
I feel worse the longer I’m at the house alone. Fucking pathetic.
I walk down to the village at six-thirty and walk back around midnight or one. Don’t want to be the first in, don’t ever want to be the last one out. The bar guy’s got my back. I think he gets it that I only ever want the one drink: Macallan 18 in a snifter, always at the tail end of the night.
I’m halfway down the hill that leads from the cottage to the bar when I see Holly coming toward me in the dark. That’s when I remember what night it is. The dinner thing started at six. The thing to celebrate our “escape.”
I’m sweating as I talk and try to laugh with Holly on the walk down to the little place the locals call the Burger Joint.
Bikes and a few cars line Middle Lane before we reach the yellow building. People spill through the front doors, over the porch, into the dirt-patched grass. They’re playing country music. Holly takes my hand, and I see her friend Dorothy smiling on the porch. When she presents me with a mini bottle of Rumple Minze, I toss it back.
* * *
Finley
“Well, your partner in crime has finally arrived, and he’s downed the mini bottle of liquor the Australian tourist gave Dot at Christmas.”
Anna slides back into our booth and takes Kayti from Freddy. I watch Kayti lift her fuzzy head from Anna’s shoulder.
“Dot gave Declan her liquor?”
Anna makes an odd smirk.
Freddy shakes his head. “She’s shameless.”
“Perhaps more so than Holly, which is quite a feat,” Anna says.
Half-hour ago, Holly went in search of Declan, claiming they’re dear friends and she felt she should be the one to fetch him from Gammy’s.
I clench my teeth, then bring my Coke’s straw to my lips and have a nice, long sip. “Well,” I say when finished, “I suppose it’s good he arrived.”
“How long since you’ve seen him, Finley?” Anna pats Kay’s back.
“Mm, not quite sure. Perhaps five days…or six.”
“I’m a bit surprised you haven’t spent more time together,” Freddy says. He takes a large bite of his burger, and I want to slap him with the mustard-covered bun.
“Perhaps we had our fill of one another.” The words escape my mouth before my brain can screen them. I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. Perfect.
“Look at her.” Anna points, and Freddy’s gaze lands on my face. “I think she should be checked over. You’re not yourself since getting back, and who could blame you?”
“I’m exhausted,” I say. There’s no need to fake the edge in my voice. “Everyone falling, stabbing themselves, getting impregnated.” I roll my eyes and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“It has been a busy few days,” Anna says. “Is Audrey excited?”
I keep up as best I can while watching Holly, Dot, Declan, that horrid Bea, and Mike Green file through the doorway. They settle somewhere out of my range of vision.
I feel tethered to the booth. My brain’s a fog.
Mayor Acton comes to the table, giving me a basket of bread made by Mrs. Acton and a round of fresh congratulations.
While I swallow leaden bites of burger, someone starts the music. Rachel and Mike push booths out of the way, and although I try not to look, I glimpse Dot drag Declan out onto the mock dance floor.
He’s wearing a white shirt, which only enhances his dark beauty.
As time creeps by, people stop to hug and greet me. My head pounds. My chest feels funny, like there’s something wedged behind my sternum. A short time later, I frown down at the pager I keep on hand. Then I hold it up toward Anna.
She gives me an “oh no” look. I make a sad face, as if I’m disappointed, and just like that, my freedom has been earned.
I head into the kitchen, past the phone table, and out the kitchen’s back door, which leads into a short hall that smells perpetually of grease. I stop in front of the battered wood doors marked with smears of pink and blue paint. Laughter bleeds from below the pink one. I feel my cheeks burn with emotion, and I know I’ve got to get away before I boil over.
With no time to make it onto the back porch, I duck into the supply closet, where I press my back against the door and sink slowly to my haunches. With my forehead against my knees, I cross myself and let the tears flow.
Stone the cows!
I push my hands into my hair the way he does and curl over, letting out a muffled sob. I messed it all up! Every shred of…everything.
I think of Declan coming through the door with Dot and Holly, and I want to rage. For what my life is. For the mockery I only now can see. I think of Mum and Hudson, Mum and my father. I think of the village’s elderly—often a widow or a widower, though sometimes a couple. I think of how they squabble. How they smile together. I think of the ones alone—widowed or never wed—and how we bury them alone and they have small, square, solitary grave stones. I think of my grave stone.
“Finley.”
My body freezes and I start to tremble, shaken as if I’d heard a phantom speak. I lift my head slowly, half expecting that. But there he is, so tall and strong and handsome, leaned against the closet’s back wall with his arms folded in front of his chest.
His face is grave. His face is flawless. His eyes hold to mine until I lose my self-control, and my gaze rushes up and down him. Declan! He looks taller, broader than I recall from in the burrow. Clad in a long-sleeved gray tee shirt that clings to his chest, chino-style pants that hang from his hips, and black boots, he looks like the worldly man he really is. He blinks, and my heart gallops with such force I feel it behind my eyes.
How is he here? Something like panic grips me as I rise to my feet. One look at him and I feel blown wide open. So much so, I can’t bear it.
As I turn toward the door, I feel him step to my side.
“What’s the matter, Finny?”
My heart pounds fast and hard, and I can scarcely keep my voice steady as I whisper, “Nothing of significance.”
What a liar I’ve become. I can’t look at him, have even shut my eyes. “You never showed up at the clinic,” I whisper.
In the ensuing silence, my blood crashes between my ears.
“You didn’t come and find me either.” The rumble of his low voice makes me shiver, and I think dimly, this is what they speak of. He’s standing so close now, I feel the heat of him.
“I never said I would.” I wrap my hand around the doorknob.
Declan’s hand touches my elbow. “Hey…why won’t you look at me?”
I do, then. I look at his face, and I’m arrested. It’s illogical. Insensible. It shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t feel he’s air and water.
His gaze is searing, as if he hears my thoughts. I tear my greedy eyes away from the vortex of his. I’d like to not look at him, but I can’t stop myself from taking in his dark brows and his predatory eyes, the feline-high cheekbones and sultry mouth. He’s got no business with a mouth like that—a woman’s lush lips. I note the prickle of his shadow…the dark smudges beneath his eyes. And then my belly clenches as I realize he looks ill.
My hand goes to his cheek, the pad of my thumb brushing the sharp stubble there at his jaw. His eyes shut, as if it pains him. As I lower my hand, he seals his long fingers around my wrist. His grip loosens, feather-light. His jaw clenches.
When he speaks, the words are whisper-soft, nearly inaudible. “You should go.”
I’ve never touched a man so tenderly, never felt the urge except with him. So I’m holding my breath as I lift my hand, letting my fingers brush his dark hair. His fevered eyes meet mine again, and I feel the closet tilt around us as my fingers stroke his forehead.
His eyes shut. I watch his jaw flicker with tension. And then he wraps an arm around me, pulls me to him. With my body pressed to his, he steps toward the door, bracing one big palm against the doorframe as his hips push against mine. I feel a prodding thickness at the curve of my hip for a mere instant before he shifts himself away.
<
br /> “Finley—go.” The words are ragged. He looks tired and strained, his blue eyes barely open as he stands there with his fists at his sides, his erection jutting at the fabric of his pants.
I turn to go, but I can’t open the door. I feel my legs tremble the merest bit, weakness vibrating from the knees. And then he steps behind me. His chest brushes my shoulder blades, and I feel the stiffness of his sex against my backside.
“Tell me to stop.”
When I don’t, his arm slides around my waist. His hand spreads over my ribs as his mouth moves in my hair, his warm breath making something pulse between my legs. His cheek presses atop my head as his hand delves under my blouse, his rough palm moving over my bare belly.
“Tell me no,” he rasps, rocking his forehead against my hair.
When I don’t—I can’t—he presses my backside against his sex.
“Finley…”
His hand on my belly trembles. My head spins. I understand it now—the power other women speak of. Declan’s breaths are ragged pants at my ear. I don’t know why he didn’t come to me; he sought me out not once since we spoke outside the café the day after arriving back. And suddenly it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that it’s sinful and beyond forbidden, doesn’t matter that I mustn’t.
Declan.
Behind me, he’s big and thick and sturdy. With each of his breaths, I feel his long erection nudged against the curve of my buttocks. He lifts the hair off my neck and begins to kiss me there.
His mouth is soft and hot, his fingers gentle as they stroke above the button of my pants. He sucks at my neck. I’m not sure I like it. Then I’m moaning. Saints be praised! It feels like he’s…biting me.
His fingers delve into my pants. They’re stroking lightly as his lips brush my ear. I’m aware I’m panting, but I can’t stop. His big hand strokes lower, low enough that he’s there at the top of my underpants.
“I’ve been wanting this.” His low words vibrate by my ear. He nips gently at the lobe, and his deft fingers pet me. His breaths come heavy as he strokes my soft curls. His large body quakes behind mine. He trails one finger lower, pressing his thickness against my backside as he very, very gently strokes my most forbidden place.
“Siren…” He sounds desperate as he rocks against me.
I push my rear against him. He groans roughly, and his fingers part me. His mouth stills on my throat, and with his gusted breaths there near my ear, he dips a fingertip into my crevice and paints gently up and down.
Exquisite pleasure rolls through my legs. They give way. His arm is tight about my waist, holding me against him as his lips drift over my shoulder. His hand makes me quiver and gasp. He rolls his finger around something that lights up the world, causing me to lose myself for an electric moment. Then he drags his finger gently downward, resting right there, where I—
“Fuck, Siren.”
He prods right where I’m slick and needy. The sounds coming from my throat are foreign to me. Wanton. When he pushes his sex against my backside, I rock against him, eager for unnamed relief. And then his finger curls, pushing inside me.
He hugs me against him as bliss unfurls within me. I feel so full and…good. I hear a ragged gasp—my own—as his thick finger pushes deeper. He’s doing something…else. Up at the other place—my clitoris. It makes me cry out.
“Quiet.” His breath shakes. “Gotta…stay quiet, okay?”
I whimper, feeling almost fearful at the pressure building beneath his hand. He does something to my clit that makes me rock against him. As I do, his finger in me strokes, and I can’t help a ragged groan.
“Someone’s going to hear,” I whimper.
“Nah. Just stay quiet.”
I bite my cheek as his thumb grazes my clit, and his finger delves still deeper. My legs quake. My body sweats and tenses.
“Ohh!”
“You’re okay, Siren. I’ve got you.” I feel his arm secure around me, his thickness behind me. And then his thumb performs some witchery. He drags his finger partway out and pushes in again, and at the same time, his thumb circles me. Pure, ecstatic bliss streaks through me as my hot flesh pulses, followed by a wave of throbbing pleasure so intense I lose track of my mind and body.
When I come into myself again, I’m trembling and breathless, feeling like I might weep. He’s easing his hand out of my panties, still hugging me against him.
I whimper his name. He kisses my hair, and then my shoulder. One hand cups my hip. His lips are pressed against the top of my head. I can feel his breath there.
“Jesus, Siren…”
I turn around—too bashful to look at his face—and then I do, and he gives me a small, heartrending smile. He folds me against his chest, and there I feel the rhythm of his breaths: a bit unsteady. I can hear the thunder of his heart. His chin is tucked atop my head. His shirt is warm and damp under my cheek.
I laugh—a small, soft sound—and hug him.
That was…bliss. It was the greatest thing I’ve ever felt.
His arms around me tighten. As he strokes his hands down my back, I can feel the shaking in his fingers.
“How’re you feeling?” It’s a whisper.
He runs a hand over my hair, smoothing the tresses down against my nape the way he often does. I can sense the answer in the way his fingers hesitate before he says, “I’m okay.”
I want to tell him I can’t get the medicine he needs. That I tried and failed. But I decide against the mention of it. I’ve only ever craved sweets…and Mum, but when I’m wanting something badly, mention of it hurts.
I stroke a hand down his back. I’ve closed my eyes, and I’m working on discerning whether I can feel his thickness pressed against my hip when he murmurs, “You should go first.”
I swallow as my eyes well. My heart aches with too much want for a body to manage. I feel so satiated in his arms. Once I step away from the anchor of him, I’ll be lost again.
I feel as if I’m stepping out of myself as I step back. Our gazes hold. His face is leaner. Sharper. I can see it plainly, and it makes my heart bleed.
My throat stings as I rasp, “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
There’s a certain sweetness on his face, a gentle boyishness about his small smile. Imagine if I’d met him in the schoolhouse. The thought hurts, so I wipe it away, giving him a tremulous smile before I push back through the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Finley
There’s only five of us at morning mass: old Mr. Button, Mrs. Adams with the poodle hair, Mrs. Dillon on the organ, Father Barnard, and myself. Father Barnard wears his purple Lenten vestment with the small stain on the left sleeve and blows his nose four times on a kerchief.
I wear a mint-green dress that snags a few times on a rough spot on the pew. The dress is one of those we received last year in a mass order. The green was my size; I look fair in green, so I bid for it. Many of the dresses were for smaller girls…like Holly. I won’t think of her now. Not in church.
I clutch my favorite rosary—the one with ocean blue glass beads that belonged to Gammy’s mum—and steer my inner monologue so it flows from the blessing to dismissal to my silent prayers after I’ve bid everyone goodbye.
O my Jesus, forgive us of our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy.
I can whip through the rosary more quickly than an auctioneer, but I work through the prayers slowly as I trek from Upper Lane to Lower in the soft, blue morning. The words are like an incantation, warding off all thought, obstructing sorrow. I don’t notice until I reach the clinic that the morning’s oddly quiet and cold enough to numb my ears and mouth and nose.
I slip the key into the lock on the door of the residence, and I hear Baby’s hooves click. When I step inside, her warm, wee body presses to my stockings.
“Hi there, fluffins.”
She peers up at me with her sheepy eyes, and I crouch down beside her.
> “There’s my wee ewe.” I stroke her soft head, and she presses against my dress. “Did you miss your Mummy?”
She peers up at me, and I think she looks happy.
If nothing else, I still have Baby. I’ve made her a leash and collar out of a bit of red canvas I fashioned for her at the sewing machine. I attached a pink and red hair bow to the collar last night after my crying jag was over. It was mine when Mummy was still here. I laugh every time I look at Baby in her collar.
I spent the remainder of the night baking. Now I pack it all into a woven wood basket. I spend some time poking through the bathroom cabinet as Baby rubs her fluffy self against the coolness of the tub.
“You silly ewe, you.”
We emerge with several of my favorite oils and tinctures. In the kitchen, with Baby pressed snugly against my legs, I write out instructions for my favorite vodka-based sleeping tincture, which includes a bit of skull cap, ashwagandha, chamomile, hops, and rhodiola root. I label a bottle of capsules filled with valerian, and two others containing B-vitamin and magnesium supplements (both being good for the mind). Then I’ve got a bit of passionflower. I toss in some melatonin and Unisom for good measure, along with a note explaining he ought not use all the remedies at once.
After that, I walk into the bedroom, where at the bottom of the quilt-clad bed there is a purple velvet blanket folded into a large square. I scoop it up and hug it to me as Baby looks on.
“This is Mummy’s special blanket. Gammy made it for me with the weight inside it long ago, and recently I re-covered it with this fabric.” It smells of lavender and feels like home.
Biting my lip, I roll the blanket tightly, bind it with a strand of white ribbon I braid into my hair for weddings and receptions, and wedge it into the picnic basket alongside soup, breads, and cookies. I pack in a jug of my honeyed green tea and load it into Doctor’s white Land Rover. It had been with Gregory Green, who was patching an oil leak, but I got it back late yesterday evening.