The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  “You are the most unreasonable, pigheaded, stupidly macho . . .”

  He set the work lamp on the ground, closed the distance between us, and clamped his mouth on mine. His lips were soft and luscious, and the minute they touched mine, I forgot why I was mad and what I’d been about to say. The anger morphed into something else, something hotter and more irrational. His five-o’clock shadow rasped my skin. I dropped the fireplace poker, and wound my hands around his back. His hands sifted through my hair as he angled his face to kiss me more deeply.

  My fingers moved under the back of his T-shirt. His skin was warm, his muscles hard. I felt his erection press against my belly.

  The rain that had been threatening started to sprinkle down.

  “This isn’t wise,” I murmured.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I won’t want to stop.”

  “Who says we have to?” His lips slid down my neck, creating goose bumps up and down my spine.

  “Do you have protection?”

  “No. But there are things we can do without it. Is the shed locked?”

  His lips were close to my ear. The erotic tickle of his breath made a shiver chase through me. “I know where the key’s hidden.” His lips found mine again.

  I couldn’t bear to break the kiss, so I walked backward on tiptoe toward the garden shed—and then he picked me up. I wound my legs around his hips and let him carry me, still kissing me, to the shed. I reached up and pulled the key from the top of the left shutter.

  He set me down, took the key, and unlocked the door, then pulled out his cell phone and used it as a flashlight.

  “There’s an old picnic blanket on the middle shelf,” I said.

  He grabbed the blanket and shook it out, then spread it on the floor. He opened the window, closed the door, then knelt on the blanket and reached for my hand.

  I sank down beside him. And then we were kissing again, kissing and touching, touching and kissing. Outside, the sprinkles became a torrent, pounding on the roof. He pulled my shirt off over my head and took my nipple in his mouth. When he sucked, an arrow of heat ran right down my middle, right to my very core.

  He moved over me with his hands and mouth until I was ablaze, melting and molten, throbbing for relief from the relentless, aching heat. His mouth traced a path down my stomach. He dipped his tongue into my belly button, his fingers working their way up my thighs.

  He paused to pull my shorts down and off. “Going commando, I see.”

  “Well, it was a commando operation,” I replied.

  His laughed against my belly, and finding humor in such heat . . . well, it only made it hotter. Righter. Realer. More intimate.

  “I appreciate how you managed to dress for the occasion on such short notice.” He kissed me some more. “Or did you plan this out? Did you pay those boys to give you an excuse to call me?”

  “I thought you paid them.”

  He laughed again, and pleasure, just as intense as the physical pleasure, but more deeply centered, located in the part of me that was more than just a body, pulsed through me. He made me feel . . . amazing. Treasured. Appreciated. Swept away, yes, but swept right into the moment. We were both right here, right now, fully present, traveling together on a rotating planet revolving around a burning star. The heat of his breath moving upward on my thigh sent me into a delicious spiral of pure, burgeoning desire. The pressure of his fingers, the indescribably tender, firm urging of his mouth created an irresistible vortex of need and pleasure. My legs quaked and my body stiffened and all at once, I was teetering on the ledge—a ledge where in the past I often used to think, This is it. I’m nearly there, and that thought, that brief step back from the moment to observe it, would make it impossible to fall into the abyss of abandon. But Matt disallowed that option. He simply, masterfully, lifted me off and over—and I found myself flying and crying, all at the same time.

  At length, he kissed his way back up my belly, up my chest, up my neck, to my mouth. “You are so beautiful, so wonderful, so delicious,” he said. “That was such a turn-on.”

  I could feel his erection pressed against my belly. “Your turn,” I murmured, unbuttoning his jeans. His manhood jutted out as I freed it from the zipper.

  I pushed up his shirt. His pecs were firm mounds, topped with flat brown nipples, dusted with dark hair. His abs were flat and hard, banded with muscle. I kissed my way down a trail of dark hair below his belly button.

  I touched his erection, and it jerked toward my hand. “I think he likes me.”

  “Oh, Hope,” he groaned. “That feels . . .”

  Words failed him. I loved that, loved making him speechless with pleasure. When I pushed him over the edge, I felt like Arch Woman of the Universe.

  He pulled me into his arms afterward so that I lay on top of him, skin to skin. “Hope,” he whispered. He put his hands in my hair and turned my face so that his lips could reach mine. “You’re . . .”

  Something on the floor beside us crackled. I froze, thinking it was a mouse—and then, suddenly, over the rain thrumming on the roof, I heard a babbling sound, like a voice. Terror shot through me. “What’s that?” I whispered.

  “The baby monitor. Sophie sometimes talks in her sleep.”

  “Oh.” I blew out a relieved sigh, then abruptly rolled off him. “That monitor—does it just work one way?” I asked.

  “You mean, can they hear us?”

  I nodded.

  He grinned. “I know leaving the house and having sex in a neighbor’s shed probably won’t earn me the Father of the Year award, but trust me, I stopped short of broadcasting our little interlude into my daughters’ room.”

  Of course he had. Of course he’d thought of his girls. And then his actual words hit me. “Was that what it was? A ‘little interlude’?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a full concert, that’s for sure. You had me so turned on that if we’d had protection, I’d be embarrassed at my lack of self-control.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” I swallowed and looked down, feeling curiously close to tears. “‘Interlude’ just sound so . . .” Small. Transient. Insignificant. I struggled to find a less needy-sounding word. “. . . seedy.”

  His lip quirked in a grin. “Well, this is a potting shed.”

  I elbowed him, but his humor had lightened my mood.

  He cupped my face. “Hope, that’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. I’m crazy about you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Emotion hummed between us, then Sophie murmured again through the monitor. I reached for my shorts and scrambled into them. “You’d better get back home before your girls wake up.”

  “Yeah.” He kissed me on the nose, then pulled on his clothes and folded the blanket. I closed the window while he put the blanket back on the shelf, then he ran out and retrieved the fireplace poker from the lawn. He handed it to me, ushered me out, then locked the door and put the key back on top of the shutter. “I’ll wait until you’re safely inside.”

  I ran through the rain, aware of him watching me, and turned to wave once I opened the kitchen door. Lightning lit the sky, and I saw him move through the hedge.

  I hurried upstairs, still clutching the poker. I didn’t trust my hand to be steady enough to return it to the hearthside tool rack without waking Gran or the aide, and I didn’t want to have to explain myself or my actions. How could I explain something I didn’t really understand myself? Besides, all I wanted to do was get into bed and relive every thrilling moment.

  41

  adelaide

  I opened my eyes see a pair of overly cheerful morning aides standing by my bed.

  “Top of the mornin’ to you, dearie!”

  “Good morning.” I rubbed my eyes, which temporarily reduced the number of aides by half.

  “Do yo
u need something? I thought I heard you talking.”

  “Must have been talking in my sleep.” Seems easier to tell her that than to admit the truth: I see dead people.

  Oh, I know that’s not original—I know it’s a line from a recent movie—although Hope would laugh if she heard me call it recent, because it’s probably a dozen or more years old now.

  The thing is, I saw Charlie. I think it was a dream, but it seemed as real as my encounters with Mother. It jarred me, because it never occurred to me that I’d have to deal with him again once I’m dead. I guess I hadn’t figured we’d end up in the same place.

  But then, it’s also just recently occurring to me that I might have underestimated the mercy of God. That’s a very scary concept, that. If God is as merciful and gracious as the dream suggested, he might have higher standards than my level of forgiveness.

  I like to think that I forgave Charlie, but maybe I haven’t, not entirely. If I haven’t, I’d better get to work on that, because it’s going to be harder if Hope unearths what I fear she will.

  But then, it might be even worse if she doesn’t. How am I supposed to forgive Charlie—fully and completely, the way I know I need to—if he’s buried something so deeply that I can’t fix my part in it?

  Holy Moses, but this is a mess.

  In my dream last night, he was dressed in a blue suit—bluer and brighter than men normally wear—but it looked wonderful on him. He was able to walk without even a trace of a limp, and he escorted me to a beautiful ornate door—one with carvings and leaded glass that shot rainbow-colored prisms like firecrackers when the light hit it. He held it open for me. I was about to walk inside, but all of a sudden, I realized I was just wearing a housecoat, and this looked like a grand hotel. I was afraid of embarrassing him. He just smiled and urged me in.

  I walked through the door, and saw a giant white grand piano. It dawned on me that this was a performance hall, and I was at the edge of the stage. A large audience of fancy-dressed people filled the vast auditorium.

  Well, I don’t play piano, beyond a few simple hymns I can play one-handed, and half of “America the Beautiful,” which was a song I had to memorize for a recital when I was eight. I’m certainly no virtuoso. I realized I was about to be humiliated. Even worse, I was going to disappoint Charlie, who just stood there, beaming.

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered.

  “Sure you can.” Charlie put his hand in the small of my back and urged me forward.

  The crowd burst into applause. I skulked to the piano, my head down, and sat on the bench. The audience hushed to an expectant rustling.

  I closed my eyes and tentatively began “Onward, Christian Soldiers” with my right hand. I knew only two chords to add with my left, but then, all of a sudden, I felt a surge of energy gather in my chest. It’s as if the notes were floating in the air, and I inhaled them, and they were rushing through my veins, and my fingers were flying across the keys. Out of nowhere, I was able to effortlessly play beautiful, magnificent, heavenly music—every tune I’ve ever heard, and other songs too beautiful to imagine, so beautiful that the roof floated off the auditorium. It was glorious and thrilling and freeing—like when I knew a photo was right, and my finger was just clicking away at the shutter, and I lost all sense of time. I was playing like that, just reveling in the music and the moment, so filled with joy that I was lighter than air.

  Charlie smiled, his face just radiant, and said, “I’m so glad you’re letting all that music out. I knew it was in you all the time.”

  And then I thought, How is this possible? I can’t play piano, and suddenly, I couldn’t. The music stopped. I was back to pecking out a melody with my right hand, and I couldn’t do even that. I hit sharps and flats. I felt so awful, so humiliated and embarrassed, like I’d let everyone down and made a total fool of myself. I ran off the stage and woke up in a sweat.

  Well. It was so real. So real. So real!

  “Mornin’, Miss Addie! Let’s start this beautiful day off with a dose of fiber,” said the aide, who disappeared into my bathroom and returned with a handful of pills and a glass of water. I think her name is Hazel—no, Hannah. I don’t much care for her. She fills in on Nadine’s days off, and she’s too cheerful, too bossy, too hail-fellow-well-met and jolly, like a department store salesman who reeks slightly of gin. Not that Hazel or Hannah smells of gin. Might do her good to have a nip or two, though. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so intensely smile-faced. But there’s something about her, something that tells me she’s not nearly as smugly cheerful as she seems. She’s got a secret life. If not gin, then maybe sherry or a little sweet wine. Or maybe cigarettes. Or gambling. Or men.

  That thought makes me smile, because she’s got one of those no-fuss, short haircuts that does absolutely nothing for her appearance. No, not men. A woman doesn’t wear her hair like that if she wants to be an object of desire.

  One of the hidden joys of being old and having people think I’m half-addled is that I can say whatever I want and just wait and see what happens. “Have you ever had a grand romance, Hannah?”

  “A what?”

  “Have you ever been passionately, madly, swept-off-your-feet in love?”

  “Why—why—why on earth would you-alls ask such a thing?”

  “Just curious. There are so many things no one ever discusses. And I don’t know why not, since those things are often the most interesting.”

  She turned away. “I don’ know what you’re talking about.”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “That’s what I figured.”

  She turned back around, her chin lifted, her mouth in a tight, miffed line. “Well, it so happens I does know a thing or two about romance.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I done been married thirty-two years.”

  “Marriage and romance aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

  “Well, course they are!” she exclaimed.

  “Really?” Her certainty intrigued me. “How did you meet your husband?”

  “I had a friend who fixed me up with her older brother. He had a stutter, an’ he was too shy to ask me out himself, so she set it up for us to meet at the movie theater.”

  “How interesting! What happened?”

  “The very next day, I married him.”

  “The next day!”

  “He had a good job, and a place to live. And I couldn’ take the beatings no more.”

  My heart flopped like a fish. “The beatings?”

  “Yes. My mama used to beat me for growing such large breasts.” She whispered the last word.

  “Oh, dear Lord. How awful! That wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know, but it made my stepfather look at me.”

  “Oh, my.” Oh, my, indeed. “Oh, you poor dear!” Well. That certainly made me see her in a new light. Isn’t that always true, how a little fresh information can make everything seem different?

  “Upsy daisy with your glass, ma’am. You need to drink all your water with that fiber.”

  I drained the glass and handed it back to her. “Are you and your husband happy?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “We suit each other just fine.”

  Suit. Such a sweet, old-fashioned term. Lovely, really—although lacking in passion.

  Or maybe not. For all I know, she means they’re well suited between the sheets.

  For her sake, I hoped so.

  But then, if he were her one and only, maybe she wouldn’t know the difference. Not for the first time, I thought that was why women used to be so carefully chaperoned—to protect men from comparisons. If I’d never kissed Joe, would I have been ecstatically happy with Charlie?

  No, I decided. Even as a virginal youth, I’d known there was something more.

  42

  hope

  I awoke to sunlight pouring through the window.
I stretched like a cat, feeling warm and content, as if the sunshine were flowing through my veins. I’d had the most wonderful, vivid dream . . .

  I opened my eyes and saw a heap of wet clothes on the floor. My heart quickened. Oh, dear Lord—it hadn’t been simply a dream. I had made love with Matt!

  Well, sort of. We stopped shy of doing the actual deed, but it had been lovemaking all the same.

  I sat up and ran my hand through my hair. I didn’t know how to feel about it. Part of me was thrilled and happy. Part of me feared I’d made a terrible mistake.

  Okay. Calm down. Why would it be a terrible mistake?

  The answer was less than reassuring: because I was so darned thrilled and happy. I’d been very clear about not wanting to get emotionally entwined only to leave town. Besides, what if Matt started behaving all avoidant and awkward, the way some guys do when they regret sleeping with a woman? Regardless of what Matt had said last night, he might feel differently this morning.

  Well. As Gran always said, you couldn’t uncrack an egg. What was done was done.

  I hurried through the shower, threw on fresh shorts, and ran downstairs, where Gran was finishing her breakfast.

  “How are you this morning?” I asked.

  “A little tired,” she said. “I wonder sometimes if sleep isn’t more exhausting than being awake.”

  “You must have a lively dream life.”

  “Oh, my dear, you have no idea.” She took a sip of tea. “Today’s the day you and Matt will find that suitcase.”

  “I hope so, Gran. We’ll do our best.” I debated whether to tell her anything about the visitors last night, then decided against it. It would serve no good purpose and was sure to upset her.

  “I have a good feeling about it,” she said.

  I heard a noise in the backyard, and saw Matt coming through the shrubbery opening, carrying the metal detector. He waved and strode toward the back porch. I opened the door, feeling anxious and self-conscious, not sure how to greet him.

  He gave me a hug—one that was tighter, longer, and warmer than the standard-issue hello hug—then came into the kitchen and bent down to plant a peck on Gran’s cheek.