The Trouble with Joe

by Emilie Richards

  But not soon enough.

  A child darted across the road ahead of him. If he had been going thirty-five, as he should have been, he would have had plenty of time to slow, swerve clear and remain on the road. As it was, he hit the brake and fishtailed on the slick tarmac into a wide ditch. The car came to an abrupt halt against the root of a giant oak. He was thrown forward, but his seat belt and the airbag kept him from smacking the steering wheel. Killer shuddered twice, then died.

  He didn’t move for a moment. He was confused, because everything had happened so quickly. Then he was furious.

  The door screeched ominously when he opened it and stepped into the ditch. It took only a glance to see that Johnny’s car had needed an aspirin compared to the high-tech surgery Killer would need to recover from this.

  Three steps and he was out of the ditch. Ten yards across the road and he had his hand on the back of Corey Haskins’s neck.

  “What in the blazes are you doing here?” He looked around. There were no houses in sight, nothing but pasture land and acres of tobacco.

  She kicked at him, but he held her firmly. He was furious, but not so angry that he couldn’t see she was scared to death. “I asked you a question,” he said.

  “Ain’t none of your business!” She kicked at him again.

  “Were you going to see Miss Sam?”

  “What if I was?”

  He could have been killed. Worse—much, much worse—she could have been. She was seven, a pitiful, scruffy, unloved child, and he wanted to shake her into submission.

  “I’m going to let go of you,” he said through clenched teeth, “but when I do, you’d better not go anywhere until we’re done talking. Understand?”

  “Don’t have to do like you say!”

  “It would be...in your best interests.”

  She seemed to consider, then she went limp, and he removed his hand. She moved away, but not very far. She lifted her hands to her hips and stuck out her chin. “So?”

  “I just crashed my car because of you.”

  “It made a lot of noise.”

  “I’m glad you were entertained.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “It was better than TV.”

  Obviously sarcasm was not lost on her, although it would have been on most children her age. Joe realized she was probably every bit as intelligent as Sam claimed. “Were you going to see Miss Sam?”

  “I go there sometimes.”

  He only knew of one time. He wondered if Sam had purposely failed to mention the others. “Often?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t bother her,” she said proudly. “Just go to look.”

  “It’s way too far for a little girl to walk. And it’s dangerous. You could have been killed running across the road like that.”

  “Wasn’t.”

  “Because I crashed my car!”

  “You drive too fast!”

  He couldn’t argue with that, but he disliked her even more for reminding him. “Does your mother know where you are?”

  “Don’t matter.” Her face grew more sullen. “She don’t care if I go off.”

  From everything Sam had told him, Joe suspected Corey was right. “Come on, we’re walking to my house so I can call a tow truck. Then I’ll take you home in Miss Sam’s car.”

  “Don’t want to walk with you. Don’t like you.”

  “You don’t have to like me.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t!”

  His hand itched, and he suspected the only cure was to apply it rapidly to the seat of Corey’s filthy shorts. But he started to walk, and before long she fell in step beside him. He forced himself to walk more slowly to accommodate her short legs.

  “How often do you come out here?” he asked at last. He figured they had at least half a mile to trudge together.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Once a week? Twice? Every day?”

  “When my mama goes away.”

  “And how often is that?”

  “Whenever she can.”

  He suspected he was being baited by a seven-year-old, and he didn’t like it. “How many times? One? Ten? Twenty?”

  “Six, maybe.”

  “And Miss Sam doesn’t know?”

  “Told you.”

  Reluctantly he had to give the child credit. She hadn’t uttered as much as one complaint. Time slogged right along with their footsteps. The road had begun to curve into the final stretch when she spoke again. “How come you got a playhouse and no kids?”

  “Because we do.”

  “Miss Sam likes kids, but I guess you don’t.”

  “I like kids who know how to behave.”

  “Like Alice Lambert.”

  “Who’s Alice Lambert?”

  “She’s got shiny black hair like yours, and she can do cursive.”

  “Cursive?”

  “You don’t know what cursive is?”

  “I know.” He wished they were already home. “What’s handwriting got to do with anything?”

  “We’re not s’posed to do cursive yet, but Miss Sam likes it. She says Alice’s smart. Alice gets stickers on everything.”

  “How about you? Do you get stickers?”

  “Not on my writing.”

  He told himself that one little girl’s struggle with her handwriting was not his concern. The words that emerged were somewhat different. “I couldn’t get the hang of writing until I was almost in fourth grade. I printed everything.”

  “Must have been pretty dumb.”

  “Dumb, but not dumb enough to insult somebody almost four feet taller than me.”

  “Why do you live out here? S’nothing to do.”

  Fortunately for Corey, Joe saw his mailbox in the distance. “Because we like privacy. That means that we don’t want people coming out here who haven’t been invited.”

  “Miss Sam likes me.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can keep coming. When I take you home I’m going to tell your mother she has to keep a better eye on you. And I don’t want you coming here again. Do you understand?”

  She turned away. He couldn’t see her face. “I’m not dumb.”

  “But you sure are rude.”

  “At least I don’t scare little girls to death!”

  “You don’t act as if you’re scared to death.”

  “Miss Sam’s nice. How come she married you?”

  He turned into his driveway. He was walking faster by now, and she was dragging behind. “So I could scare away everybody who doesn’t belong here.”

  Her answer, whatever it was, was swallowed by the ferocious barking of a large Border collie who came streaking through the field beside the house. Joe recognized the dog as it closed the distance between them. Laddie belonged to Turner Insley, the man who had sold Joe his land. But Corey didn’t know that the dog’s only earthly pleasure was to round up everything in sight. When Laddie, yapping excitedly, darted toward her, she began to shriek.

  Joe heard Sam’s shouts from the driveway behind him, but he didn’t even turn. He leaped toward Corey and swung her away from the dog and into his arms.

  She smelled the way she looked—which was terrible—and she weighed nothing in his arms. He held her tightly and kicked at Laddie to warn him away.

  When the dog slunk off to find a cow or a butterfly to herd, Joe tipped Corey back so he could see her face.

  “That’s one of the reasons why you shouldn’t be so far away from home by yourself,” he said.

  “Not by myself. I’m with you.”

  As Sam came up to join them, he set Corey firmly on the ground. “She’s all yours,” he said.

  “What on earth is going on?”

  “Your little friend will tell you.�
� He glanced at Corey. She stuck her chin out defiantly. “Don’t you forget,” he told her. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to see you out this way again.”

  “Don’t know why I’d want to come out, with you here and all.”

  She stood like a soldier, as straight and defiant as a Prussian general. She was filthy—he’d never seen a child so dirty—homely and obviously undernourished. And still something amazing sparkled in her eyes. Under the defiance Corey yearned for more, for something she could see just out of reach. Joe couldn’t give it to her; he had nothing to give anybody. But still, he could see her need.

  He turned away, but not before he’d memorized that look. He knew it would haunt him.

  Of all men, didn’t he know what it was like to want something that he could never, never have?

  Chapter Seven

  FOR THREE FULL weeks Killer was the favorite topic of discussion at the Foxcove body shop. Parts drifted in slowly; opinions ranged on how best to complete the transformation. If Killer had been built in Japan or Germany instead of Detroit, the car would have been an antique by the time Joe was able to reclaim it. As it was, he had to reacquaint himself with the gearshift and clutch on the trip home. He drove slowly on Old Scoggins. If a turtle had ventured into the road, it would have had plenty of time to cross.

  The pines lining the driveway rustled in a warm evening breeze. Joe parked next to Sam’s sensible sedan. He had been away most of the day. He was back at work full-time now, preparing for the school year that would begin in a few short weeks. He wasn’t sure how Sam was spending her time. The house sparkled, and there was always a wonderful hot meal at night, prepared with fresh vegetables from the garden she had dug and planted herself. But he doubted that the house and garden kept her so busy that she forgot about all the things that were missing from her life.

  He opened the front door, expecting the scent of dinner. The house was dark and smelled only of lemon potpourri and freshly cut roses. He called Sam’s name, but there was no answer.

  He told himself Sam’s car was in the driveway. She hadn’t left. She hadn’t left him. He called louder and began a search.

  Ten minutes later he found her down at the lake, feeding the ducks, who were so tame she had to shoo them back into the water every time she went back to the house. She was wearing a strapless sundress that was the warm gold of her hair, and in the glow of a perfect sunset her skin was palest ivory. He sucked in a deep breath at the sight of her. His body responded in the most primal of ways.

  She turned and only then did she seem to realize he was there. “Oh, Joe. I didn’t know you were home.”

  He tried to sound natural. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Have you?” She sounded as if she doubted it.

  “I’m later than I thought I’d be. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m never sure when you’ll be home. I thought I’d wait and start dinner when you got here.”

  “Let’s go out.” He walked toward her. An arm’s length away he forced himself to stop. “It’s Friday. There’s a fish fry at the Plantation House. Or we could drive over toward the coast and look for something there. We haven’t been out together in a long time.”

  “Sit and talk over drinks and dinner?” She smiled sadly. “I think I’ve forgotten how.”

  He pulled her into his arms before he could think better of it. “I’m a bastard, Sam.” She was stiff, but she yielded a little at his words. His blood heated and rushed swiftly to every distant appendage of his body. His arms tightened around her.

  “Not a bastard. A stranger.” She gazed up at him. “What happened to the man I married?”

  He didn’t know. But at the moment he felt exactly like that man. Desire and contrition crowded out all his anger at the fates and at his traitorous masculinity. He thought of Sam, of all the things she had been denied. Of how much he had denied her because of his own absorption in himself.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “That’s never, never changed.”

  “No? Show me.”

  Desire was a freight train roaring through his head and blocking all his other feelings. He hadn’t made love to her in a long time, so long he couldn’t remember when. He had wanted to; God knows he had thought of little else. But each time he had tried to approach her, he had remembered...

  The freight train picked up speed, and memory evaporated. Sam smelled like honeysuckle, like hot summer nights and a woman aroused. He ran his hands over her bare shoulders, down her arms, along the fabric-clad curve of her breasts. His breath caught in his throat; his hand touched the tab of her zipper.

  “What do you wear under a dress like this?” he asked.

  “Very little.” She threw her head back. Her eyes were drowsy and passion glazed. No matter what was wrong between them, this was right. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  “Then that’s what you’re going to be wearing.” He inched the zipper down. He found her hair with his other hand. It was fine and as soft as dandelion down. He lifted it off her shoulders and bent to run his lips along her throat. She shivered against his lips. As the dress fell away, she shivered again.

  “Don’t tell me you’re cold,” he said.

  “I won’t.” She wound her arms around his neck. “I’ll tell you anything you want to hear.”

  “That you need me?”

  “Desperately.”

  “And want me?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “And you’re going to do unspeakable things with me right here in the open?”

  “Unspeakable, devastatingly intimate things.”

  He touched one breast, a feather-light caress as teasing as the warm breeze. She sighed, and he took advantage of her parted lips, plunging between them to taste her secrets.

  She stroked her nails over the back of his neck, kneaded and stroked and drove him wild with her fingers and lips. He was breathing hard when the kiss ended, and she was smiling a woman’s secretive smile.

  She undressed him, but he couldn’t stand quietly as she did. He filled his hands with her breasts, his lips with her sweetly scented hair. His mind was filled with nothing except thoughts of her, of the way she moved her hips when he made love to her, of her soft cries and murmured words. Of the way he filled her completely.

  He filled her completely when they were both naked and stretched out together on a fragrant bed of clover and pine needles. She wrapped herself around him and drew him into her before he could even kiss her again. He lay surrounded by her, by her warmth, her scent, her love, and for a moment he forgot that he was giving her nothing but passion.

  Then, in the throes of their mutual release, he remembered.

  He held her afterward. Held her because it was expected, and he no more wanted to hurt her than he wanted to remember that the seed he had spilled inside her was devoid of life.

  She drew a finger down his chest. “Are you all right?”

  He closed his eyes. “Sure. That was terrific.”

  She turned so that she was facing him, her body strung languorously along the side of his. “You’re a wonderful lover. You’ll be wonderful when you’re eighty. Nothing will ever change that.”

  He smiled, because it was expected, too. “You’re every fantasy I ever had.”

  “Had?”

  “Have. Have.” He stroked her hair, although he wanted nothing so much as to be alone for a while.

  “Shall I shower and change for dinner?”

  “Is the dress ruined?”

  “I doubt it. It landed on the grass. Would you like me to wear it?”

  “If it’s wearable.”

  “Then I will.” She moved away from him and stood, a wood nymph moving gracefully against the darkening sky. He watched her find her dress and underclothing and slip them on for
the trip back up to the house. Then she was gone.

  He lay with his hands under his head, a man who should have been blissfully happy. Somewhere far in the distance he heard the lonesome whistle of a freight train.

  * * *

  WRAPPED IN HER robe, Sam dried her hair. It was growing late, and she was hungry, but she didn’t want to hurry Joe. He didn’t have to tell her that near the moment of his release he had realized that he couldn’t make her pregnant. She had felt it in his sudden tension, seen it in the bleakness of his eyes. Until then he had been the sensual, confidently virile man she had married. His emotional withdrawal had stolen much of the pleasure of their encounter.

  But he had made love to her. For minutes he had been the Joe she adored. Perhaps tonight was a new start. She could be patient if they were moving toward a better marriage together. If they could repeat tonight again and again, perhaps one night it would turn out completely right. He would hold her, look into her eyes and see that it didn’t matter that he couldn’t sire her children. He would finally realize that he was first in her life and always would be.

  Her hair was nearly dry when he appeared in the doorway. “Go ahead and get in the shower,” she said. “I’ll just be another minute.”

  “I can wait.”

  “No, go ahead. I’m starving.”

  It was an opening for an appropriately sexy remark, but he passed over it. She watched in the mirror as he stripped off his clothes. In the years of their marriage he hadn’t gained a pound, despite the fact that she fed him as well as his mother ever had. He would be a gorgeous older man, silver haired and olive skinned, a man who turned the silver heads of every passing older woman.

  She listened to the water run as she dressed in the bedroom. Once upon a time Joe had sung in the shower, snatches of Mozart’s Magic Flute and Mick Jagger’s greatest hits. He had a terrible voice, gruff and tuneless. She yearned to hear it again.