In the Land of Milk and Honey
Nell E. S. Douglas
In the Land of Milk and Honey by Nell E. S. Douglas
www.NellDouglas.com
© 2017 Nell Douglas
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
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Cover by M. S. Olsen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Prologue: The Inception
Chapter 1 - Pride before the Fall
Chapter 2 - Secrets Are like Assholes
Chapter 3 - Satellites & Reconciliations
Chapter 4 - A Surreptitious Spark
Chapter 5 - A Glimmer Named Hope
Chapter 6 - Everything Is Illuminated
Chapter 7 - The Inconceivable Conceiver
Chapter 8 - Black Holes & Revelations
Chapter 9 - Trance and Transcendentalism
Chapter 10 - A Flower in the Desert
Chapter 11 - Crossed Pollinations
Chapter 12 - Black Bloom Blossoms
Chapter 13 - Dawn of the Orchid
Chapter 14 - Garden of Good & Evil
Chapter 15 - A Streetcar Named Desire
Chapter 16 - The Celestial Harvest
Chapter 17 - Reap What’s Sown
Chapter 18 - Uncharted Terrain
Chapter 19 - The Unforgivable Deceiver
Chapter 20 - The Fall upon Us
Chapter 21 - Arks and Vices
Chapter 22 - The Spotless Blind
Chapter 23 - Apples for Alligators
Chapter 24 - Swimming in the Rocks
Chapter 25 - The Bairds and the Bees
Part Two
Chapter 26 - The Confederate/Hunter McBride
Chapter 27 - Nothing that Fragile
Chapter 28 - A Friendly Match/Hunter Interlude
Chapter 29 - Tail, Tale, Tell
Chapter 30 - The Unforgivable Deceiver II
Chapter 31 - The Peril of the Aral
Chapter 32 - A First Spring
Chapter 33 - Levies and Tolls
Chapter 34 - Remember, Remember, the First after December
Chapter 35 - A Room without Ceilings
Acknowledgments
Prologue: The Inception
He pressed himself firmly inside me, hard and smooth. I gasped, taking in a sharp lung full of cool air. A guttural groan rumbled from deep in his chest. My body burned white hot from the inside. Strange flames licked every inch of my skin, generated where our bodies joined below. In this piercing pain, masochism made sense because the pain and pleasure created the most delicious emulsion. I dug my nails into him, gripping, trembling in anticipation of what came next. His hard body became rigid against mine.
“Is this your innocence?” he asked in a hoarse voice, but he knew.
He carefully shifted his weight onto an elbow, the tendons in his shoulders and neck pulled tight. I felt a pang of guilt at my lie of omission, but I hadn’t wanted to scare him away from this tonight. As his eyes searched mine, his hardened features quickly transformed into an expression of tenderness and reverence, and I drowned in it.
I knew already if I ever had been innocent, I didn’t want to be again. Whatever he was guilty of, whatever crime he’d committed, I wanted to be guilty of too. Whatever stake he burned on, I’d burn with him. No burden could pull me away or convince me this was wrong. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to hurt for him, and nothing in my entire life had ever felt truer. I stroked my hand down the hard expanse of his back, coaxing him, begging, urging him on.
“Yes. But, please, stay with me,” I managed in rasped whisper as my spine arched and my body stretched, for him, onto him. God, it hurt but he was so beautiful and the weight of his body on mine felt like the half that was missing all along had now found home. Underneath him I felt whole, and I willed him to continue with every fiber of my being.
His eyes glittered, shaming the beams of moonlight, seeming insignificant and lusterless by comparison. He ran his fingers down my cheek and brushed my lip with his thumb, so I tasted him. No air escaped between us, his exhale was my breath, our chests rising and falling heavily, in time with one another. It was only seconds, but it felt like a lifetime while I waited for him to act or speak. He leaned down and gently pressed his forehead to me, and I was certain the beat of his heart was the only thing keeping me alive.
“Could I do worse to confess I have no regret? Not even a little,” he breathed into my hair, sounding as desperate I felt. I gently sucked the tip of his thumb. Relief washed through me, and I shook my head minutely, shyly, but I understood completely.
I took his smooth cheek in my hand and pulled his face to mine. “Please…” I said with conviction, but my words were lost. I’d lose anything, give anything, and I told him this much with my eyes. His lips formed a mischievous smile when he withdrew from inside me. At the motion I bit down on his thumb, drawing some blood, and my lids closed on their own accord.
“Don’t,” I whimpered, as his velveteen thumb slid across my lip coating it with his coppery flavor. We were blood for blood now. I clawed my fingers into his flesh, attempting to pull him back in to me, worried he’d changed his mind.
“Gabrielle, Gabrielle,” he chanted, and I needed to see him. “There is no going back for either of us now,” he confessed as he locked my gaze.
“Don’t think of the pain. It won’t always hurt,” he cautioned me, affectionately, neither of us knowing then the cataclysmic truth of his words. He pushed so deeply inside me, I didn’t think he’d ever find a way out and then all thoughts vanished.
Because in that moment, we were perfect.
~o~
No one ever warns you how fine the line is that separates love from madness. And once you’re there, there’s no way to differentiate the two. They are inextricably tied, synonyms, identical twins, one easily masquerading for the other, cruelly switching places when you desperately want the other. But if it’s real, you accept that and welcome them both because in your heart you know the secret that nobody knows.
You know that it’s worth it.
Chapter 1 - Pride before the Fall
“Don’t move,” he ordered gently.
His voice was controlled but his eyes were wide with alarm. I froze instantly where I was lying on the heated steel, my dark chocolate hair splayed out beneath me, a few locks curled around my neck. In my hyperaware state of immobility, the hand that lay dormant by my side twitched with anticipation. Not seconds ago we were all spinning in elated bliss—it was all fun and games. How quickly life changes.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” I asked urgently and in a slightly panicked tone. Despite my quickening heart rate, I obeyed his instruction. I didn’t question his motives because I trusted him.
With my life.
In the background I heard the wicked snickering of a feminine voice, mocking, taking joy in my eminent pain. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as he approached in careful and deliberate steps.
He was hovering over me now. Sparkling green eyes squinted with intensity, almost surgical in his focus.
I looked back at him pleadingly and his cool breath fanned my face as he calmly said, “Stay still.” I inhaled as he spoke the words and it smelled like…cherries.
He readied his hand to strike, but it was too late.
I felt a sharp sting piercing my flesh.
The bombus terrestris had won.
I yelped as soon as the bee’s stinger was imbedded in my forehead. Snapping upright, smacking my forehead on the cylindrical metal rail of the merry-go-round with such force it reverberated like a gong.
I howled my pain, but I was surrounded by laughter. Bright midday sun met me—vision slightly dazed. I scanned the tree-lined park before scowling at Violet. She gripped her rib, cackling hysterically, as she sat opposite me on the merry-go-round.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. Violet stuttered through her residual laughter, wiping away tears of amusement. My head was beginning to throb. I lowered my brows in disapproval as I rubbed my forehead, analyzing the injuries with my fingertips.
“Not funny, Smurfette.” She laughed again before clearing her throat and stealing my abandoned turkey sandwich.
“Okay, Gabrielle.” Vi rolled her eyes. She called me my formal name only in condescension. Everyone knew me as Bree. I looked over at the small boy standing inches from where I sat at the edge of the platform—the boy who had been chuckling but abruptly stopped. He was looking at me with remorse.
I smiled, hoping it would catch. “Tristan, you can laugh at Mommy all you want. “I raised my hand, brushing his cheek with my thumb.
“I tried to save you, Mom,” my son said. My face fell minutely at his words, but I caught myself and tugged the corners of my mouth up higher.
“I know, my love, you did your best,” I reassured him. He’d saved me enough.
I looked over at my sons aunt, Violet, who wore a mildly sympathetic expression. She’d caught it, too. I was “Mom” now, not “Mommy.” It shouldn’t matter, but it did. It felt like the end of an era. I sighed, not knowing how true those words were. Violet shrugged and continued to eat my lunch.
Tristan was fidgeting with his shirt hem, uncertain.
“Are you going to push or do you want me to now?” I addressed the source of his apprehension, already knowing what the answer would be.
He looked up at me with a brightened expression and grabbed the bar. “I guess I can do it,” he volunteered, disguising his eagerness.
“How fast?” He asked the question with a seriousness reserved for a professional race car driver taking a pedestrian for a ride in a Lamborghini. I beamed at an amused Violet.
“Hmm, let’s see.” She tapped her chin. “How about super-fast!”
“Are you sure?” He questioned, laced with caution, clearly concerned for our safety. His r still occasionally sounded a little like w. A little. I loved that. My smile was so wide I thought my face would crack.
I matched his concerned tone. “I think Tristan’s right, Violet. Let’s just do medium.”
He gave me a stiff nod of approval with his little chin before clasping his fingers tightly around the tube—just barely encircling the circumference—and letting his sneakers dig into the worn circular track around the platform. His body strained, but his soles quickly found purchase. Violet hummed, and I laid back down on the warm surface. I exhaled at the throbbing pain in my head but ignored it. Instead, I watched the clouds in the sky gently spin into a kaleidoscope of blues and whites, and I had to admit medium speed was pretty intense for a four year old.
We spun and hummed and didn’t even hear the hundreds of other people who were sharing the park with us today. Or maybe it’s that we didn’t acknowledge them. Our lives were full and rich, and we didn’t need anything else.
When Violet convinced me to move here she said the words I’m sure every girl that ever moved to this city from a small town has uttered, “Great things will happen for us, Bree. Big things. I can just feel it.” At the time, I laughed at her and the cliché prophecy. I wasn’t nervous for her; she was destined to find success. It was written in her DNA. I, on the other hand, was less confident. But as it turns out, she was right. I didn’t really need convincing because, although she didn’t realize it at the time, I would have followed her anywhere. I should be grateful she didn’t want to go to school on the West Coast because leaving Sweetwater, Virginia, for New York City was the best decision I’d ever made. We thrived here and prospered.
I felt the swirling scene around me slowly come to a halt, and I knew the ride was ending.
“What next?” Violet asked.
“Tag!” he announced and lunged for Violet who squealed as she dipped and dived around the open field.
We played tag for a while, and Violet and I didn’t have to pretend to lose anymore. After a few rounds of humiliatingly being pursued and caught by a child, we collapsed on the grass beside each other breathing heavily. I opened my eyes, shading them by cupping my hands just above the brow, and was greeted with a vision of a perfect little face, smiling victoriously, sunbeams radiating around his halo of honey and brandy hair, shimmering against a backdrop of crystalline blue.
“Ready?” I grinned.
“Yep. Let’s go home,” he answered triumphantly in his cute little voice; a little exhausted himself.
“I’m ready when you are, kiddo,” Vi agreed as she stood and took his hand. “By the way, Bree, your head looks terrible.”
I lifted my free hand, grazing the very swollen lump. Tristan looked up at me, laced with concern. Placating him, I said, “I’ll put some ice on it at home.”
I slid my bag across my shoulder, tossing the remnants of our picnic. Holding hands, we left the pocket park, making our way across the lush green expanse of the Great Lawn, weaving through the smattering of couples and families lying on blankets in the grass.
“One, two, three!” we counted in unison and swung Tristan into the air in front of us.
“Oomph! That’s getting harder to do,” Vi complained.
“Maybe you’re just getting old, Vi,” I joked, knowing that the real reason was because Tristan was rapidly closing the gap between their height difference. I wasn’t sure which was more insulting, but that seemed like the safer route.
“Hey now, I’m not the one with a goiter on my head. But since you mentioned it, I am in need of some oil on the old joints. Hot, wet, slippery oil,” her words laden with innuendo, baiting a reaction from me.
“Stick some Preparation H in it, Nana,” I warned. This was a little game she liked to play. The “how-can-I-get-away-with-saying-dirty-things-and-not-sound-dirty” contest. They say don’t reward bad behavior so mostly I ignored it, but that only emboldened her.
“What’s pepper-ation H?” he questioned.
“It’s nothing, honey. Just lotion for ladies who wear too much perfume and loud dresses. Like your Aunt Violet,” I said with a satisfied smirk.
“You can never wear too much eau de toilette. And my designs aren’t loud, they’re well spoken,” she countered in a dignified tone.
“Keep telling yourself that,” I teased, “You know you’re probably the one that attracted the bee.”
“I can’t help my appeal. Too sweet for my own good,” she said haughtily, batting her lashes.
I rolled my eyes. “Here we go. You know, your ego is going to trigger my gag reflex if it gets any bigger.”
“Oh! Are we talkin’ gag reflexes now?” she said through a mischievous smirk. My brow perked up.
“You are five minutes away from being disowned.” I was only partly kidding. She could make discussing the Easter Bunny sound dirty.
Undaunted, she skipped out ahead of us, shapely hips swinging, as she pranced backwards in order to face us, twirling around, smiling as she began to sing, “My milkshake brings all the bees to the park….”
We giggled and I noticed bystanders watching the show as her voice carried through the valley of the park. She ended with a grand pirouette, curtsying as a few observers joined in applause. A homeless man in short tropical running shorts cat called. She blew him a kiss.
“You’re silly, Aunt Violet,” Tristan said, shaking his head grinning as she took his hand.
“I know. Isn’t it exciting?” she asked
wistfully.
From the day we met in dance class, I liked that in her. She was fearless. They grouped us according to height so although she was six and I was four, we were together. I showed up, all knees and elbows, in a pink leotard my father had purchased and a bun so tight it looked like I’d had work done. I didn’t like pink or ballet, but my father had no clue what to do with a four-year-old girl. He did what he saw on TV. Vi showed up in a black tutu and a neon headband, offered me a candy cigarette, instantly becoming my idol.
Four years later she became my sister. Out of a bizarre match of convenience, her mother, Sharon, and my father, Mitch, got married. Her mother divorced her father, The Cadillac King of Virginia, after catching him with a substantially younger woman. The dating pool in our small town was almost nonexistent and our parents were spending so much time together because of us, they thought it made sense. A neglected Sharon suggested matrimony. Mitch cracked open a six-row malt beer and nodded. A courthouse trip later, the deed was done.
Two years later they separated—Sharon making it official the following year. My dad was handsome in his way, perhaps wore his hair too long and didn’t trim his goatee often enough. Mitch caught the eye of many of my peers’ mothers at school events. He would go out most Saturday nights to a local honkey-tonk, occasionally coming home rumpled and smelling of aerosol hair spray but always sober-eyed. Honkey-tonking was the only interest he shared with Sharon, except sober eyes weren’t in Sharon’s repertoire. Total opposites besides. Sharon gave marriage a third try, with a young PE teacher. With that one tanking too, she succumbed to a lusterless fate as Sweetwater’s most iconic barfly. Mitch drank six-row malt and nodded to any question asked from the door of his woodworking shed, up until his heart gave out one day. Even as kids, we knew they didn’t make sense together—like cilantro gelato; just wrong.
Violet and I, on the other hand, were like chicken and waffles. An unlikely combo at first glance, but we complemented each other well. So we kept the title of sisters.
And four years and eleven months ago I gave her the title of Aunt.
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