by Webb, Peggy
He negotiated his way across the room, toward that bright and shining bed. He felt as if he were carrying a miracle. When they reached their destination, he lowered her to the covers, then leaned over her, studying her face.
She smiled at him.
He had come to Tupelo battered and bruised, seeking another place to hide; but this lovely, gentle woman had poured balm over his spirit and unlocked the doors to his prison. Little by little, she was coaxing him out to freedom.
"We have three weeks, Rosalie."
"Let's make them all count."
Chapter Nine
This time was different. Their passion was just as intense, but their loving was slow and easy. They undressed each other, taking time to marvel, to caress, to kiss.
When she lay across his bed with her bare skin gleaming in the moonlight, he put on music, Domingo singing "O Paradis." Then he stood over the bed, marveling.
"You are beautiful," he said, trailing one finger from her throat to the warm cleft between her thighs. "I want to paint you."
"Like this?" She blushed, suddenly shy.
"Yes. Like this." He lay down beside her and drew her into his arms. "But first I want to kiss you."
He kissed her with such tenderness, she thought she had drifted upward and joined the rejoicing angels in paradise. She clung to him, giving her heart, her soul, while the magnificent voice of Domingo washed over them.
"And I want to kiss you," she whispered when they stopped for breath.
Gently, she pushed him onto his back. Her fragrance drifted over him as she nibbled his neck.
"You smell like roses," he said.
She moved lower, burying her lips in the swirl of hairs on his chest. "Do you like roses, David?"
"I'm crazy about them. ..."
He r warm tongue dipped into his navel, then left a hot trail down his abdomen. Opera music soared, and so did David.
"Rosalie . . . Rosalie." He spoke her name as both prayer and plea.
Still sweet, still tender, Rosalie took him into her mouth and carried him over the edge of the world. It was a beautiful gift of the heart, one he would cherish forever.
Music and love and moonlight and roses blended together until Rosalie and David didn't know where one ended and the other began. With lips and hands they pleasured each other, and when that was no longer enough, they came together for that long, slow sweet ride to ecstasy.
And afterward, they fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.
o0o
Friday morning he painted her. She was in bed, freshly wakened with the blush of loving still on her skin. Her hair was in sexy disarray, and her eyes were luminous with joy.
David's brush flew across the easel. "You're a great model, Rosalie. Natural, unselfconscious."
"You deserve all the credit."
He laughed. It was so good to hear him laugh. In all the time she'd known him, she had never seen David so open, so relaxed.
"Do we do all this in one sitting?"
"We can unless you get tired. With watercolors the painting goes faster."
He bent over his work, intense, absorbed. She loved watching him paint, loved the way his hands moved. It was almost as if he were making love to the canvas.
Rover padded in to investigate, stopping long enough to sniff David's legs, then padded out again. The squirrel outside their window set up a chattering, scolding the blue jay who had swooped down to quarrel over territory.
It was a lovely sunshiny morning, the kind of morning she and David might have if they were married. Married. The word settled in her mind like a promise. David was strong and tender, fierce and kind, a complex man she could spend the rest of her life loving.
Her mind drifted with the promise as if it were true, and then she came crashing back to reality. They had three weeks. That was all.
"What's wrong, Rosalie?"
How could she tell him the truth? That she was sad thinking that they would never truly belong to each other?
"I suppose I'm getting hungry."
"Then let's eat breakfast." He began to put away his art supplies. "I can finish the painting later."
"But won't it be different? I mean, I need to wash my face and comb my hair and put on my clothes before I eat."
"You're right, Rosalie." His eyes danced with devilment as he sat on the edge of the bed and cupped her face. "I guess I’ll just have to muss you up again."
She pretended to give the idea deep thought. With barely suppressed laughter, she pulled back the covers.
"That could take a long time, David."
"You're right again." He shed his jeans and climbed under the covers. "I guess I'd better start now."
They romped like children all day Friday. Rosalie delighted in giving David the first real holiday he'd ever had, and he exulted in giving her all the simple pleasures of courtship she'd missed.
o0o
After breakfast he rigged a swing in the backyard and pushed her as high as the ropes would go. Her laughter was his reward. When she had swung until her cheeks were rosy, they walked hand in hand to the corner grocery.
"Close your eyes, Rosalie," he said as he separated a cart from the line. "I want to surprise you."
"If you wanted to surprise me, why didn't I stay home?"
"Because I can't bear to be without you."
The day they would say good-bye loomed in their minds, but they laughed and pretended it didn't exist.
"How can I see to walk?" she asked, closing her eyes.
"I'll lead you." He took her hand. "Do you trust me, Rosalie?"
"Always, David."
Laughing, they moved up one aisle and down the other, with David putting items into the cart and Rosalie trying to guess what they were.
"Cabbage," she said.
"Do you think I would serve cabbage to a princess?"
"Bananas?"
"Bananas are for monkeys." He led her down the aisle and stopped at the snacks. "Don't look, Rosalie, but there are two women staring at us."
"What do they look like?"
"One looks like a bowling ball with a ponytail, and the other looks like Elmer Fudd with lipstick."
Rosalie chuckled. "Grace Crowley and Mildred Martin. Smile and wave at them, “David. I want them to be sure and see you."
Keeping his hold on Rosalie, David smiled at the two women. Then, for good measure, he waved.
"What are they doing now, David?"
"Pretending they haven't been staring at us for the last five minutes."
"Can I peek?"
"Only if you don't look into the cart."
Rosalie opened one eye. Mildred and Grace had turned their backs and were loudly discussing the merits of potato chips versus corn chips, but every now and then they cast furtive glances over their shoulders.
Rosalie caught their eye and waved.
Overcome by curiosity, Mildred and Grace hurried toward Rosalie.
"Here they come," David said. "Don't look in the cart, Rosalie."
"My goodness, Rosalie," Mildred said, holding her hand over her panting heart. "What a surprise to see you." She glanced significantly toward David. "You must have had out-of-town relatives for Thanksgiving."
"No. This is David Kelly, my new neighbor."
"A neighbor?" Arching her eyebrows, Grace looked down at Rosalie's hand, nestling in David's.
While Rosalie was thinking how she might goad them next, David intervened. He turned on the charm. Within minutes he had Mildred and Grace almost purring. Rosalie watched, fascinated. It was a side of David she had never seen.
"What was that all about?" he asked after the two women had left.
"They've been speculating about my merry widowhood since Harry died. I wanted to give them something new to talk about, but I think you charmed them right out of their viciousness."
"That was the general idea. Sometimes a little charm defuses a situation."
"You must be a good cop."
He grew very still,
gazing into the distance. "I was . . . once."
o0o
Back home David instructed Rosalie to sit by the fire while he unloaded his surprise groceries.
"I want to make lunch for you," he said.
"You made breakfast."
"I want to spoil you."
She kissed him soundly on the lips, then went to sit on the rug beside the fire. She felt pampered, loved.
"Close your eyes, Rosalie," David called from the hallway. Smiling, she closed her eyes. The old floor squeaked as he came toward her. China plates rattled as he set the tray in front of the fire. "You can open your eyes now. Lunch is served." It was three o'clock in the afternoon. "Or we could call it dinner."
The tray was filled with every kind of forbidden goody children dream about, chocolate and whipped cream and marshmallows and strawberries and oranges and ice cream and butterscotch syrup.
She clapped her hands, smiling.
"If any of your favorites are missing, I'll jog back to the store to get them."
"You're the only thing that's missing." Rosalie pulled him down beside her, then ran her hands over his chest. "You feel so nice."
"I'm even better with strawberries." He held one between his lips and offered it to her. She ate the first strawberry that way, and the second, and the third.
On the fourth she stopped to sample his lips. Then she sampled him with whipped cream. "Hmmm. Better and better," she murmured. "But I want more."
"Anything, Rosalie. You can have anything you want."
She reached for his shirt buttons. "I'm yearning for fruit salad . . . with chocolate." Boldly, she stripped aside his shirt, then pressed both palms flat over his chest.
Blood roared in his ears, and desire tightened his loins. In how many ways did he want her? he wondered. And how many times? They had loved in his tumbled bed with the early morning sun pouring over them, then later in the kitchen with her cheeks rosy from swinging. He had wanted her in the grocery store as she had challenged her detractors, and again as they had made their way home.
He had always had great sexual appetites, but with Rosalie it was more than lust, more than desire.
She took a section of orange from the tray and squeezed it over his chest. Her eyes glowed with firelight and passion as she leaned down and began to lick the juice away.
"Hmmm, delicious." Her tongue flicked over his nipples.
Passion rode through him on a thundering stallion. She drizzled a trail of chocolate sauce to his waistband, following it with her tongue. The stallion reared on its legs, pawing the air.
"My turn," he said.
She was very still as he removed her clothing piece by piece. When she was stretched before him on the rug, firelight painting her skin with gold, he took the butterscotch sauce and drizzled it over her nipples. They rose in tight, hard buds. He covered her with his mouth, savoring the sticky-sweet skin, taking her deep into his mouth to get the last of the sauce and the best of Rosalie.
She urged him on with soft cries of pleasure and whispered erotic suggestions. He loved that about her, that such a sweet and gentle woman gave herself up totally to desire.
"You're scrumptious with butterscotch," he murmured, his lips still against her skin.
"Try me with chocolate," she whispered, "and strawberries in exotic places."
The tips of her fingers got the chocolate first, then the tips of her toes. She moaned with pleasure as he sucked the chocolate away.
He shed the rest of his clothes and lay down beside her, drawing her into his embrace. Flames colored them red and gold, warming their already heated bodies. Straining together, hearts pounding and blood racing, they kissed as if they were lovers returning from war.
"The berries," she whispered when they came up for air.
He leaned over her as she lay back on the rug, then took the ripest berries from the bowl.
"Yes," she said later as he went in search of the berries. "Oh, yes . . . yes," she whispered as he closed his mouth over the juiciest one of all.
They played the game until the logs in the fireplace had burned through and turned to smoldering embers. Then, redolent with the scent of oranges and berries and butterscotch, they came together. He rode her fast and hard, just the way she told him to, until at last they lay tangled together, sweaty and sated, beside the empty bowls and the blackened embers.
o0o
Betty noticed the difference in Rosalie the minute she walked Into the Edge of Paradise late Friday evening.
"Don't tell me that glow came from seeing your boys over Thanksgiving."
"No. I won't tell you that." Smiling, Rosalie got her apron off the hook and tied it around her waist.
Betty drummed her hands on the Formica countertop. "What will you tell me? Not that it's any of my business, mind you. I'm just a curious old bag."
"You're my friend." Rosalie gave Betty a swift hug. "I'm happy, Betty. I know this is not going to last, but while it does, I'm going to enjoy it."
"Of course you won't name names, and I don't expect you to, but if I was going to take a guess, I'd guess he was that man who just walked over to table two looking as if he owned half the world and most of heaven too."
"David!" Rosalie spun around. He was sitting at table two, gorgeous and sexy, making love to her with his eyes.
She took the coffeepot and went to him.
"Coffee?"
"You."
Their gazes got tangled up, and the temperature rose ten degrees.
"I didn't expect you to come tonight."
"I couldn't stay away."
"If you had told me before I left, you could have come in the car."
"I didn't know it until you pulled out of the driveway."
He reached up, and she reached down. Their hands met, touched, clung.
"I'm glad you came, David."
"So am I."
o0o
The hours slid into days, and the days slid into weeks. Rosalie and David were careful not to fall into a routine, not to take each other for granted. They spent each day and each night as if it were their first together, full of surprises and rich with joy.
They had never been happier. Rosalie filled his house with song, and he painted as if he had angels looking over his shoulder.
In their hearts they pretended they could go on forever that way.
o0o
The second week of December brought snow to Mississippi. It covered the city with a light blanket, putting a stop to David and Rosalie's walk to the theater. When rehearsal time rolled around, David scraped the windshield on Rosalie's old car, turned the engine on so it could warm up, then drove her through the mushy streets to the theater.
"This is it, cast and crew," the director said after they were all assembled. "Our last week before performance."
Rosalie and David couldn't look at each other. She sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, and he sat staring straight ahead.
"Starting tomorrow night, we'll begin full dress rehearsals, with makeup."
The director continued his speech by telling the cast and crew how much he appreciated their hard work and what a roaring success the play was going to be.
Rosalie barely heard him. She was thinking about David's leaving. Would he go after the first performance, or would he wait until the last? Would he tell her good-bye, or would he merely walk away? Would he tell her where he was going, or would he just vanish?
Would she die of heartbreak?
"Rosalie . . . Rosalie." The director was calling her name. "Onstage for Act One."
She hurried toward the stage without looking at David. She didn't want him to see her face, didn't want him to see that everything she had told him about wanting a brief interlude to remember was a lie. She wanted him forever. She always had.
Backstage she held her stomach. The Artful Dodger put his hand on her shoulder.
"Are you sick, Rosalie?"
"No. Just butterflies, I guess."
He passed his hand
over his forehead. "You gave me a scare. Don't get sick on us now. It's too close to performance time."
"I won't."
If sickness of the heart counted, she was deathly ill. And she was facing the performance of her life— holding back the tears as she let David go.
She waited in the wings for her cue.
o0o
They were tense in the car going home. They didn't speak for three blocks. They didn't even touch.
Finally, David broke the silence.
"You were good tonight, Rosalie."
"Thank you."
Two more blocks whizzed by. Rosalie shivered, even in her winter coat with the heater going full blast.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
He didn't offer the comfort of his arm, and she didn't move to his side. What was so natural to them two weeks ago now seemed impossible.
When they reached home, he parked the car, and they sat with the engine running. Usually, when they got back from rehearsals, there was a teasing conversation about his house versus hers.
Tonight they sat staring into the darkness. Rosalie clenched her hands inside her mittens.
"Well, we're home," he finally said, turning off the engine. Without another word he climbed out of the car, then came around to her side and opened her door.
She took his hand and stepped out of the car. In the light of the pale wintry moon they looked at each other.
Suddenly, David reached for her. She rushed into his arms, and they came together in a kiss filled with desperation. The cold wind nipped their noses and bit at their cheeks, but they didn't notice. Wrapped tightly together, they kept on kissing.
When that was no longer enough, he scooped her into his arms and hurried into his house. They were shedding clothes by the time the door closed behind them. Their coats and gloves landed on the den floor. She left her shoes somewhere between the rocking chair and the fireplace and threw her blouse across the desk.
They made it as far as the hallway. She leaned against the wall, her legs weak with desire.
"Now, David. I can't wait."
"Neither can I."
He tore aside restraining clothes, then braced her against the wall. There in the hallway with her legs wrapped around his hips and his hands cupping hers, they tried to die of love.