His mother was standing just inside the library door, leaning against the wall. She looked every day of her age. Across the room, Frances was dragging her fancy luggage from behind the sofa bed. When he entered, she looked up and said, "Come to back dear old mom? Don't worry. I'm not going to hit her, even if she does deserve to have that busy nose smashed all over her face."
"The child's hurting, Fran. She needs to see the man who's been a father to her before he dies."
"Don't tell me what my kid needs. Ma never knew what I needed, did she? It was always you, the first-born son, or precious little Althea. Sweet little Thea, in whose mouth butter wouldn't melt. Never Frances, the odd one. The plain one. The dumb one, who barely graduated from high school.
"Well, I showed you all didn't I? Showed you I could make something of myself. Hell, I'm so far ahead of the rest of you it's pitiful."
"Frances, this isn't about you. It's about that poor girl. She needs to see Champion."
"No way!" Frances zipped the first suitcase shut on the clothes she'd crammed inside. "He sent her back. Said if I didn't take her in, he'd tell...never mind. She's not seeing him, and that's the end of it."
"Serhilda is nearly seventeen. Seems to me she's old enough to decide for herself," Ward said, keeping his voice calm and unchallenging with an effort.
"You think so? I don't, and I'm her mother."
"I never thought I'd hear you admit that, Frances," Cecile said. "Serhilda told me you always introduce her as your assistant."
The zipper stuck on the second lipstick pink suitcase. Frances jerked it until it came free, stuffed fragile-looking fabric inside, and zipped it closed. "This is bullshit. Okay. Okay!" She turned to face Ward and their mother, hands on hips. "You don't like the way I'm taking care of her, you do it. I've had it. You hear me? I've had it!" The last words came out as a shriek.
"Will you make that legal?"
Ward looked at his mother in surprise. He knew she'd been worried about the quality of life Hildy had with Frances, but he hadn't expected her to go this far.
"Hell, yes. Have your lawyer draw up the papers. As long as it doesn't cost me anything, she's all yours. The sooner the better. Now get out of here. I want to finish packing."
As his mother turned toward the door, he thought he heard her murmur, "Good riddance."
"Are you going to say goodbye to Hildy?"
"Why? She doesn't care any more about me than I do about her." She paused before dropping a pair of fancy-looking high heels into a pink duffle. "Ward?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep in touch, will you? Let me know how the old lady is now and then?"
He studied her, wondering, as he had many times before, what made his sister tick. "Yeah," he said. "I can do that."
He followed his mother to the front porch, where Louisa relinquished her seat, saying, "Anything I can do?"
"No, nothing."
Ward hadn't heard Ma sound so defeated since Pa died.
* * * *
Annie was grateful to Clay for being the means of her escape from the Families this evening. Her mother's peculiar behavior this afternoon had upset her. Even more upsetting had been the sudden argument between Mom and Gran. She'd never seen them fight before. For a little while, she'd felt almost like her world was wobbling on its axis.
Now she was wondering if it had been a wise move. As if reading her mind, Clay reached across the wide bench seat and caught her hand. "You're too far away. There's a seat belt in the middle."
She let him pull her closer. Despite the air-conditioning, she could feel the heat of him beside her. She was all too aware of her bare arm pressed firmly against his.
"Now, isn't this more cozy?" Clay said.
"Yes," Annie whispered, not entirely in command of her voice.
Annie willed herself to relax. She took several deep, calming breaths, pushing the events of this afternoon to the back of her mind. This was the last time she'd have to spend with Clay, and she wanted to enjoy every minute of it.
Soft music played on the sound system. The tires sang on the hot asphalt of the highway. Clay's unique scent filled the pickup cab, a mixture of sweat and fresh air, with a subtle undertone of wood smoke. He smelled like a man should--no spice, no musk, no fake pine aroma. The combination, along with his companionable silence, succeeded in draining the remaining tension from her. She felt her mind again drifting aimlessly, like a raft on a lazy river. When Clay's arm slid lower, to rest lightly along her shoulders, she sighed softly and leaned into his embrace.
Chapter Twenty
Eric speared his fingers through his hair. He was trapped. Caught between a rock and a hard place. "No, Jennifer, we are not going home tonight. Not tomorrow, either. You're just going to have to tough it out until Sunday. I'll be dam...doggoned if I'll disappoint Ma and Pa by taking off early."
"Well, just don't expect me to go to the cookshack tonight. I've done my best all week to get along with your family, Eric, but today was just too much." Her chin quivered in the way he'd always thought charming.
"Damn it, Jennifer. Don't you start crying!"
"Eric!" she wailed. "You swore at me!"
He clamped his mouth shut, biting back words he'd done his best to banish from his vocabulary. "I'm sorry. It's just that...if you'd only listen to reason--"
"Reason? What's reasonable about the way your uncle threatened us? He would have cast us ashore with no water, no shade? What's reasonable about being made to feel that you're endangering your children, just because you want them to be safe? To have good manners? To live godly lives?" Her tears had disappeared now, and her cheeks were splotched with red, a sure sign she was losing her temper.
He knew he ought to take her in his arms and kiss her, but right now all he wanted to do was slam out the door and go for a long walk. He'd known this week would be difficult, but it hadn't. This week had been as close to impossible as he'd ever experienced.
From the very first day, Jennifer had been determined to show the Families how good a mother she was, how good a wife. He'd been amused at first, until he saw how she was getting under Elaine's skin. He might not entirely approve of how his sister and Stew lived their lives, but he'd never try to tell them so. One thing Pa had taught him well was to mind his own business.
"Isn't part of living a godly life to show tolerance for others?" he asked, doing his best to keep his voice mild.
"Tolerance? What about their tolerance for me? What about the way your mother drops broad hints about I'm turning my sons into sissies, how I've spoiled my daughter? Is that tolerance?" The quivering chin was back, along with a tremor in her voice. "Would you really want your sons to behave like that awful Tommy, the way he's always trying to be the center of attention? Or like Serhilda?" Her tone made the girl's name into a swearword.
"Tommy's just lively," he said, while admitting privately that the kid needed some strong discipline. Someone ought to take the boy in hand, seeing as how his father didn't seem likely to. "And you have to remember that Serhilda wasn't raised by anyone in our family. As far as I can tell, she never has had what you'd call a real family."
"She's a bad influence. Yesterday Angela asked me if she could get her ears pierced."
"What's wrong with that? Haven't a lot of the girls in her class?" Most of the girls--and some of the boys--who brought pets into his office wore earrings. Some wore nose rings, and even eyebrow rings. While he didn't think the latter particularly attractive, he saw no harm in a girl having pierced ears.
"She's only seven!" Jennifer plopped down on the edge of the bed. "Eric, that's not the point, anyway. What I'm trying to make you understand is that your family, nice as they are, are just not the sort of people I want my children emulating. I don't want the children exposed to drinking or licentiousness or--:"
"There's no harm in a drink or two before dinner--"
"Your aunt Joss is a drunk. Haven't you noticed?"
"Well, maybe she does drink too much, but they left this
morning. Look, Jennifer, you know I agree with you about alcohol, but I'm not going to inflict my beliefs onto my family." He forced a chuckle, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. "As for licentiousness, I haven't noticed anyone running around naked."
"Don't you patronize me, Eric Armstrong. Your precious cousin Hetty is sleeping with that man she bought up here. With your Gran's encouragement. When I took Angela's clean underwear over to the Pink House this morning, I heard CeCe and Charlene talking about it. Right in front of your daughter."
"I doubt she understood."
"That isn't the point." Her hands reached out to him, pleading. "Eric, can't you see that your family's values are so completely different from mine--from ours? They're nice people, but they aren't the kind of people I want my children to look up to. Can you honestly say you do?"
Unable to stand still, Eric paced to the far wall and back again. "Jennifer, I can't forsake my family," he said, hearing his voice break as he spoke. "But this week...I've seen how far we've grown apart. Our values, our beliefs." He turned and paced back to the far wall, where he stood, staring out the window. Through the trees between, he could see the Pink House, where his little girl had stayed all week, in a room with Kristi--whom he'd trust with his children any day of the week--and Serhilda, a lost soul if he'd ever seen one. He made his decision.
"We'll stay until Sunday. One day won't make that much difference." When Jennifer opened her mouth to speak, he held up a hand. "We'll stay. But I won't ask you to come to another Gathering, Jennifer. I don't agree that the children have been harmed by this week, but we're not going to risk another one. We'll see Ma and Pa at Christmas or Thanksgiving, like we always have, and maybe spend some time with them in the summer. But no more Gatherings. I promise you."
She flew into his arms. "Oh, bless you, Eric. Bless you."
With her arms around him, her warm body next to his, Eric felt at ease for the first time all week. His wife, his family, his beliefs were more important than spending a week every year with people he had nothing in common with, even if he had known them all his life.
* * * *
"I haven't eaten so much in months," Annie moaned, looking down at her empty plate. "What's for dessert?"
"She wants dessert. A pound and a half of trout, two potatoes, an onion, three carrots, a gallon of lemonade and the woman wants dessert." Clay lifted imploring eyes to the sky.
"I'd settle for a cup of coffee."
Clay put her plate and utensils into the waiting dishpan, added detergent, and poured simmering water over them. "Coffee you shall have." He disappeared into the trailer.
Annie stared into the fire. It was barely dusk, but its heat was welcome. At this elevation, the air quickly grew chilly when the sun was gone.
I'm happy. Right now, right this minute, I'm happy.
Clay was good company. Lighthearted, often funny, but gentle and caring also. A definite contrast to Walter, who'd taken life so seriously. Somehow she couldn't see him in a bank. He belonged out here, dressed in jeans and plaids, not fine worsteds and silk ties.
A familiar twinge of guilt sliced into her thoughts. Should I be happy?
Gran had said she was wallowing in self-pity. Mom believed she was still grieving for Calvin. Uncle Ward advised her to grab her bootstraps and pull herself back into life.
Clay invited her to go fishing, because it was good for the soul.
She turned so she could see into the trailer. The small window over the sink didn't give much of a view, but she could see him there, moving about, could hear the high whine of a coffee grinder.
He had not kissed her again, had not even tried to. He'd been the proverbial perfect gentleman. Perversely, Annie was a little disappointed. She felt mildly guilty about her eager response to his kisses, but at the same time she wanted more. How good it had felt to be held against his hard chest, to feel his lips, so soft and so sensuously knowledgeable, moving on hers. She shivered.
"Cold?" Clay asked, setting a steaming cup behind her on the table. His other hand held, of all things, two fragile brandy snifters, their contents golden.
"No. No, I'm not cold. Just thinking." Absently she took the snifter, sipped its contents. Not the brandy she had expected, but B&B. Her favorite liqueur!
They sipped in comfortable silence. "Something happened today didn't it? Something that upset you pretty badly." Clay said, after nearly five minutes.
Again she shivered, but this time with the remembrance of today's terror, of last year's loss. "My baby drowned." She swallowed, unable to say more.
He reached for her hand. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I--I don't think so. Not now, anyway. I'm too comfortable, too content. " She turned to face him, forcing the memories she'd dwelt on so often to the back of her mind. "Will we fish tomorrow morning?"
"Will the sun come up? Of course we'll fish. Which means I need to get you home. It's after nine." He released her hand. "Finish your drink while I bank the fire."
She noticed that his snifter still held most of its contents when he picked them up to set them inside the trailer.
"I've never been an early bird," she said, when he emerged. "It seems so strange to want to get up before dawn, like I have ever since I got here." She didn't say that the first morning she'd arisen because of the disturbing dreams that had come again and again through the night.
"It all depends on what the day has in store. Early to bed and early to rise..."
"Catches a lot of fish," she finished for him. "And tomorrow I am going to. I can feel it in my bones."
"I often feel that way. My bones lie a lot." He opened the pickup door for her, then stopped her as she started to climb in.
"The evening's incomplete," he said softly, leaning toward her.
"What more does it need?" she whispered, knowing the answer, wanting the completion.
"This." Clay pulled her gently into his arms. He kissed her gently, briefly. Pulling away slightly, he looked a question into her eyes.
"If a thing's worth doing, it's worth doing well," Annie said, casting caution away. She slid her arms under his, wrapped them around his ribs. She needed his kiss, to reaffirm that she could still feel something besides sorrow and guilt.
Clay took her mouth, still with gentleness, but also with demand. This time her lips parted under his and her tongue slipped between them, to meet and parry with his. When her hips thrust involuntarily against his, his body responded. His arms tightened around her for a moment, before he thrust her gently away.
"If I don't take you home right now, I may never." He chucked her lightly on the chin. Insouciance was almost beyond him, but he did his best. "Your call."
She chewed on her lower lip.
Clay waited, not quite holding his breath.
"May I use your cell?"
It was his turn to hesitate. He could just see it tomorrow morning, when he took her home. Father waiting on the porch of that big house, shotgun in hand. Family arranged all around, itching to string him up to the nearest tree. For a moment he actually considered telling her he'd made a mistake.
Then she moved against him. A small movement, nothing sexy about it. Just enough to bring him to rock-hard readiness. "I'll get it."
He listened to her side of the conversation, finding it interesting that she'd called her uncle rather than her parents. "Well, you're the one who told me I needed to start living again. So if Mom and Dad have a fit, I'll blame you."
She listened, then said, "Yes, I'm sure. I'll see you in the morning. About ten. Tell Gran we'll have that talk she's been trying to trap me into when I get home. Bye." Without waiting for an answer, she turned the phone off. "There," she said, looking up at him.
Why did he feel like he was standing on the edge of a precipice? "Annie."
Her chin came up and she looked him straight in the eye. "Clay?"
He licked his lips. "Let's go inside."
The trailer, roomy as it was when he was alone, seemed crowded. The a
ir, fresh though it was with all the windows ajar, felt thick, stifling. He flicked off the light as he entered, so that they stood in shadowy darkness.
She came into his arms as soon as he pulled the door shut, warm and soft. "Ah, Annie, when I saw you there, poised on the riverbank, all I could think of was that you were too lovely to be real. I wondered if you were some sort of forest sprite. I wanted to touch you, to see if you'd vanish, like a dream." He skimmed his hands up her sides, not quite touching the sweet fullness of her breasts. Back to her waist, where he clasped her firmly, pulled her to him. Her arms again slid around his waist, but she made no other move. Even though he could feel the rapid beating of her heart, she stood almost passive.
Waiting.
He pushed one knee between hers, until she was astraddle his thigh. Even through two layers of denim, he felt the heat of her.
He covered her face with kisses, let his hands roam as they would over her delicious body. One found the button on her jeans. It slipped free easily, and the zipper slid smoothly. Too smoothly, too tempting.
I'm going too fast. I'll never last--
Her shirt was free now, and he slid his hands under it, exploring with slow, sensuous stroking her soft and quivering midriff. Slowly he advanced his hand upward, seeking, finding the clasp of her bra. It opened easily, despite the clumsiness of hands shaking with need.
Her breasts were full and miraculous. Annie gasped when his fingers teased a firm nipple. She moved restlessly within his arms, but made no other response.
Confused, he forced himself to relax. He slid his hands back to her waist, and held her lightly. Unable to release her completely, he breathed into her hair, drinking deeply of its slightly fruity odor. Apricots. She smells of apricots.
Still she stood passive, no longer clinging. Her hands lay lightly on his shoulders. "Annie? Something's not working. What is it?"
"I don't know." Her voice was small, uncertain. "I wanted you...and then I didn't."
"Let's sit down." He guided her to the dinette. Before he seated himself across the table from her, he snapped on the light over the range. It was just enough that they could see each other's expressions, dim enough to hide their thoughts.
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