by Theresa Weir
The cuckoo clock chimed the half-hour. Wearing nothing but a pair of cargo shorts, Daniel sat slouched in one corner of the couch, bare feet on the coffee table, the remote control resting on his thigh. His hair, still wet from the shower, dripped on his shoulders, water trickling down his chest.
He looked up at the hand-carved clock, a clock that had come to America on a ship along with his Scottish ancestors. The bird disappeared and the wooden door clicked shut. Nine-thirty. The evening was creeping.
The clock was another obsession of Beau’s. Daniel preferred not to wind the bird at all. Who needed a cuckoo chirping and clicking twelve times in the middle of the night? But Beau, being the obsessive-compulsive person he was, cranked both pinecone weights to the top every morning before breakfast, giving the bird a full twenty-four hours to chirp away.
Saturday night. The Tastee Delight stayed open until ten-thirty on Saturdays. The house seemed so damn empty with Beau gone. Beau hadn’t even left the dog to keep Daniel company. Instead, he’d taken Premonition with him, explaining that he wanted Matilda to meet him.
“She has a fenced yard behind the store,” Beau said. “Where Premonition can stay until I get off work.”
Daniel knew it was good for Beau to have a job. Good for him to be somewhere where he could see a lot of people. Beau thrived on contact with others.
Here all along Daniel had been thinking of Beau as a burden, albeit a welcome one. But in reality, he wasn’t a burden at all. Taking care of his brother had given Daniel’s life a purpose, a direction. Now, with Beau increasingly more independent, Daniel was beginning to wonder where he fit in the picture.
Preoccupied, Daniel picked up the remote and flicked through the channels, not seeing anything that could serve as a distraction.
A knock sounded at the door even though he’d heard no footsteps. He turned off the TV, dropped the remote on the couch, and answered the door, flipping on the porch light at the same time.
Cleo.
He ran a tongue across dry lips.
Through the screen, she said, “I brought some of Premonition’s things.” She lifted a small, white paper bag that looked suspiciously like the bag he’d delivered breakfast in that morning. “Toys. Shampoo. He has to have a special shampoo.”
She stepped inside, a gust of wind almost sucking the screen door from his hand. The air smelled like rain. “Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow?” he asked.
“I needed a change of scenery. That motel room-” She swallowed and made a nervous gesture with one hand. “It gets smothering at times.”
She seemed a little keyed up. A little distracted and nervous.
Without waiting for an invitation, she dropped the sack on the coffee table, then sank into the floral-patterned couch with a sigh.
“This room is just so heavenly,” she said, eyes closed.
He shut the solid wooden door, silencing the wind.
He and Beau didn’t hang out in the living room much, but their mother had. She used to sit in the very spot where Cleo now reclined. He could still picture her curled up in the corner with her reading glasses slipping down her nose, poking a needle through the hoop she always carried. Counter cross-stitch was what she called it, because that was what Beau called it. She could never convince him otherwise, so she’d just joined his camp. When it came to Beau and his stubborn streak, that was usually the best way to go.
Daniel had never thought about the room being heavenly. But now, as he looked at it with fresh eyes, he could see that it was definitely a woman’s place, from the African violets Beau so patiently cared for, to the doilies scattered here and there.
Cleo was so quiet and so still, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. What did she want? What was she after? With Cleo, he got the feeling things didn’t just happen by chance. Everything she did, everything she said, seemed to be part of a greater plan. So what was she up to now?
Her hair was tied back, but some of it had escaped to curl wildly about her face, the red of those strands contrasting with the porcelain paleness of her skin, which in turn set off the color of her full lips. Her eyelashes, pale and devoid of mascara, rested childlike against her cheeks, casting shadows.
While he stared at her, she opened her eyes.
“Where’s Beau?” she asked, glancing around.
“Working.”
“Oh.”
Was she thinking what he was thinking? Was that the reason she’d come?
“You’ve got a strange look on your face,” she said.
“I was thinking of the saying third time’s a charm. You familiar with that?”
She gave him a lazy smile, lifted her arms above her head, and stretched. “How about this one? ‘Three on a match.”
She got to her feet as if preparing to leave. He wanted her to stay.
“That was quite a show you put on today,” he said.
She tipped her head to one side and looked boldly into his eyes, trying to find the truth in there somewhere. “You liked it?”
“You had those people eating out of your hand.”
“But not you.”
“Never me.”
“You knew I was faking?”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“I’ve warned them, but they won’t listen.”
She came close enough to stand directly in front of him. He could see the starlike pattern in her eyes-green shot with black. “You’re not saying words they want to hear,” she whispered. Her hands were at her sides, her head tilted back so she could retain eye contact. Scarce inches separated them.
After last night, he wouldn’t have thought she’d want to breathe the same air as him, let alone stand so close. “Why did you come here, Cleo?”
She slid a sandaled foot between his bare feet, hooking a thumb in the belt loop of his low-slung shorts in a way that seemed way too familiar. He liked it. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think I came to see you.”
He smiled then, a smile that began deep inside him, a smile that was suddenly reflected in Cleo’s face. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said.
He felt the weight of her pressing against him. He had to do something to make up for last night. A thought came to him. A great thought. So great, he marveled at his own brilliance. He took her by the shoulders and set her away from him. Her smile immediately faded.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Wait here.” He turned and hurried down the hallway, opened the storage closet, clicked on the light, and began digging.
Cleo stood in the living room, arms crossed at her chest, watching as Daniel disappeared into a walk-in closet. She heard things sliding across the floor.
Why did you come here, Cleo?
She thought she’d come to get away from the motel room and to bring Premonition’s things, but had she really come to see Daniel one last time before leaving? Had she become so accustomed to subterfuge that she could no longer see into her own heart?
Daniel must have found what he was looking for, because he emerged from the closet, a black box in his hands, then disappeared immediately into another room. A few seconds later, she heard running water. Then he was back with the same box. “Wait there.” He dove into another room off the long, narrow hallway, shutting the door behind him.
She couldn’t imagine what he was up to. While waiting, she wandered around the living room, lifting framed pictures and putting them down, easily picking out Daniel and Beau.
Their mother had been beautiful, with a sweet, angelic face, a kind face. She looked like a real mother. There was a picture of a man who might have been their father, but the photo was faded and of poor quality.
A door slammed and Daniel reappeared in the living room. “Ready?”
She moved down the hall with trepidation, while he opened the door and stepped aside.
In the bedroom, he’d given her the darkness she’d asked for the night before. And in that darkness, he’d lit perhaps a half dozen candle
s. From the far side of the room came a steady whooshing sound she couldn’t identify. Drifting out the door, swirling around her ankles, was fog.
“Fog machine.” He applied gentle pressure to her shoulders. She moved forward, stirring the fog around her ankles. He shut the door behind them. “I came across it at a garage sale back when Beau was putting together a magician’s act. He never did get the hang of any magic tricks, but he sure could wow ’em with the special effects.”
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a flat hand to her lower belly. She felt his breath against her ear, his lips against her neck.
Fog. Imagine that.
She turned in his arms, loving the solid warmth of him, loving the smoothness of his satiny skin under her palms. His lips found hers, and the kiss was a tender surprise.
Clothes were shed.
She was weak, shaking. She sank into the fog, sliding along his body. He followed her down until they were knee to knee, chest to chest. She felt his fingers against her bottom and against her neck. She heard his labored breathing, felt his trembling muscles.
He pressed her down until she was lying on her back, the fog swirling around them, enveloping them. At one point, he laughed, a low sound, full of wonder and delight, that filled her head, that melded perfectly with the tone of their coming together.
This time there was no anger. No resentment. No holding back. It was all sweet, open, aching vulnerability, a hoping, a wanting, a dreaming in a dark room with no walls, in a dark room with no color, with magic swirling about them.
Chapter Nineteen
For about five minutes Daniel couldn’t move. But, after a while, he became concerned because Cleo wasn’t moving either.
“Cleo?” He lifted a hand to touch her temple. Her riot of hair was damp with sweat. His fingers followed a strand to the end, where a chain lay against her collarbone, stuck to her damp flesh.
“Hmmm?” she asked vaguely.
“You okay?”
“You could say that.”
He didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to break the mood, but he had to deal with the rubber. He kissed her long and deep and tender, in case this was it. In case it was their last kiss. In case she jumped to her feet and darted away, which would be very like Cleo. And then he slipped away from her, her body imprinted upon his where cool air met hot flesh.
He took care of business, then turned off the fog machine, the absence of the rhythmic drone plunging the room into an ear-ringing silence. Then he dropped backward on the bed, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his rising and falling chest. Would she join him? Or would she leave?
She joined him.
The bed dipped as she settled herself beside him, curling up next to him, her breast pressed against his rib cage, one leg draped across his knees, her foot tucked under his ankle. He brought his arm from behind his head and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she let out a deep breath and snuggled closer.
His fingers once again finding the chain around her neck. He followed it until he reached a small ring. “Does this have any significance?”
She was quiet a moment. “No,” she finally said.
He might not know anything about Cleo’s life-her past, her plans for the future-but he knew a lie when he heard one.
Maybe she could read minds, because at that very moment she slid over him, on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips. Then she stretched, reaching past him to blow out the candles on the headboard, leaving only one flame burning in the corner of the room. “Where are the rubbers?” she whispered.
He groped the surface of the bedside table, his fingers coming into contact with the packet. He peeled it open, but before he could pull out the latex, she took it from him.
“I don’t think I’m ready,” he said, hoping he didn’t have to go into some lengthy explanation of how it takes a guy a little while to get wound up again. At that very moment, he realized he was ready.
With her knees clasped against his hips, her bottom resting on his thighs, she wrapped her hand around him. His breath caught. She began with the condom, struggling to unroll it.
“Here. I’ll do it.”
“I want to.”
“You’re not pushing hard enough. You aren’t going to hurt me.”
She shoved harder, the latex finally sliding into place. And then, before it even entered his mind to do anything, she came down on him, her hands gripping his waist.
“Don’t move,” she commanded.
She slid her hands up his ribs to his shoulders, following with her body until they were chest to chest.
“Just stay in me like this.”
Stay in me like this, stay in me like this. Her words echoed in his brain.
Her voice had the rhythmic cadence of a hypnotist’s, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if that was what she was doing-hypnotizing him.
“How long can you stay like this, without moving?” she whispered, her breath against his ear.
“I never tried it.”
His head hummed. His heart thudded. His breathing quickened.
And he held on.
She pushed herself upright, her hands braced against his belly. It felt as if she were devouring him, imprinting him. She began tracing patterns on his chest, her fingers circling his nipples, the palms of her hands sliding down his ribs, not lightly, but as if she were trying to memorize the very structure of his muscles, his bones.
“Cleo,” he gasped. He couldn’t lie still anymore.
“Shh. Don’t move.”
He hung on a little longer, until she began to move for him. She pulled herself away, and just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer, she came down on him. Hard.
He pushed her to her back then followed her over. His mouth found hers while he slipped the crook of his arm under her leg, pulling her knee to her chest, thrusting into her again, never wanting the moment to end, holding himself back, holding, holding.
He felt the tendons in her legs go hard. He felt a quiver run through her as she contracted around him. She took him with her, milking him dry, until he lay a wasted man in her arms, his breathing ragged, his heart pounding in his head.
Mind-blowing.
Five minutes later, she asked, “Did I hurt you?”
He laughed, and felt the sound reverberate between their tangled bodies. He pressed a firm kiss against her damp brow. “Where did you learn something like that?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong. He felt her withdraw. Not physically, but mentally, like a door had slammed in his face.
She would leave.
His mind got ahead of logic, racing blindly into tomorrow, wondering what he could do to make her stay.
“Where did I learn something like that?” she asked airily, their bodies unable to get any closer, their minds unable to get any farther apart. “From one of my many lovers.”
He made a sound of frustration. He rolled away to sit on the edge of the bed, tossing the used rubber into the wastebasket. Then he lay back down beside her. Close, but not touching.
“You haven’t had many lovers,” he said, sensing she was lying again, hoping she was lying again.
“No?”
“No.”
“You don’t know anything about me. Except that I’m a con artist. Isn’t that what you called me? And if I’m a con artist, then it would probably stand to reason that I’ve slept with a lot of men.”
“Come on, Cleo. Don’t start this.”
“Are you actually trying to give me some redeeming qualities, qualities that two hours ago I didn’t have? Wow. Sex certainly changes everything. It can make saints out of sinners.” Her anger was building, pulsating in the small room. “Two hours ago I was the lowest lowlife in Egypt, Missouri. But now that you’ve had sex with me, well, I must not be the lowlife you thought I was.”
Is that what he’d done? Is that what had re
ally happened here?
She rolled off the mattress and began to dress.
He slid across the bed, snatched his shorts off the floor. “What about you?” He buttoned and zipped. “You’ve done nothing but lie since you got here-even before you got here, with that blind stunt. You and your phony séances and all that spooky barn crap.” He brought up his hands to cup her face.
The chain around her neck caught the light. He linked his fingers around it, lifting the ring to her face. “What about this? You lied about this not a half hour ago.”
She shoved at his chest and pulled back at the same time. The necklace snapped. The ring went flying.
Daniel heard it hit the wall and fall with a ping to the wooden floor.
She didn’t take her eyes from his. “Do you want the truth?” She jabbed at his chest, at the very spot her lips had recently kissed. “I’ll give you the truth. That necklace? It belonged to my fiancé. But he’s not alive anymore. You wanna know why? Because I killed him. Oh, not on purpose, but it was my fault.”
She was crying now, but he doubted she knew it. “That was four years ago, and I hadn’t had sex with anyone until you.” The last word was spat from her mouth, as if it were something vile.
Sweet Jesus. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she pushed him away.
“You’ve touched me enough,” she said. “Don’t touch me anymore.”
He put up both hands. “Okay, okay.”
She jerked open the bedroom door. Harsh light from the hallway hit him in the face, casting her in shadow. But enough light fell over the contours of her cheek for him to see the wetness there, for him to see that her lips were swollen from his kisses.
How had this happened? How had things gotten so out of control? They’d just made love. That was all. And yet it had triggered an avalanche of emotions. He hadn’t known that to touch her physically had meant to touch her mentally, pushing an already delicate psyche close to the edge. He knew guilt could wear a person down, could eat at a person’s soul until there was nothing left but fear and bitterness.
She turned and walked away with an air of slow dignity.
“Wait.” He caught a flicker of a shiny object on the floor near the foot of the bed. The ring. He picked it up, surprised at its lightness.