Magnolia Sky

by Susan Crandall

  Putting her hands on her hips, she asked, “If he didn’t, then who did?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “I don’t know.”

  She suspected there was something he was holding back—but she didn’t want to ruin her one day in the studio, so she let it go. Luke was right, the important thing was that Roy was moving on down the road.

  “All right. Let’s get to work, then.” She rummaged in the storage closet and pulled out another welder’s visor and set of gloves. Handing the face visor to Luke, she said, “Put this on.”

  He took it from her and put it on, then flipped the shield up.

  “And these.” She handed him the gloves.

  As he took them, he said teasingly, “Looks like this could be dangerous.”

  “Oh, yeah. A man such as yourself, who jumps out of airplanes and can hand-wrestle a bear, should probably quake in his boots.”

  “Hey, that’s different. Just standing here while you try to burn my hands off is something else entirely.”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’ll try to leave you at least one useful charred stub.” She handed him the metal dragonfly. It was a real handful with its three-foot wingspan. “Up there. Stand on that stool.”

  As he walked to the stool, he swooped the giant bug through the air and made buzzing noises with his mouth, like a little boy with a toy airplane.

  Laughing she said, “Very macho.”

  He looked at her with a very serious expression. “That has to be our little secret.”

  Holding up her hands, she said, “Wild horses won’t be able to drag it out of me.”

  Keeping his grave demeanor, he nodded. Then he buzzed the bug over to the stool and stepped up on it. She pulled a stepladder close enough that she could stand on it and weld the dragonfly in place.

  “How do you want it?” He glanced at the drawing on the wall, then held the bug over the pole. “Like this?”

  Analise studied it for a moment. “Tilted a little more your way, I think.”

  “Here?”

  “Perfect.” She grabbed her torch and lit it. “Put your visor down, then don’t move.”

  He flipped the shield down over his face. A muffled, “Yes, ma’am,” came from behind it.

  By the time the dragonfly was firmly in place and cool enough to support its own weight, Analise’s arms ached. She could only imagine what Luke’s felt like. But he didn’t complain or wiggle around like Cole did when she recruited him into assisting her.

  “Okay, you can let go now.”

  The little window in his visor turned her way. “You’re sure? I don’t want to do this again.”

  “I’m sure.” She looked pointedly at the other pieces. “And, sorry, but we’re going to be doing this again, and again, and again.”

  Slowly, as if he feared the bug would take off in flight, he took his hand from it. The pole on which it sat flexed slightly, making the insect bob. “Hey, it looks like it’s flying.”

  Analise smiled. “Exactly.”

  He pulled off the gloves and visor. “You do amaze me.”

  There was just enough genuine wonder in his voice to make a believer out of her. She was beginning to see he wasn’t the same flash in the pan that Calvin had been. Luke was a much deeper river—which just meant those currents that could easily sweep her under were better hidden.

  Deciding to let his last comment lie, she said, “Okay, you’ve earned a break. There are soft drinks in the little fridge over there. Help yourself, and then rest those arms.”

  He went to the refrigerator. “You want something?”

  “A bottle of water would be good.” She closed the valves on the welding tanks.

  The CD she’d started when she had come in had long since played out. Luke put on a new one and turned up the volume. He’d picked a CD that Analise had burned herself, putting all of her favorite sentimental ballads on it. It was sixty minutes of yearning and wild emotions and broken hearts. And her body longed to sway with the tunes.

  Luke gave her the bottle of water, then held his can of Coke in salute and inclined his head toward the piece they’d just welded. “To childish fantasies come true.”

  She ignored his double meaning and said, “To successful completion of this job.” Then she touched the top of her bottle against the rim of his can and took a long drink.

  “You want to sit down?” she asked, motioning toward a pair of old chrome and red vinyl kitchen chairs nearby. Sitting, she wouldn’t be so apt to forget and start moving with the music.

  He shook his head, keeping his serious gaze on her. “I want to dance.”

  She sputtered. “You’re supposed to be saving your energy to hold heavy objects over your head.”

  He set his Coke can on the workbench, then took the bottle from her and did the same with it. His voice was soft when he took her hand palm to palm with his, and said, “I want to see you as happy and uninhibited as that first moment I laid eyes on you.” He pulled her a little closer. “Dance with me.”

  Oh, God. Why did he have to pick one of her greatest weaknesses? She missed dancing almost more than anything. Still, she hesitated.

  Whispering in her ear, he urged, “Come on, there’s no one here to see. No strings attached. Just a dance.” With that, he spun her around so her back was against his chest. He kept one arm around her waist and put his other hand on her hip. Then he began to move them ever so slightly with the music.

  A chill swept down her spine.

  She really shouldn’t.

  He said no strings, but what if . . .

  The plaintive strains of the music called to her; the beat drew a response from deep within her bones; Luke’s strong, masculine presence enticed her. He wouldn’t be here forever. Once he was gone, she’d be back to dancing solo in the greenhouse and two-stepping with Dave at the Boxcar once a week.

  Oh, to just let herself dance freely in Luke’s arms. . . .

  After a moment, she gave up all resistance. She closed her eyes and laid her head back against the solid warmth of his shoulder. She rested her hands on the lean-muscled arm around her waist. The music filled her, making her body feel fluid against his.

  He rested his cheek against her hair and said in a husky whisper, “Let go, baby.” His hips moved, hers followed. She laid her right hand over his and entwined their fingers. He responded by grasping tight.

  The realities of her life fell away like icicles from a tree branch on a warm spring day. She could nearly hear them shatter as they struck the ground and turned into puddles of nothing. He transported her to a warm place where there was only the sensual feel of the music and the sensation of his body moving in unison with hers. They rocked with the song, her hips and shoulders beginning to take on its rhythm, her feet shuffling with its beat.

  He must have felt the change in her, because he whispered, “That’s it. Come with me.”

  And she did.

  Keeping her wrapped securely in one arm, he gently undid her braid with his free hand. His fingers ran through the length of her hair until it was free to move with the music.

  How could he know? How could he know that part of her freedom lay in the movement of her hair?

  She turned her head, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, letting him fan her hair until it fell across her face.

  His chest moved behind her shoulders, and she followed, moving in a long languid sway that robbed her of her balance. If not for his solid presence, she would have fallen to the floor. A little buzz of contentment started in her stomach. She actually felt like purring.

  Just then, he spun her away from him. She opened her eyes and looked into his steady blue gaze, realizing how dangerous this was, but liking it too much to care. Without missing a beat, he clasped her right hand in his left and slid his right hand around the small of her back. She let herself be pressed against him and they danced heart to heart for the rest of the song. Just before it ended he dipped her back, sweeping her hair against the floor,
then he slowly pulled her up face to face with him again.

  It was the most erotic thing she’d experienced in years—oddly, it felt even more intimate than sharing his bed.

  Then came the tiny beat of silence between songs. She remained still as a doe in the brush; if he broke away now, that was going to be the end. Either he’d ask for something more, or the moment would simply evaporate forever.

  He didn’t move. He held her patiently, still swaying slightly to the tune that must still be playing in his head, until Bon Jovi began a new song.

  They danced almost halfway through the CD, without talking, without stopping. When Def Leppard ended “Love Bites,” he let her go.

  His gaze held hers, intense and unreadable. “I think that says it all.”

  She was so drawn into his eyes that it took her a moment to respond. “What does?”

  Giving her a sad smile, he said, “Love bites.”

  “Yeah.” She wanted to look away, but that was too cowardly, too cruel when he’d given her so much. “I guess it does.”

  In a heartbeat his expression changed, became less intimate. He drew a deep breath and said, “Now, don’t you feel more relaxed?”

  He’d given her exactly what he’d promised—a moment in time to feel truly free, to allow her body to meld with the emotion of the songs. And he didn’t seem to be asking for anything in return.

  “Ahhh, yes.” She stretched her shoulders. “That was as good as a two-week beach vacation.” She put a little more distance between them.

  He rubbed his hair roughly and sighed. “Guess we’d better get back to work. There’s a frog that needs a crown.”

  She tilted her head and gave him a slight smile. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t say anything else. He went to the stereo and changed the CD. This time he put in ZZ Top.

  “This oughta keep us moving.” He picked up his gloves and visor and they gave the Frog King his coronation.

  As Cole and Becca entered through the rear of the old plantation house, he took her hand. “I meant it. You have to walk right where I tell you. I fell through to the basement once.”

  “Oh! Were you hurt?”

  “Nope. Scared the shit out of me, though. I was only nine.” It had been the year after his father had been killed, the first year he’d started coming to the old place. He’d ridden his bike here back then. It struck him, with no car, he might just have to start riding it here again.

  He stepped inside the back door and felt her grip on his hand tighten. He said, “This part was added when they stopped using the summer kitchen. The floor in here isn’t too bad.”

  She pulled him back as he started to walk into the main house. “Wait. I want to look.”

  “Not much to see. The woodstove went for scrap during World War II. There are some really big spiders in the pantry.”

  “Are you trying to scare me off?”

  “Nope. Just want you to be primed.”

  She looked around and pointed out a hundred details of the old kitchen that he’d never noticed. And she did the same when they entered the dining room—from the plasterwork on the ceiling to the meaning of the carving on the woodwork around the fireplace. She even identified the vine that had grown in through the window.

  When they stepped into the foyer, she gasped. “This staircase . . .”

  She started to step closer, but he pulled her back against him. “Gotta walk around the edge of the room. Floor in the center is rotten.”

  Her eyes were wide as they looked up into his. “Okay.”

  Neither of them moved. Then he raised his hand and touched her hair.

  She looked a little startled, but didn’t look away.

  He said, “You’ve got a cobweb.” He brushed the web from her hair, letting his hand feel the softness underneath.

  “Oh. Thanks.” She touched her hair where his hand had been.

  He moved then. “Step where I do.”

  “Can we go upstairs?”

  “No way.”

  “Have you been up there?”

  “Not since I was little and Calvin took me up. It’s too dangerous—”

  Suddenly she yelped and stumbled to the side. Cole tightened his grip and grabbed the doorframe to the parlor to steady himself. He kept her from falling, but her foot had gone straight through the floor.

  “Whoa!” he said, wrapping an arm around her to steady her. “You all right?”

  She worked to bring her foot back through the jagged hole in the floor. “Yeah. I was looking at the staircase and not where I was stepping.”

  He could feel her trembling. “I shouldn’t have brought you in here.” He started to retrace their steps toward the back of the house.

  “But I want to see more.”

  “Sorry. Not gonna happen.”

  Just then it started to rain. They could hear it hitting the leaves outside.

  She made a point of looking around him, out the front windows. “Now we’ll have to stay in here,” Becca said cheerfully.

  He humpfed. “Just wait a second. This is the last place you’ll want to be.”

  The first drop plopped right on the center of her forehead, startling her. “Oh, I see.” She wiped it away.

  “Only dry place now is the car.” He began to shuffle her backward toward the kitchen.

  They made a dash from the rear of the house to the car, Becca’s squealing laughter ringing through the rain like a wind chime.

  “Whew!” she said when they jumped into the car. “Man, you’re soaked!”

  Cole blew a drop of water off the end of his nose. “You should talk.”

  They dried off with the napkins she’d packed in the picnic basket. Then they ate lunch while the windows steamed up. By the time their sandwiches were gone, the rain had slackened to a heavy mist.

  “Got any dessert in there?” Cole asked.

  She snapped the basket closed. “Yes. I made something special. But you have to earn it.”

  “Hey, I ate all my sandwich like a good boy. I want dessert.”

  “I want to find something old first.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like dig around in the dirt—mud? It’s still raining.”

  “Like, you’re already wet. What difference does it make?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Fine.” She reached for the key. “No dessert. Time for you to go home.”

  “Man, Becca!”

  She grinned triumphantly, then got out of the car and pulled a garden shovel out of the trunk.

  As he got out of the passenger seat, he said, “Good thing I didn’t see that earlier. I might have thought you were planning on murdering me and burying me out here.”

  “Ha-ha.” She handed him the shovel. “Find me something old.”

  He knew where the old summer kitchen used to be, so he started there. It only took him about five minutes. Becca followed him closer than his own shadow. When she saw the first edge of the fractured piece of china, she made a noise like people make when they watch fireworks.

  Kneeling down, he dug it the rest of the way loose with his fingers. Then he pulled it out of the dirt and held it out to her as if it were a valuable gift. “Your old thing. Now, where’s my dessert?”

  Back in the car, while Cole ate all four of the black-bottom cupcakes, Becca used a wet napkin to clean her piece of china. It was half of a saucer, with pale-green flowers and gold gilt around the edge. She noted the French marking on the back and speculated the piece’s age.

  She said, “You’re so lucky. I’ve always wanted a constant.”

  He looked at her. “A what?”

  “A constant. You know, something that remains the same even if everything else in your life changes—even if everyone you love goes away. You’ll always be a part of this place, it was born to you. It’ll be your constant.”

  The word sounded funny, but the meaning she’d given it rang true. Maybe that was part of the reason he liked being here. His dad and brother had died, c
hanging things at home, but this place was always the same.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

  She grinned. “Of course I am.” She started the car and put it in gear, but looked at him before she pulled away. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Sure. I’m glad I did.” And, for all his misgivings this morning, he truly was glad. She was right—no matter what happened, he would always have this place, his connection to those who came before.

  How could three days with one person change the way he looked at things?

  Maybe things were finally turning around for the better.

  “There, that section is finished and ready to go,” Analise said as she stepped back and got a good perspective on their day’s work. “All that’s left are a couple of additions to the center section and then the final assembly on-site.

  “I could never have finished on time without your help. Thank you.” As she said it, she turned to look at Luke.

  There were black streaks on his face and his hair stood in a giant cowlick where the band of the visor had been. She wondered if she looked as disheveled.

  “What?” he said, trying to flatten his hair with his hand.

  “You have something smeared on your face.”

  He rubbed his cheek, leaving a new, larger mark. “Did I get it?”

  She laughed. “Now it’s worse.” She grabbed a rag from the bench. “Here, let me.” She licked the rag and reached toward his cheek.

  “Why do women always do that?” he asked as she wiped his face.

  “Do what?”

  “Spit on something, then wipe someone else’s face.”

  She cringed and drew the rag away. “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t say I minded.” He took her hand and put it back to work. “I just wondered.”

  As she continued to remove the streaks from his face, she said, “I believe it’s innate. Must have something to do with the double X chromosome.”

  “Like soft skin and silky hair.” He touched her cheek with one hand and laid his other on her hair.

  Looking into his eyes, she felt herself falling. It would be so easy to let herself love him. “Luke . . .”

  He pulled her into an embrace. “I know.” He paused. “I just need to hold you for a minute. I promise—I won’t ask for more.”