“I like being with you,” Sig said.
“Thank you.”
She knew he was waiting for her to tell him she liked being with him, too. Sig Smith was a decent man. Smart, funny, kind and attractive. What woman could want more?
She did.
“What did you think of the restaurant?” he asked.
Madge had scarcely noticed either her surroundings or what she ate. “Lovely,” she said. He’d taken her to a jazz club in Lafayette where the food had almost as good a reputation as the music.
“You’re tired,” he said. “I shouldn’t have sprung the invitation on you so late.”
“You’re a busy man. Sometimes busy people don’t have a lot of time for plannin’.”
He put a hand on top of hers—on her knee. “D’you know, I’ve never heard you say anything unkind about anyone? And you put everyone else first. It’s sweet, but I worry you could get taken advantage of.”
Not pulling her hand away was hard. “Thank you. No need to worry about me. I’ve been on my own a long time, and I do a good job of looking after myself.”
He patted her fingers and returned his hand to the wheel.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
Madge wanted to be home, shut away, sleeping and not thinking. “If you like.”
“We haven’t gotten into anything very personal. I’ve never been married. How about you?”
She almost laughed. “No. I thought everyone knew that.”
“I don’t know the people who would. Have you ever thought of settling down?”
“Not really.” The real answer was too complicated and not something she would share, anyway.
“Why is that?”
Just let me get home.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “You don’t want to talk about this.”
She shrugged and ran her fingers through her short curls. “I don’t have an answer. My life is what it is. We all want things, but we don’t all get what we want. I’m happy.”
“Would you consider coming away with me for a weekend?”
On either side of the car, pines rose, dark and dense. Madge frowned. She wasn’t a child. And neither was he. These days, what he was suggesting wasn’t scandalous.
“Too fast for you?” he said. “I’m sorry. We could have separate rooms. There’s a lodge on a lake just out of Pointe Judah. It’s not far to go, but pretty and quiet. I thought it might give us a chance to get to know each other better.”
“I don’t know what to say.” And she would not lash out and sound like a prude. “With what’s happened around the parish, I feel I should be available, if…if I’m needed.”
“Cyrus is lucky to have someone as devoted as you,” he said. “He’s a good man, though.”
“Yes, he is.” Her vision blurred.
“Will you look at that?” Sig said. “Those are raindrops on the windshield. It’s coming down again. We are having one wet time of it.”
“I like the weather here. But I grew up with it, so it seems right.” Making conversation with him wasn’t comfortable for her.
Another ten minutes, and they’d reach the rectory. She could hold on that long, but she didn’t see how she could go out with him again.
Not his fault.
Sig took his foot off the gas. “Okay if we stop for a few minutes and talk?”
Talk and what else? She laced her fingers in her lap. “That would be nice. Maybe there’s a view somewhere around.”
“You’re all the view I need.”
Her heart gave a giant thud.
Taking it easy and smooth, he steered from the road to the shoulder, then beneath the trees.
She glanced over her shoulder. They hadn’t seen any other vehicles for ages.
Sig turned off the engine.
They both stared ahead.
“I’m not so practiced at this,” he said. “At least, not anymore. I’ve been so busy establishing myself with my work, I’ve become pretty solitary.”
“Where did you live before you came here?” she asked.
“On the East Coast. I met the Savage twins back there. Last year, Roche asked if I wanted to come here and work with him, and I thought, what the hell, something completely different.”
She couldn’t just tell him to drive on. He was nice, really nice. “And you like it here?”
He looked at her. “Better and better. Look, Madge, I don’t think you’ve led a very…I don’t know…social life? You’re quiet, at least on a personal level. We’ve got nothing but time, and we can take it. I guess I’m asking you to give me a chance.”
This was more than she could handle. “We’ll have coffee soon,” she said and felt ridiculous. “Vivian Devol—she’s the sheriff’s wife and runs Rosebank with her momma—she’d be happy for me to have you over one Saturday or Sunday.”
“Nice,” he said in a voice flat enough to let her know “nice” wasn’t what he had in mind. “How come you agreed to go out with me that first time?”
She was grateful it was too dark for him to see her much. “Why, I believe you underestimate your charm,” she said. Sometimes you had to try to be what you weren’t—for the other person. “You are a nice man. Why wouldn’t I agree? And I agreed a second time, remember?”
“I think I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“No! Oh, don’t be silly. How could you make anyone uncomfortable, Sig? You’re a pussy cat.”
He didn’t laugh.
He did undo his seat belt.
Madge sat, straight-backed, in her seat.
“You’re wasting yourself,” he said. “I think you know what I mean.”
She shook her head. The thought of getting back to the rectory, climbing into her little car and locking the door beckoned like a valuable prize.
“Cyrus takes advantage of you.”
“He doesn’t, Sig. No, absolutely not. You’ve seen how he encourages me to go out and have a good time.”
Sig settled his hand on the back of her neck. “Of course,” he said, stroking lightly. “I think I’m already getting jealous of Cyrus because he spends so much time with you. Will you think about the weekend?”
“I will. I’ll let you know.” Sometimes you had to say whatever it took.
“There are cabins around the lake. I’ve only driven past, but I did stop to see what reservations were like. Just in case you decide to let me take you, I’ve got one on hold.”
He thought that after two dates she’d be ready to stay in a lake cabin with him? Was that normal for these times? It wasn’t for her.
“There are some trails out from there. We could take a picnic and go hiking.”
“I’ve never been hikin’.”
Sig took a moment to say, “You’re kidding. Madge, Madge, your education needs taking in hand. There’s fun to be had out there. Doesn’t have to be wild, but you can’t miss everything there is to enjoy.”
He was probably right about that.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“May I kiss you?”
Madge looked up at him. Her throat had closed, and she breathed through her nose. When he’d taken her out before, he’d kissed her cheek quickly when he took her home, nothing more. That evening had been difficult for her, too.
“You are beautiful,” he said. “I don’t know how far I’d have to go to find someone as beautiful but unspoiled as you. You should see your eyes.” He laughed a little. “I don’t want to do anything to change you.”
Madge couldn’t speak.
Gradually, he brought his face closer. He touched his mouth to hers, softly, without demand.
He smelled nice, fresh, like soap and clean laundry. Appealing. Close your eyes and give him a chance.
She didn’t want to be here. Or with Sig.
His arm slid around her and he pulled them together. Again he kissed her. He had a nice mouth, even if it did feel foreign and she couldn’t relax enough to respond.
“Loosen up,” he mur
mured, pressing his lips along her cheek to her ear. “I’ll take care of you.”
Jumpy, fighting down dread, she put a hand on his shoulder.
His breathing speeded and grew heavier. “That’s right,” he said. “I won’t do more than you’re ready for.”
She wasn’t ready for anything.
Sig kissed her again. He found her belt buckle and released it so he could take her all the way into his arms. This time he put his tongue inside her mouth. She heard the sound the moisture made, couldn’t keep her nose out of the way of his.
He drew his head back and she saw him smile, and the feverish light in his eyes.
This wasn’t what she was about. Or perhaps it was, just not with him.
If she was to hope for a full life, she had to get past her inhibitions. Sig wouldn’t force her to do something against her will. He was a good man. He’d be a good partner…a good father.
You can’t make yourself desire a man just because you want children.
Sig adjusted his weight, leaned over and pinned her. That’s not what he meant to do, she told herself, but her mind screamed that if it was, then it was her fault. If she didn’t stop him, how could he know what she didn’t want?
His mouth was wide open on hers, his tongue reaching. He slid a warm hand up her thigh and rubbed his fingertips in her groin. She gasped, and he kissed her more deeply; he must have thought the sounds she made were of passion.
She didn’t have the strength to force up against him. Every move she made increased his excitement. From her groin to her belly, his fingers slid and spread, not hard or painful, but inexorable.
Madge caught at his shoulders and her arms shot forward. There was nothing to grip. Sig made groaning sounds and moved her head hard, from side to side.
He didn’t know she wasn’t responding.
Panic caught at Madge’s throat.
Sig slid a hand between them and inside the bodice of her dress. He held her breast, moved his thumb back and forth over the nipple. It grew hard, and through the panic came horror. Madge screwed up her eyes, hardly able to make out anything of him at close proximity and with almost no light.
Moving shadows, the gleam of skin.
Driving the heels of her shoes into the carpet, using both hands to push as hard as she could, she fought to shove him off. And the instant a hand was free, she slapped him hard across the face.
He leaped away from her.
Madge threw open her door and stumbled from the car.
“Madge! Get back here, now. For God’s sake, get in.”
She wouldn’t listen to him. The rain grew heavier, warm and thick, and a strong breeze pushed it toward her. Running into the squall, she turned an ankle and cried out. A second’s pause and she tossed the shoes away.
This was country she knew—all of it. Without a second thought, she took off between the trees. Rocks, pieces of wood, debris of who knew how many years, tore at her feet. Branches and fallen snags scraped her legs. With her arms thrown out for balance, she kept her face turned ahead and rushed deeper into the vegetation.
Where she needed to go was maybe a mile away, a mile of rough, undergrowth-clogged ground.
“Madge! Please let me take you home.” She heard crashing as Sig plunged between the trees.
The sound of his voice, and his big body coming for her, only made her strides longer. Pain stabbed at her ankle. She heard her cotton skirts rip. Things plucked at her face.
A yell soared out. For all she knew, he’d run into a tree. This was all her fault. She couldn’t change a thing now, but she could have back there—if she’d been less of a coward.
“Madge!”
Farther away now. But he must still be coming after her. Of course he was. She could stop, face him, tell him she couldn’t be what he wanted her to be.
But what if he wouldn’t accept her answer? What if he pressed her again? He might think she would change her mind if he tried hard enough. Men could be like that. She wasn’t a complete neophyte.
By instinct, she made a turn to the right. Beneath her feet, she felt a downward slope and half slid, half toppled between fallen trees. Mushiness pushed between her toes. Mud. And probably blood. She didn’t care. Instead of running and crashing about, she stepped cautiously until she found a thicket heavy enough to crouch behind and hide.
She listened hard, as hard as possible with the wind picking up and the warm rain falling harder. When it was like this, there were a hundred sounds vying for attention.
For as long as she could hold still, she waited, scarcely breathing.
If Sig called her name again, she didn’t hear him.
She had made it work. By taking a different direction, heading for the bayou and falling silent, she had thrown him off. What she’d done to him was horrible. He would be terrified for her, but she couldn’t face him now. Once she got where she was going, and it wouldn’t take too long unless she was unlucky enough to hurt herself again, but once she got there she’d call to let him know she was okay.
All she had needed to do was let him know she wasn’t ready to get physical with him. Easier to admit than pull off.
Sig was a psychologist. That didn’t mean he wasn’t also a man.
Madge huddled. She had run away to be alone, but she didn’t want to stay here. Scrambling, she stood and carried on, hunched over, until she was close to the bayou.
Her purse was in Sig’s car. She paused for breath and felt sick at the thought of having to see him again, to talk to him and apologize—to try to explain that he’d been right to think she wasn’t very worldly.
Clinging to the track at the edge of the bayou, she mostly walked, afraid to run in case she tripped in the dark and couldn’t carry on. Every cut and bruise stung. She kept thinking about a hot shower and washing her hair—and putting a locked door between her and the world.
After that, she’d call Sig to tell him to forget all about her.
When she saw a distant, flickering light, she knew safety was close. The light would be inside St. Cecil’s where sconces burned at all times.
She would rinse her feet and legs under the faucet at the back of the rectory, go inside quietly and make a call from her office. Then she’d slip out again and get back to Rosebank.
No reception committee awaited Madge inside the rectory. She’d been half afraid Sig might have called Cyrus. If that had happened, every light in the place would have been blazing and Cyrus would have called for help to find her.
Sig hadn’t called.
Perhaps he thought something would almost definitely happen to her and he didn’t want to be blamed.
In her office, she used the phone as quietly as she could, not that Cyrus was likely to hear anything way up in his aerie under the roof.
Sig answered with a quiet, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Damn you,” he said and hung up.
All of the tension left her body, and she trembled wildly. It was over.
The phone rang and she snatched it up. “Yes.”
“You little idiot,” Sig said. “Did you think you’d call me and I’d be glad…Christ, I am glad to hear from you. I feel like my kid just ran across a freeway in rush hour and made it to the other side. Shaking you hard would feel so good—for about ten seconds. Good night.”
“Good night,” she said and hung up.
Back in the hall, barefoot, she looked up the dark stairs leading to the floor where the big room was, the one where Cyrus met with small groups of parishioners, or even with just one if they need comfort or simply to talk. Also on that floor were a number of mostly small bedrooms where those in need were given a place to stay for as long as needed.
Madge started to climb.
She needed peace.
Tonight she wanted to curl up in cool, white sheets and forget that she was a woman who belonged in no world. Rosebank was just a place to keep her things. She had no home, no committed companion on her journey. And the cho
ice had been hers.
She started toward the little bedrooms at the end of the house nearest the church, but couldn’t keep going. Back she walked, all the way to the opposite end of the corridor where a door stood open. On the other side of the door, more stairs, these very narrow, led upward.
This was the last, the highest flight. At the top, in the big, bare room, Cyrus would be sleeping on his single bed.
Madge sat on the bottom step and rested her forehead on top of folded arms.
Chapter 26
Later the same night
Roche needed a shower.
Cold.
Damn the bigmouths in this town. And damn Lil Dupre for the sneaking, dirty-minded prude she was.
He had hoped the story of what Lil saw and embellished that night had gone away. Enough time should have passed. But why did he think so, really? Once the mud hit you, it never completely came off.
This wasn’t the first time he had taken refuge in his offices on Cotton Street. He came here to think, to find the quiet he must have, regularly, or to deal with any inner demons on patrol. After the scene with Bleu, all the demons were out. He’d driven roads to nowhere for hours before coming here.
Once inside the building, via the waiting room, he entered his consulting rooms through a door behind his receptionist, Crystal’s mosaic desk.
Crystal was beautiful—an asset to him—around thirty and married. And Roche had never looked at her and wanted to have sex. Sure, he thought she was sexy, but that was different.
His “little” addiction took a very different form from that of most sex addicts.
Roche tore off his shirt.
Air-conditioning didn’t cool the kind of heat he felt.
He balled up the shirt and shied it across the room. What was happening to him, with Bleu, hadn’t come up before. He had never felt what he felt now.
Just lust?
Could be. He was the doctor, the shrink, but he didn’t have all the answers.
Love?
He loved his twin. In a way, he loved his father. But the kind of love a man could supposedly feel for a woman? He didn’t know, but he did care about Bleu, he did dream about her, waking and sleeping. He could still feel her skin on his, her hair slipping across his face.
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