And at that, as he sat on the mattress, half-facing her out flung body, he had lifted to his mouth her foot, fitting easily in his palm’s width. His lips lingeringly tugging on each toe one by one, he had taken immense pleasure in watching her befuddled and bemused reaction.
“Well, I’ll swan,” she had been barely able to rasp aloud, her breath hitched by a purring moan from somewhere in the back of her throat.
With the sun still high in a simmering turquoise sky, she gave the braided rug one last hardy whack – only to come up short by Duke, shoving aside the rug to face her with a sooty, smoldering look that was in no way a carnal one.
A fistful of papers with miniscule but innumerable printed words he held in his left hand, along with an envelope. He thrust them toward her. “Seems you’re in demand.”
Helplessly, she stared at them. “Ye know I cannot read that well,” she got out in a shamed whisper.
His free hand took the tennis racquet from her and slung it with force into the chaparral just beyond the large outdoor kettle, used for boiling the hands’ dirtiest clothes. “Time you learned.”
Grabbing her hand, he tugged her up the porch steps and into his office. He nudged her past the paper mounded desk and shoved her to sit onto the worn split-leather sofa. He planted his Colossus’ height in front of her. “Do you want to work for me – or for yourself, Sunshine?”
Her mouth opened and closed like Old Duke’s had been doing at list last. “I already work for ye. Do I not?” she asked with a sudden, sinking feeling. Had Duke’s nights with her become repetitiously boring? After all, she was only one small variant of an earth full of females.
Sailing his straw Stetson onto the wrought iron hat tree by his desk, he slumped beside her, and the cushion’s cracked leather gave beneath his weight. He thrust the papers toward her.
Taking them, she stared at their blur of words. Disliking doing it but too nervous to concentrate, she asked, “What do they say?”
He looped an arm over the sofa back and, leaning his breadth into her, pointed a blunt fingertip at the three words at the top one-third of the page, darker and larger than the multitude of ones below. “You know the first one, Sunshine.” His tone could have incinerated a human body.
She studied and made out the word ‘GRAND.’
She turned to look up at him. “Grand what?” she choked out.
His forefinger jabbed at the other two emboldened words. “Ole – and Opry. Grand Ole Opry. They want to audition you.”
“Me? For when? What date? And will they pay me? In more than food or drinks?”
An exhalation drained the anger from those lips that burned hers far more than she burned the morning’s toast. His fingers plowed through his equally burnt oak mane. “They want to sign you for a year’s performance alongside Roy Acuff and the Smoky Mountain Boys – if you nail the audition. Next month. The first of August.”
She recalled listening to the Smoky Mountain Boys on the program while she washed dinner dishes. “Alongside the likes of Roy Acuff?” It beggared her imagination. But something inside her begged for more. “Do ye want me to go?”
His brows met above his bladed nose, then the harshness eased from his features. “It’s what you want. And what you need is a contract lawyer. Someone like Gideon to go over the fine print with an eagle eye.”
If Duke had wanted her, wanted her as part of his ranch family, he would have fought to keep her. She knew that much about him. Aye, he was frustrated about the possibility of losing her – a capable cook now and, what was more, an available bedpartner.
Yet his words were uttered so matter-of-factly. As if their nights entwined, breaths shared, meant little more to him than a slaking of his passion. As much as she hated to face the truth, she had been hoping he would put up a fight to keep her.
Damn, she would miss seeing those low-slung Levi’s molding his fine arse.
Now she knew why people closed their eyes when they prayed or dreamed or danced or kissed – or cried. Helen Keller was right, life’s most impactful moments were not to be seen by the eyes but felt by the heart.
Well, her gypsy heart knew when to travel on.
§ § §
Duke paused at the kitchen doorway. The room was edging up in temperature, what with the Fourth of July’s morning heat and all the cooking. But the heat didn’t seem to bother the ranch hands none. They were fooling around and laughing like they were a part of one big happy family.
Even though they had the day off, Romy had commandeered them and put them – all but Arturo – to work around the long table. Dicing, chopping, slicing. Chili peppers, onions, garlic, and cilantro turned the warm air pungent.
Arturo, Duke suspected, was riding herd on Sally. Their attraction had been obvious to him, the way they had determinedly avoided looking at each other at Christmas, the way she joined in singing Christmas carols with Arturo. And since then, she had not come around as much – and Arturo was gone more often on his off time.
But it was not that couple that chapped Duke but Bud and Romy – the way the tenderfoot was joking with her. Bud was coming into his own heat, and her provocative presence most likely had the lusting kid’s imagination busy day and night – justifying Duke’s original concern about hiring someone as young and fetching as she. A mere six years separated Bud and Romy.
While a good nine years separated himself and her. She was a mere child, a reckless child, and yet his self-admonishment did not assuage his own lusting. Well, he had to let her go . . . and just maybe, if he was lucky, with her going would go his lusting.
She was brushing lumps of dough with sugar – scones or something Irish like that – for the Fourth of July lunch, an idea that she had drummed up the same day he had presented her with the Grand Ole Opry letter.
“The boys will enjoy the celebration,” she had said, and we’ll invite Gideon – and Miriam. He can help me with the Opry contract.”
He had shrugged. So, she was going. “A good way to kill two birds with – ”
“ – one scone,” she had chimed in with her irresistible elfish grin. “We’ll have Irish scones for your American Fourth. And we’ll invite Sally and her father. And Charlotte and Clara, too.”
Without a mother around in his preteen years, he had no idea what females wrangled with inside their heads. And his father had come up mighty short in the tender endearments and affections department toward the fairer sex.
Duke knew he could certain sure get along without Romy, but he would miss her antics, both the amusing ones and, damn-it-to-hell, the annoying ones, as well. What a corker she was. A rare breed.
And then there was the delectable shallows of her spine the tongue could lap. And her lovely white throat his fingers could stroke. And the lovely indentation between her . . . .
He shook his head, trying to free himself of breath-catching and heart-tripping memories. Yeah, it was better all-around that she snap up that contract with Grand Ole Opry. Better for her, better for his ranch hands, better for his piece of mind.
Peace of mind? Hell, what about the containment of his out-of-control feelings, both his raging testosterone and this terrifying yearning,
Besides, he needed to get on with his wife search. Somehow, Romy Sonnenschein had waylaid him. Her and her loony card reading.
“Bud,” he told the peach-fuzzed kid, “ride out and make sure that new front gate is open for the guests.” That should get the kid off her flagging tail for the time being, at least.
“And while you’re at it,” Jock catcalled, “bring us each back a bottle of Lone Star.”
The randy youth stopped just short of rolling his eyes. Grabbing his cap on the wall peg, he yanked it low on his head and stalked out the kitchen’s back door.
She turned amused eyes up at Duke.
“You should know,” he told her, ignoring her accusatory look, “that Johnson is in the area – Fourth of July stumping with his constituents. He plans to stop by with his staff sometime later th
is afternoon.”
He nodded at the large bowl of seasoned German potato salad that Micah was garnishing with a flourish of cilantro and bacon crumbles. Burnt bacon crumbles. “You might want to double up on your dishes,” he advised her.
She lowered her voice, obviously aware of the other men listening. As he was aware they had become her knight protectors. “Ye might have forewarned me, Duke.” She flicked perspiration-damp tendrils from her neck, and he was pleased that she no longer wore that constraining kerchief, as if she would bow to his desires . . . as if.
“I would have thought you would have already known,” he said, hammering out with difficulty a smile, “given that forewarnings are part and parcel of your wondrous fortune telling talents.”
What made him say something mean-spirited like that? And he knew. That was the way his old man would have handled disappointments. Disappointments? Hell, why not admit her leaving was a crushing blow?
Romy deserved a grand send off, even if she wasn’t skedaddling for another three weeks. Those twenty-one days would be easy enough, what with the backbreaking load of ranch duties that consumed his time. But the nights . . . God forbid he should be as callow and pining as Bud.
With her attention turned back to the kettle’s simmering pinto beans, he swiped a scone. At once, she struck his knuckles with her wooden spoon.
“Ouch!” He gave her a repentant smile that he hoped made up for his spiteful words. He nodded at the bean broth, then at the four ranch hands, still watching Romy and himself with surreptitious and suspicious interest. “If you don’t already know, Sunshine, too many cooks spoil the broth.”
“I know that too many cocks spoil the brothel, if that’s what ye mean.”
Thank God, she wasn’t the kind of gal to pout or stew.
She flashed him one of her stock-in-trade impish grins. “Now be off with yuirselves, all of ye galutes.”
Soon, she would be off with her own self, and, freed at last of her meddling, he could get on with his life, right?
§ CHAPTER SEVENTEEN §
The glib Gideon and his ever-reasoning approach to everything overcame any lingering doubts Romy might entertain about the wisdom of leaving the S&S, and Duke, and convinced her to travel that next month to Nashville, wherever that was, to audition for the Grand Ole Opry in hopes they would sign her on.
Gideon and she sat on the parlor sofa – with Miriam hovering close on his other side, her tapered fingers resting lightly on his suit coat sleeve. The Opry’s invitation lay on the coffee table. Its top obviously had once served as a portion of an outhouse door, what with its half-moon aperture.
They were studying the points Gideon was outlining. He jabbed his fountain pen at the lengthy letter. “Licensing is important, Romy.”
“A license?”
“A license in the entertainment business is permission for someone else to use your music.”
“And this licensing, it means what?” For her, someone else’s permission could only mean a loss of her freedom in some way.
“If you have written a song – for instance this “Lost in Your Smile” – and Billie Holliday wants to sing it, she has to get a license from you to use it. If Jeanette MacDonald’s moving picture “Sweethearts” wants to then use your version of “Lost in Your Smile” in their touring, they will need a license from you – and from MGM. Radio gets a license for every song they play. So does every bar, club, and restaurant. You want to make sure all this is covered by your contract.”
She felt overwhelmed. “Gideon, I dunna suppose ye can come with me, can ye now?”
Miriam’s fingers tapped his sleeve. “Remember, dear – we’re to meet my parents in New York that weekend.” She looked to Romy, “But, perhaps, later, we both could come?”
A savvy and honest woman, Miriam was likeable enough, and Romy could understand her disinclination to let Gideon traipse off alone with a Gypsy girl, although, surely, he must have made known to Miriam by now his marital intentions towards her. The Jewess was the perfect wife for him, what he had been seeking from the start.
He was saved from formulating a reply, when Glen opened the front door and stuck in his head. “Hey, Romy, Johnson and his crew are here, and the boss wants to know when dinner will be served.”
“Tell him to hold his horses, Glen.” She sighed and added, “I’ll ring the dinner bell in fifteen minutes, give-or-take.”
At the doorway, Sally slipped past Glen, saying “Gideon, you’re on call for a game of horseshoes.”
Naturally, he wanted to be out glad-handing Johnson. He rose swiftly and reached down to squeeze Romy’s shoulder reassuringly. “You duped the Nazis and escaped Sachsenhausen. Twice. You can outmaneuver the American entertainment industry’s mouthpieces.”
Still, how in the name of all the calendar’s saints was she supposed to pay for the bus fare, which, according to Jock, was a good two days’ journey, much less pay for a place to board in the interim before the audition?
As he moved to leave, Miriam offered, “I’ll help you in the kitchen, Romy.”
“I’m better at branding than baking,” Sally said, grinning, “but you can put me to work, too, gal.”
“Ye can start carting the plates and bowls outside to the picnic table,” she said, heading back to the kitchen, “and, Miriam, could ye fill that dish pan with more ice cubes for the beer tub?”
While Miriam began removing ice trays from the refrigerator and snapping their cubes into the blue-and-white speckled pan, Sally gathered the dishes. After the kitchen door banged shut behind her, it swung open again just as quickly, and Charlotte and Clara poked their pretty auburn heads inside. “Can we help?”
Well, Romy thought, Sally may not be in the running for Duke’s bride-to-be, but Charlotte most certainly still was. “Aye, if ye’ll carry the beans and potato salad to the picnic table, Charlotte. And Clara, help yuir mum, ye can.”
Once they had departed, Miriam reached into her skirt pocket and held out a dangling string of pearls. “A going away present, if you will, Romy. For good luck.”
Earlier that morning, Arturo had also presented Romy with a gift – his guitar. “Eet belongs to you, not me. Keep eet close to your heart when you play upon eet.”
She felt genuinely surprised that people cared about her leaving. Leaving, traveling, wandering, it was all a part of the Gypsy business, the only thing she knew to do. But not yearned to do.
“Why, thank ye, Miriam.” Although she could not imagine an occasion she could wear anything so grand.
“It pairs nicely with your pearl earring. Interesting, you wear only one.”
“I need only one.” She smiled and tucked the string of pearls into her apron pocket.
Miriam made no comment on Romy’s enigmatic response, saying instead, “You know, Romy, much to my astonishment, your card reading proved to be rather accurate.”
“Oh, how is that?”
“Remember, you told me that I would be given a second chance financially? Well, the Dean at UT kept bypassing me to give better positions, and pay, to the men. Fed up, I handed him my resignation – worrying all the while how long it would be until I could secure another job – when Gideon told me about a Department of State position, heading up the board that oversees foreign Diplomats in Residence at UT. Not only am I out from under the Dean but the position pays far better.”
“That is bloody swell,” she said, mounding a crockery serving platter with her scones. She marveled at the power of suggestion and was amazed that people took stock in card reading and crystal balls and tea leaves and séances.
But then how was it that the King of Diamonds, the Queen of Clubs, and the King of Clubs showed up consistently in her cards?
And how was it she noted in Duke’s broad palm a headline so strong and well defined that it brooked no interference in his heart’s matters, and a heartline that indicated a knight who would slay dragons for his fair maiden?
Not that she believed in palmistry, either.
“Did you see it – a happy ever after – in the cards for me and Gideon?” Miriam was watching her sidewise. “Honestly, Romy?”
What to say? She paid inordinate attention to slicing the chilled vegetables onto another plate – carrots, radishes, celery and cauliflower. Marrying Miriam would be a step up for the enterprising Gideon. The Jewess was ambitious, attractive, and motivated. The couple united . . . well, there would be no end to the heights they could climb.
She countered with a question. “Is that what you want – to marry Gideon?”
The ice cubes halted their clinking into the ceramic bowl. At the unsettling silence, Romy turned fully to look at the young woman. Her gaze was bleak. “We Jews use a shadchanit to obtain the best advantage from among marriage prospects.”
“A marriage maker?”
“Yes. But I do not want to be merely an advantage for Gideon.”
Romy’s mouth skewed. It was better than being a disadvantage for someone; someone like Duke, for whom her wild, restless ways opposed his desire for an orderly, settled lifestyle.
Just the image of him outside with the men, pitching horseshoes, juddered her heart. And that was only an image. The real thing, when she was in the same room with him, made her go weak at the knees, her lungs falter, and her brain malfunction.
However, she would get over Duke, just as she got over all her other stumbling stones in the road.
Nevertheless, sitting at the picnic table next to Johnson half an hour later– and across from Duke – she wondered how on God’s green earth she would find it in herself to return to the road. She was helplessly caught in the undertow of his voice, as he, Sally and her father discussed stock breeding.
Her gaze roamed the gathering of the Fourth’s revelers. Skinny Henry, chomping a tomato like it was a candied apple; Micah, who was actually talking face to face with one of Johnson’s male staffers while swigging beer; Glen and Graciela, sitting on a blanket, close enough to exchange a kiss, if they dared. And Gideon and Miriam, backed against a live oak, who did dare. Mayhap, there was hope for those two.
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