Finding Home

by Weger, Jackie

  “That’s a pretty dress.”

  Phoebe spun around. Gage closed the door and leaned against it. Phoebe caressed him with her eyes, soaking up his image to take with her. “Guess it don’t matter if you see it now. Bad luck was trailin’ me afore I ever bought it.”

  “We have a conversation to finish.”

  “We don’t. I already know what your answer is gonna be. I don’t fault you for it. But I take back what I said. I’ll speak to you on the street. I appreciate you helpin’ look for Erlene. I guess you can tell she’s loose-minded.”

  “No more than me.”

  Phoebe’s head came up. “I never noted any signs—”

  Gage laughed softly. “Well, I’d say I’m more along the lines of a horse’s ass. I wanted to punish you, make you suffer—”

  “You sure did that. I’ve been about as miserable as a tadpole in a dry hole.”

  “You did con me,” he continued. “But the things about you that I like...love—your loyalty, your family spirit—that’s something no one’s ever given to me until you offered it. I like what your love means. You’re important to your family. They need you. You’re important to me. Dorie, too.” He exhaled slowly. “I need you, Phoebe. I don’t want to live without you.”

  Phoebe wasn’t sure she was hearing what she was hearing. She was scared to move, scared to breathe. Her heart began to pound. She wanted it to stop so the noise wouldn’t distract her.

  Her knees were acting up. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re not mad at me anymore?”

  “I’m furious.”

  Phoebe’s “oh” was scarcely a thread of sound.

  “But not so furious and stupid that I want to give up what we had—have. That is, if—”

  It was her backbone, not the limp rags that were her legs that got her across the room and into his arms. “Gage!”

  “Oh, hell. Don’t start crying.”

  “I thought I’d lost you forever.” Her hands began to roam, touching, feeling, assuring herself that he was real, solid, that she wasn’t wishing so hard she was dreaming his presence.

  His hands gripped her shoulders, held her away from him. “No more sly secrets?”

  “Nary a one. Ever. Don’t hold me away from you. Let me touch you.” She reached for him.

  “Not there, dammit! There’s too many ears in this house.”

  “One feel?”

  “No. Sit over there in the chair. I want to talk to you about your family. While I was driving around looking for Erlene, I had an idea.”

  “Your tallywhacker’s up. I can see it.”

  “I’ve lost ten pounds to worry and sex since we met. Do you want a bridegroom who can’t keep his pants up during the wedding?”

  “Pa’ll loan you his suspenders.”

  Gage’s throat constricted. “You’re heartless.” He was wavering.

  Phoebe reached around him and locked the door. “I just want to show you how much I love you. How much I’ll always love you. I don’t know any other way to show you. And, anyway,” she whispered, “I’ve been so scared. I’ve never loved anyone as hard as I love you.”

  Gage pushed her down on the bed and held her still with his body. “I know. I knew it without you having to say it.”

  “Just give me one teensy-weensy kiss. I won’t ask for nothin’ more. Then you can tell me your idea.”

  TWELVE

  Phoebe picked up Gage’s hand and kissed his calluses. “Don’t call me Phoebe or darlin’. Call me Mrs. Morgan. I got to get used to it.”

  “You have an entire lifetime to get used to it.” He sighed and began to loosen his tie. “I’m glad everyone’s gone. I thought they’d never leave.”

  Phoebe laughed. “It was the food. Ma sure can cook. There’d been extra guests at the wedding. On Erlene’s account Marianna Stout and her husband had been invited. Phoebe then felt obliged to ask Essie and her husband and Gage had asked Truman Martin to be his best man. The best man’s wife was Belle Martin who tried to overkiss the groom. But Phoebe had shot her dagger-looks, besides using her elbow to good advantage. Maydean begged to invite Becky and the girl’s parents came too, driving through the junkyard gate in the shiny convertible that had Maydean all agog. Gage knew Becky’s daddy. Carlin Marshal owned a used car lot and Gage had bought Velma’s car from him. They were nice people and Mrs. Marshal taught Sunday school at the Baptist Church. Twelve-year-old Becky was as homely as worn shoe leather. She had round owl-like eyes and limp brown hair. Phoebe vowed to put a bug in Maydean’s ear to watch out for un-Christian envy. She suspected Becky was stuffed to the gills with it over a prettier Maydean.

  Phoebe went to the screened door and peered out. Gage’s idea had been a mobile home, used but nice, complete with appliances and a built-in air conditioner. Ma was ecstatic.

  Gage had hired a crew to clear off a lot and set the trailer up a hundred yards away—hollering distance, but not so close as to mar their own privacy. Not that the distance kept Maydean, Willie-Boy and Dorie from running in and out. But now when Ma came over to the Morgans’, she knocked on the door and hallo’d before steppin’ inside.

  Ma was working at the crab house with Erlene. And Pa, good at sitting in one spot for hours on end, occupied the cash shack, which freed Gage from interruptions to concentrate on repairing propellers and bent drive shafts.

  Phoebe hugged herself. She didn’t think there was a happier woman on the face of the earth. Yet, there was one niggling thing at the back of her mind and what with all the cooking and cleaning and getting ready for the wedding, she had not found time to discuss it.

  “While you’re standing there, put the latch on that door,” said Gage.

  Phoebe did his bidding and turned to face him. The length and breadth of him in his wedding suit took her breath away. “You look so handsome.”

  “You look good enough to eat.” He patted the sofa cushion. “Come over here.”

  “In a minute. I got somethin’ on my mind.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Don’t take on so. It’s just you know all about the Hawleys all the way back to Cuthbert and I don’t know about your folks.”

  He smiled. Phoebe closed her eyes against the pull of his kissin’ lips.

  “Ah. You’re worried a little Morgan might dilute Hawley blood and Hawley pride.”

  “No, I ain’t. I’m lettin’ up on Hawley pride. I let it get in the way of my good sense and almost lost you.” Phoebe gave in and sat on the sofa, snuggling into his arms. “We ought to take off our good clothes.”

  He nibbled on her ear. “That’s the best suggestion you’ve made in ten days.”

  “Won’t make another either, if you don’t tell me about your folks.”

  Gage exhaled. “My daddy was a barge tender. He foundered in a freak storm on the Intracoastal and drowned. I was about six. Mom passed on when I was about ten. She’d suffered rheumatic fever when she was ‘bout Dorie’s age and complications caught up to her. After that it was just me and my grandfather. Right here. Before that were my great-grandparents. There’s a land book in the County Tax Assessor’s office shows my great- granddaddy bought forty-two acres on the estuary from a Theron Combel 1899. I don’t know before that. Or maybe there’s something in the family bible. You can look. Will that do? I’ve got other things on my mind. I got married today, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Peckish won’t get you anywhere but sittin’ in front of the TV. I’ve been squirrelin’ away a thought since I first laid eyes on your junkyard and I got to know.” Forty-two acres? Phoebe felt weak. Gage’s rusted old junk was atop forty-two acres of prime bottom land? She saw forty-two acres of corn, tassels waving in the breeze—a fat cash crop, like her crabs.

  Gage pulled away, folded his hands over his belt, laid his head back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve got to consider the future—”

  Gage looked at her from beneath shuttered lids and frowned. “Today? Right
this minute? I don’t think so.”

  Phoebe leaped to her feet. If she stayed put next to him, he was going to get his way every time, no doubt. Her stomach was fluttering something awful and the fluttering was heading south.

  “We’ve got Dorie to raise and educate. An’ I got to help Ma ‘n Pa with Willie-Boy and Maydean. An’ Maydean’s got her mind set on bein’ uppity. She’s dead set on bein’ a beauty queen and goin’ to college. Dorie most likely will follow right behind her, lovin’ face paint like she does. I spec Willie-Boy will be happy to just follow in your footsteps, learnin’ to weld and all.”

  “Is that it?”

  “I’m comin to it.”

  “Not if you keep walking backwards to get there.”

  Phoebe’s pillow lips drew up to the size of a pea. “If all of them pieces of rusted out cars and hubcaps an’ such was swept off that good dirt, I could plant a crop of corn. Folks like fresh corn. That’d be money in the bank. You could get that old tractor runnin’…” A thought ran into her mind. All that junk might be a comfort to him. Some folks held onto things that were fair useless, like Pa, storing away a seventy year-old National Geographic with the picture of his grampa an’ a bunch of other men standin’ around a felled tree at the edge of a swamp he had never seen. An’ Ma, pressing a yellowed lace collar in the back of the family bible, believing it belonged to her grandma three times removed. “But if you’re attached to all that junk I won’t say another word.”

  Gage laughed.

  Phoebe frowned. “What’s funny.”

  “I’ll sell it.”

  “The way you been sellin’ it I’ll be older ‘n Ma by the time you cleared it off. That ain’t what I had in mind.”

  “Phoebe, that junk is rusted gold. I’ll sell it as scrap. I’ll clear five acres a year. Otherwise taxes…”

  “Government taxes?”

  “Income taxes, Phoebe. There’s a quarter-million dollars worth of steel, aluminum and pig iron—”

  Phoebe felt faint. She collapsed on the sofa next to Gage, mute.

  Gage slid his arm around her trembling shoulders. “That’s better, Mrs. Morgan.” He nuzzled her neck. “Mmmm, you sure do smell nice.”

  Phoebe didn’t hear a word. Her ears were plugged trying to get her mind around a million of anything. A million lovebugs squashed on her truck’s windshield was easy. Gnats and fire ants were easy. Everybody knew there were jillions of those pests.

  “Gage, why ain’t you ever sold any of that stuff before?”

  “I never had a wife who wanted to plant corn. Are you going to give me grief over five acres?”

  “No,” Phoebe said fervently. “I ain’t never goin’ to give you any grief.” She understood Gage now. He could toss out sums she never imagined without a second thought because he trusted her to keep it to herself. And, she would. Morgan pride was different, less boastful and quieter than Hawley pride. Yet, Gage’s backbone and calluses and honesty spoke volumes. She adjusted herself so that she could unbutton his shirt and run her fingertips through the hair on his chest. “It’s wonderful being married...wonderful...”

  Gage said, “I’m out of my mind with wanting you. I’ve never been so turned on by anyone, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. Watching you haul in crabs, hanging out clothes...damn! I kept thinking I’d go out in the boat with you or drag you behind the chicken coop.”

  “I stayed outta your bed because I didn’t want you lookin’ peaked when we got married.”

  Gage raised his head. “Do I look peaked to you?”

  Phoebe gave him a slow smile. “Parts of you do.”

  “Which part is that?”

  “It’s covered up, but I can feel it just beggin’ to get out.”

  “Let’s go in our bedroom and turn it loose.”

  “I’m never gonna turn it loose.”

  Gage sagged a little. He’d have to start taking vitamins. One every single day for the rest of his life.

  A few minutes later, Phoebe asked, “Are you truly happy, Gage?” He was already naked, lying propped on pillows.

  “I’m unhappy. Happy will be when you get in this bed with me.”

  Phoebe took her wedding clothes off slowly. Naked, liking the response she was drawing from Gage, she paraded across the room and pulled down the shade. “I told Ma when she saw the shade go up, she could send Dorie home.”

  “The way I’m feeling that might be a week from now.”

  “That’s ahead of it, Gage. Afterwards, you just want to sleep.”

  “Allow this man his dreams, Phoebe. Now get up here.”

  She stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing him from head to toe before she crawled up his legs and settled herself upright on a particular part of his anatomy. Gage closed his eyes and made a soft guttural sound of pleasure.

  “Is it all right if I just sit here a minute?”

  His eyes flew open, focused an instant on her face, then on her pert shapely breasts. “No, it’s not all right.” His insides were beginning to hum, his hips arched.

  “Tell me exactly what you’re feeling right this second.”

  “Incredible pain,” he whispered. “Move a little bit this way. Yes, that’s better. Now a little that way.”

  A gnawing urgency began working its way up Phoebe’s spine. “But, that’s doing it!”

  His lips curled into a lazy grin. “My, but you catch on quick.” He put his hands on her waist and pulled her down, glorying in the feel of her flesh against his own.

  Hawley pride and two vitamins a day. He could get through life on that. Maybe.

  THE END

  Thank you for taking time to read Finding Home.

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  A Note from the Author

  I hate writing these dang bios. I was born, I’m still living. That ought to be enough. I once was married, but now I’m not. I raised five kids, but they didn’t like the way they were raised, so now I just raise tomatoes. I was raised poor, married poor, and stayed poor because I had all of those dang kids. I write old-fashioned romance novels; slow, wordy old things, full of clichés because I know what they mean and you do, too. I don’t write titillating sex scenes because you already know where the body parts go and you don’t need an anatomy lesson from me. I write good girls hoping to a find an honest, hard-working man of integrity so they can stay home and watch soap operas or reality shows—which I never had time to do.

  After my children were grown and my husband left, I went to Central America where I lived first on an island off the coast of Panama, and later in a dry Pacific Rainforest—except it is seldom truly dry. I lived as many of the natives do in a small village carved out of the jungle. During the day I sheltered beneath a thatched roofed bohio, cooked with wood on a native stove, bathed in the River Camito, dispatched snakes with a machete and harvested mandarinas, oranges, bananas, mangos and coffee. At dusk, I retired to my recama, a minuscule sleeping room where I read by lantern or candle light. I slept beneath a net while overhead tiny fruit bats taught their young to fly and geckos scampered over walls. I sometimes volunteered at a Sisters of Mercy Mission where the focus was on Kuna Indian women and children.

  After I’d saved enough money to give myself a new start, I returned stateside, went to college, earned a degree in History, and was fortunate to spend a semester abroad at Queens’ College, London University which was a treasure of new experiences. Truth to tell, I never considered sitting still long enough to write another book. But then the magic happened. I was gifted with a Kindle. It changed the direction of my life. I love ebooks. I wrote Romance novels for Harlequin Books for sixteen years, and
have a couple of million books in print worldwide. Venturing into the universe of ebooks is a wonderful new experience, along with the opportunity to publish some of my early timeless favorites to digital venues. Until last year, the only electronic device I was familiar with was my ATM card, so I’m just learning my way around the Internet, but you can find me at the following links…

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/accentonromance

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/JackieWeger

  Website/blog: http://jackieweger.com/

  eNovels Authors at Work: http://enovelsauthors.com

  Turn the page to read about my latest release…

  ALSO BY JACKIE WEGER

  The House on Persimmon Road

  By

  Jackie Weger

  Need Help? Hire a Ghost. She Cooks.

  Lottie Roberts has been sitting on her bones since the Civil War, waiting for her ticket to heaven until…Justine Hale moves into Lottie’s two-hundred-year-old house with three generations of emotional baggage—her mother, her ex mother-in-law and two pesky children. Lottie senses in Justine a kindred spirit—filled with heartache and in reduced circumstances, which mirrors Lottie’s situation exactly. Justine needs help. Lottie is of a mind to provide it, but before she can say squat, Tucker Highsmith arrives. His dark eyes, lazy grin, and sexy Alabama drawl coupled with the dern braggart’s Mr. Fix-it talents just might be the answer to all of Justine’s problems—or, maybe not…

  Because Lottie has her own agenda, one she has been waiting, hoping and praying for since she discovered her bones crumbled behind a hidden door.

  Read The House on Persimmon Road FREE with Amazon Prime.

  Amazon.com:

  http://www.amazon.com/House-Persimmon-Road-ebook/dp/B00E9LS0OY/