by White, Karen
His eyes met hers. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Feed people. It’s like you think you need to have a reason for people to be around you. You don’t have to, you know.”
Water dripped from his hair down the side of his face to his shoulder. She picked up the towel and moved to wipe it, but he grabbed her wrist. She frowned. “You’re dripping.”
He took the towel from her. “I’ll do it.”
She moved away and poured coffee into mugs with shaking hands, then returned to the table, placing a steaming mug in front of him, trying to avoid staring at his bare chest. She remembered touching his hair when he’d kissed her and how she had always wanted to do that. She felt the same about his skin, about how smooth and warm it would be beneath her palms.
She sat down across from him as her gaze met his, and for a passing moment she felt he could read her thoughts, and she blushed hotly. Taking a quick sip of her coffee, she burned her tongue and quickly set the mug back down on the table.
Drawing a deep breath, she looked back up at him, trying not to notice how dark his gray eyes had become. “What do you need to know?”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his expression intense. “You told me once that your dad was having an affair with your neighbor in Atlanta. Do you know if that was the only time your dad ever cheated on your mother?”
Jillian sat back, stunned, her thoughts racing back to a long-ago Christmas when she’d been fifteen or sixteen. Her parents were having a horrible fight, with her mother throwing pieces of her treasured glass menagerie and accusing her father of unspeakable things. They didn’t know she’d heard, but she had. Every ugly word.
Slowly, Jillian nodded. “Yes. At least one other time that I know of—but there were probably more. I don’t know the details, but I know my mother had found out something. I thought they were going to get a divorce.”
“What happened?”
Jillian shrugged. “My dad packed a suitcase and left. He came here—I know that because I heard my mother on the phone with him, begging him to come back. And then she’d try talking to my grandmother to get my dad to come back and would end up screaming at her.” She looked down at her hands, small and sensible, and thought of her grandmother. “They never did get along. I knew my mother had to have been desperate to be asking my grandmother’s help.”
Linc’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her, and he was silent for a moment, as if doing some internal calculation. Finally, he asked, “Then what happened?”
“He came home. They still fought, but I stopped listening.” She met his eyes again. “I didn’t care anymore. I was invisible to them. I figured if I pretended they were invisible, too, then it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
His eyes flickered before he turned away for a moment. “Did you ever find out who the woman was? Did you overhear your mother mention her name?”
“No. Or if I did, I don’t remember now.”
She made a move to stand up and get more coffee, but he reached over and grabbed her wrists. “Are you sure? You lived with the man. Maybe you saw something and thought it best to keep quiet.”
A spot of anger flooded the space behind her eyes. “No, I don’t. And why are you asking me these questions about my father? What has he got to do with anything?”
“Just a name, Jillian. Don’t you remember a name?”
She pulled her hands away from his and stood, disappointment and anger flashing through her in equal measure. “Why won’t you trust me?”
He stood, too, the shadows in the dimly lit room slipping over the muscles and skin of his bare chest. “Why should I?”
She stepped away from him. She couldn’t seem to think clearly when he was standing so close. He’d been right about the food. There had always been a need in her to keep people close to her by making things for them. She had learned that from her parents. But with Linc, she’d wanted to earn his friendship on her own terms. Only that was no longer possible. They stood staring at each other for several long moments, listening to the wind and rain beat at the house, obliterating the sound of their breathing as tears stung her eyes. “Who do you think sent you the money to get away from here?”
His eyes opened wide and he took a step toward her, then stopped.
“It was my emergency fund my grandmother had given me—just in case I ever needed to leave my parents and get to Pawleys.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I figured you being in jail was an emergency, so I sent it anonymously to Chief Weber. I knew I could trust him to give it to you.”
Linc raked his hands through his hair, then looked back at her. “I didn’t know.” He took a step toward her. “Please don’t cry, Jillian. . . .”
She held up her hand to stop him from coming closer. “I have something else I need to tell you.” She left the kitchen and went into the front parlor before kneeling in front of the sofa and reaching underneath, searching for the box.
Panicking, her fingers at first touched only old dust bunnies and discarded change. But she remembered sticking the box under this side of the sofa. She shifted to the right and stuck her fingers in again, this time touching something small and hard. Sitting up, she pulled out the box.
She turned, not surprised to see that Linc had followed her and was standing in the doorway. “Lauren’s box,” he said, his voice uneven.
Jillian nodded and walked toward him before placing the box in his hand. Lightning lit up the sky, creating daylight for a brief second, and the lights dimmed as if in awe. She watched until Linc’s long, elegant fingers wrapped around the dark wood before she left the room, waiting for the next roll of thunder to come.
CHAPTER 18
LINC WAS SURPRISED HIS HANDS COULD REMAIN STEADY AS HE moved toward the sofa and sat down, staring at the box as if it were a jellyfish getting ready to strike. He was aware Jillian had left the room and was glad she’d gone. He wasn’t sure why; just that whatever emotions were unleashed when he lifted the lid, he didn’t want them to hurt her.
His gaze shifted to the empty doorway, his thoughts startling him. When had Jillian’s feelings become so important to him?
Rain pelted the house, the wind pulsing against the eaves, urging him to continue. He lifted the lid slowly. Inside, he saw the wooden star first and took it out, the wood oddly warm against his palm. Here’s your star—right here on earth. You can make it shine, and don’t ever let anybody tell you different. Linc smiled as he remembered what he’d told Jillian when he’d given her the star, almost embarrassed at how idealistic he had once been. Returning his attention to the box, he felt the surety that whatever idealism he had left was about to be destroyed completely.
He placed the star on the table in front of him, then reached in for the worn piece of paper. Slowly, he unfolded it, the middle crease tearing slightly as he held the letter open. For the second time that night, he felt as if someone were holding his head underwater, the feeling of drowning so intense he felt the need to gasp for air.
Linc recognized his own handwriting first, and then the actual letter. He could almost see a younger version of his hand, holding tightly to the pen as it flew across the paper, the words of an angry young man bleeding across the page.
I have started this letter about a hundred times, and I guess there’s really only one thing I’m trying to say. I love you, Lauren. I thought we had something permanent. But now you won’t see me, and I don’t know why. You don’t even have the guts to meet with me and explain. You once told me that there’s a thin line between love and hate—and I think I now understand what you meant.
I’ve given you everything, and I’ve got nothing left. I should have known from the start that it would never be enough for you and that your heart was always for sale to the highest bidder. You have killed a part of me, and I hope I have the chance to return the favor.
Maybe it’s best we don’t meet. I want to shake you so hard, to make you see. To remember what we had. But I h
onestly don’t think I can promise not to hurt you. I hate you as much as I love you, and that’s a very dangerous thing.
Linc looked up from the letter, surprised to find himself alone in the room. It was as if the words on the page had somehow conjured Lauren, with her bright, knowing smile and her sun-bronzed skin. He could almost swear he smelled suntan lotion.
He stood, his legs shaky. Before he could call for Jillian, she was there, standing with a tall glass of iced tea and a plate of lemon bars. He almost smiled at yet another food offering, but instead took the plate and glass and set them on the table.
Holding the paper out in front of him, he approached Jillian. “You’ve read this, then.”
She nodded, her dark eyes unreadable.
“And you never showed it to anybody. Even when you knew this could be considered strong evidence that I had done something to Lauren.”
Again she nodded, and he saw her pulse beating rapidly under the soft skin of her throat.
He let the letter float to the ground as he closed the distance between them. He laced his fingers through her hair, cupping her head and tilting her face toward him. “Why, Jillian? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
She surprised him by bringing her hands up to his face, cupping them as he’d seen her do to Gracie when explaining something important. Her words were quiet, hardly audible against the sound of the beating rain upon the house. “Because I know who you are, Linc. I always have.”
He gripped her to him as her words sunk in, feeling the small, slender shoulders that suddenly seemed so strong. Why had he never recognized the silent strength behind her need and hopefulness? Because I know who you are, Linc. I always have.
Relief, anger and hope fired at him simultaneously, leaving him drained and empty. He realized he still clutched Jillian as he sank down on his knees, and she followed him. His eyes searched hers, looking for the girl he thought had abandoned him, and instead finding a woman who’d never given up hope. It embarrassed him and it humbled him, and the only thing he could think to do was to lean forward and kiss her.
Her mouth opened to his as if she’d expected his kiss, and said his name as lightning flashed again, making the electric lights flicker before going out completely. He touched her face with his fingers as he kissed her, feeling the soft skin of her cheeks, the dampness of her tears, the solidness of her bones, and her invisible strength in the way she held her head. The strength of her presence seemed to make the tips of his finger burn in the same way they did when he was creating something. Except this time, the energy flew both ways, molding and creating him in the same way he would carve a star out of wood.
He lifted his mouth and pressed his forehead against hers. “Why didn’t you tell me? All these months, you could have told me, but you didn’t. Why?”
He breathed heavily in the darkness, feeling her curves and angles against his body and listening to the storm outside. She kept her forehead pressed against his when she finally spoke.
“Because . . . I . . . I guess I don’t really know.” His fingers on the smooth skin of her neck felt her swallow as she struggled to find the right words. “I think, though, that maybe I wanted you to like me again—to trust me—on my own. It was . . . it was sort of like an experiment.” He heard the smile in her voice. “I didn’t need to bring you food.”
He rubbed his face against hers, feeling his desire for her like a flood tide moving from his fingertips and up his arms and throughout his body, until he thought he might drown from it. He hardened and moved her closer. “I wanted to hate you—don’t you know that? All of these years I taught myself to hate you, thinking you were just like your father. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair, moving like the rivulets of rain on the windows, slipping with purpose toward unknown destinations. She brushed her lips against his again. “Don’t say anything at all.”
He stared at her in the dark, seeing nothing but seeking the light she seemed to be shining in the blackness around him, like a polestar in the night sky. He reached for her then, laying her on the floor and then moving on top of her. Thunder rattled their world, and he bent close to her ear. “Are you afraid?”
Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating her face and eyes for a brief moment, electrifying the air between them, and he thought he could smell the burnt ions melding together with the scents of wet sand and ocean. He felt her shake her head. “No. Just don’t let go.” Then he touched her lips with his and closed his eyes with a sigh.
Jillian was aware of the storm and of the pressing darkness around them, but Linc’s weight anchored her, keeping her safe from whatever it was that hid in dark spaces. She shifted beneath him, opening her mouth to his kiss, and wondered fleetingly how it could all feel so right.
Her nightshirt had already slid above her hips and his hands followed, long and sleek against her bare skin, moving in rhythm to the rain against the tin roof. She could feel his rain-soaked jeans along the length of her legs, and said the first thing that came to her. “We need to get you out of those pants.”
He grinned against her cheek, his stubble brushing her jaw. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
She grinned back, acknowledging the lack of awkwardness between them, as if the two of them together had been meant to happen and all the years in between had simply been a waiting time. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He stood and pulled her with him, keeping her hand in his. Kissing her neck, he whispered in her ear, “I won’t let go.”
“I know.” She buried her face in the warm space between his neck and shoulder before allowing him to lead her slowly up the darkened stairs, his hand solid against hers.
The wind pushed at the house as they reached her bedroom, and Linc turned to her. “Do I need to turn on a flashlight?”
Her heart jerked in her chest at the knowledge that he would remember her fear of the dark, and she lifted her hands to his face. “No.” She wanted to tell him that he seemed to give the room light—not the light that she could see, but a light that seemed to fill her from the inside. But she didn’t say it out loud. Linc was still the boy who had been embarrassed by shows of emotion, and had once given her a wooden star by first poking her in the arm with it. She smiled at the memory, and pulled him with her toward the bed.
The raging sky and stormy ocean faded from the periphery of her awareness, leaving her conscious of only Linc: of his touch, his scent, his weight on her as he moved on top of her on the bed. They moved together without words, seeming to sense what the other needed. She lifted her hips and he slid her nightgown over her head, and they both worked on removing his wet jeans and underwear, dropping them in a sodden heap on the floor.
His bare skin was warm and damp and solid on hers, his fingers and mouth starving for her flesh, feasting on the curves and hollows of her body. This is Linc, she reminded herself. Only it was and it wasn’t. This beautiful man with the beautiful hands that seemed to know her body was the man he had become, not the boy who had once belonged to Lauren and to the things he created and nothing more. This man belonged to her at this moment, and she felt as if they became a part of each other, belonging to each other as much as the tides belonged to the ocean and the grains of sand to the shore.
His hands and lips moved lower, tasting her, sucking on her, feeding on her, and she cried out with impatience, needing to feel more of him. He had always been a part of her, and now she wanted to make it real.
She opened her legs to him and he surprised her by pausing for a moment, supporting himself on his elbows, his face in the shadows but poised above hers. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
She nodded, pressing her hips upward to rub against him, and she heard him groan.
“No, I mean . . . you just had a baby. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Smiling, she reached up and touched his face, feeling the soft stubble under her fingertips. “The doctor said I’m fine.” Pressing herself up
ward, she kissed him softly on his lips. “And I want this—very much.”
“Thank God,” he said, lowering himself on her again, and she smiled against his kiss.
He slid into her with a hard, deep thrust, but she was hot and slick and ready for him. She cried out with the joy of it as he began to move with sure and steady strokes. He threaded his fingers through hers, drawing her arms above her head, opening her to him even more. They moved together in timeless rhythm, and he was saying her name while loving her with his hands and body. She didn’t think to feel self-conscious of the new fullness of her hips and breasts. He made her feel beautiful and perfect, and she opened herself to him, feeling the heat between them build until they both reached fulfillment together.
“Jillian,” he said, his body slick with sweat as he collapsed on top of her, then moved to her side, cradling her head against his shoulder. She could feel the blood pump through her veins, her body like the creek at high tide, the life-giving waters moving from its source into the tiny estuaries, bringing sustenance to all the parched places she had kept hidden all her life.
Linc kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She could sense he was struggling for the right words. Maybe to express remorse for doubting her, or maybe to apologize for making love to her before all the ground rules between them had been presented.
Pressing her fingers against his lips, she whispered, “Shh. It’s all right.” He had always expressed himself eloquently through his hands rather than with words, and she would not have him feel inadequate when his touch alone had shifted her world onto an even keel.
She closed her eyes, pressing herself against his side, feeling sleep pulling her under. “Just . . . be. Be here with me now. We’ll deal with the rest later.”