by Dana Taylor
I hated to admit it, but he'd awakened a fiery need in me that couldn't be reasoned away. I became a wee hours prowler, waking after a couple of hours sleep, aching to be touched in private places. Tossing and turning, setting my mind on peaceful meditations, only to have it traitorously reliving moments when his arms, hands and mouth had been all over me.
Pacing the empty rooms, I wondered, did he miss me? Was I just a bad memory? Worse, was I of so little significance that I'd been completely forgotten? What was he doing right now? Had Christina made the transition from guest room to master bedroom?
Depression is a debilitating thing. I could feel myself sliding into a dark hole, like a person suddenly flung into the recesses of a deep well. I clawed at the sides, trying to find a foothold up, but the walls were smooth and slimy. My connection with God seemed severed. My mind knew He was there, but my soul couldn't find Him. Every time I opened my Bible gloomy passages leapt into view:
O Lord, rebuke me not in thy anger, nor chasten me in thy wrath! Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck.
Sheesh. Meditation left me morose. No amount of mood music, self-help books, Scripture, or long walks could bring back my peace and serenity.
I forced myself to go to the store, go through the motions of normalcy, but I couldn't make the simplest of decisions. Getting ready in the morning, I would stand before my closet staring at the rack of clothes, frozen in indecision. What should I wear? The red or the blue? It seemed an insurmountable dilemma. On several days I told Mavis I had come down with a flu bug and stayed huddled in my bed. I lost my appetite and quit being conscientious about my dietary choices.
I even ate candy bars. I had sunk that low.
* * * *
Thanksgiving Day loomed on the horizon. Mavis invited me to her house; the Raleigh sisters told me to come on by; Ethel Barry planned a big bash and I'd fit right in. She had a cousin she wanted me to meet. My mother called to say she and Mr. Peters were staying in Florida for the holidays. The weather was just so much nicer there. She welcomed me to fly out and join them.
I opted to serve meals at the Rescue Mission, the utilitarian clubhouse of an old downtown church. I needed to be needed. All the invitations made me feel like a third wheel.
The mission was loaded with the street people of Oklahoma City-rheumy-eyed alcoholics with uncut hair and Salvation Army clothes. Entire families waited in line and single moms jostled toddlers in their arms. I plopped down the mashed potatoes and smiled. Each recipient said thank you to every server.
Despite the cold cinderblock walls, chipped tables and torn plastic chairs, a holiday spirit prevailed and for the first time in several weeks, the dark clouds in my soul parted. I made friends with a couple from Germany who enjoyed spending their day serving the poor. We all laughed at the jokes of a rotund volunteer named Sam, who looked like Santa Claus.
Observing the mass of humanity making the best of difficult times, a wave of shame washed over me about the way I'd been acting. Time to end the pity party. Time to shake off my self-absorption, join the real world, and put thoughts of the Jason Brooks clan far, far out of mind.
It was over. Done. Finished. My period of personal mourning ended.
I was a twenty-first century gal, strong enough to move on with my life and not moon over some lost love. Jason Brooks could just fly off into his wild blue yonder forever for all I cared.
Driving Lizzie home, I cranked up a Shania Twain CD and sang sassy girl-power songs at full volume. Maybe I'd take on a whole new persona, become a kick-ass Charlie's Angel, and give up my granny dresses for leather skirts and high-heeled boots.
Jason's biplane was buzzing over my house when I pulled in the driveway about 4 o'clock. I sat momentarily in the truck contemplating my next move. The late afternoon sun had taken the chill out of the air, but choppy winds brought up swirls of leaves from the ground.
My fingers drummed the steering wheel as common sense warred with emotion. Common sense told me there were things I needed to do. Orion was probably starving, if he hadn't indulged in too many mice. He'd love the dark turkey meat I'd brought home for him. It would be a good time to run the vacuum and do some much-needed dusting. Maybe clean out the refrigerator.
The hum of the plane persisted like a siren's call.
I never made it into the house. The buzz of the airplane engine drew me like a fly to honey.
It was stupid, stupid to be crossing the field, hopping the creek and heading over the rise. I just wanted a peek. See him in that flight jacket bringing the plane down. Just see him...
What an idiot. What a dope. What a sucker.
I trotted toward the sound, breaking into a run until I was standing at the border to his property, gasping for breath. The plane made a beautiful landing, the wheels kicking up dirt as it taxied to a stop. I waited at the edge of the field, hands in my coat pockets, drawn by a force I couldn't resist.
He jumped out of the cockpit, tossed his goggles and helmet inside, and strode straight for me. He'd seen me drive Lizzie onto my property, probably spied my progress running across the fields. His masculine gait made my head rush. The leather jacket gave him the look of a dashing World War II flyer. Steely purpose bore down on me and I'm sure I stopped breathing. He didn't halt until his hand had palmed the back of my head, his other arm firmly latched around my waist. His mouth hovered within an inch of mine.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Miss Jones,” he said in a low guttural tone.
Then, thank God, he kissed me. I moaned and flung my arms around him, my hands digging into the leather of his jacket. I drank in his kisses as if I'd been lost in a desert and just found an oasis.
He pulled me tighter to him, frustrated by the bulk of our winter coverings. He kissed my cheeks, my eyes, and finally the top of my head, where he rested his chin. We stood wrapped in each other's arms, gulping deep breaths.
My ear felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke. “This business of not seeing each other isn't working."
My eyes teared up and my voice squeaked. “I know."
He dropped his arms and took my hand. “Let's walk."
His hand felt solid and strong in mine. Oh, Lord, how much I'd missed him. I never wanted to let go.
We headed toward the line of trees that followed the creek where we'd kissed in the summer. The dramatic change of seasons mirrored the change in our relationship. From sunshine and bright colors to overcast and barren. All the leaves had dropped from the limbs and crunched noisily underfoot. Slanting afternoon sun cast long shadows under the naked branches.
"You haven't forgotten me,” I said stupidly.
He stopped in his tracks and laughed. “Forgotten you? Forgotten you? You ruined a two-thousand dollar suit and are costing me a few thousand more for an ad campaign for an election that shouldn't even be taking place."
"That isn't what I meant ... And I'm really sorry about the suit."
He sighed. “I know you are ... I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too."
He drew me down to sit on an outcropping of rocks. “Mother misses you. I've had to unplug the phone so she wouldn't call you every night to update you on her soap operas. She thinks the phone is out of order."
"How's Val?"
"She's trying very hard to be the perfect daughter to Christina. She thinks if she does everything right her mother won't leave her again. At least I assume that's what's going on."
I tried to be casual with my next question. “So, how's Christina?"
He smiled at my feigned nonchalance. “Fine, for now. Still sleeping in the guest-room, if you're wondering and I'm sure you are. I'm helping her sort out John's estate. She's my daughter's mother. She'll always be a responsibility."
"But such a beautiful responsibility."
"She's fine if you like Barbie dolls.” He shrugged. “Besides she doesn't smell right. French perfume doesn't have the appeal of the lavender oil you put in your hair."
He grabbed me for a quick
kiss and then let go with a jolt. He stood and paced the dirt before me. “God, you drive me crazy. You're not in my game plan. You're impulsive, you're flaky, you don't dress right. You would clutter up my house with knickknacks, pillows and potpourri."
"I'd hang wallpaper in your kitchen."
"Exactly."
"I'm not easily controlled."
"Precisely."
"I'm just what you need."
He placed his hands on his hips and jutted his stubborn chin. “I don't need anybody. Especially someone as disturbing as you."
I shot off my rocky perch to take him on. “I'm disturbing! What about you-a man who is not in touch with his feelings? You want to intellectually control all the aspects of your life and it burns you that you can't just coldly set me aside. I, on the other hand, let feelings rule my life. I understand what I'm feeling. I'm in love with you. It's a fact.” My voice wobbled as I struggled for control. “I can't change it. But I've lost at love before. I've been going through a mourning period over you, but I'll get over it."
I turned away from him, somewhat embarrassed by my declaration of love that only increased his scowl. My arm reached up and found a low limb. The rough bark grazed my palm, a physical reminder of the dull pain in my heart.
I spoke in a quieter tone. “However, I don't think I can go on living next door to you. Maybe it's time that I move on. Maybe it would be better for both of us."
He sighed and crossed to my back, then wrapped his arms around my waist. “We're under a lot of stress right now. Let's not make any rash plans. We should get through this silly election. Let the media attention go away. I'd like to break through this impasse between us.” His chin nuzzled my head. “Would you take a real look at the whole farm proposal with an open mind if I sent you a prospectus?"
"Of course, I'm very open-minded.” I sniffed.
"Uh-huh.” He turned me around in his arms. “I don't know what to do about you."
"Oh, just shut-up and kiss me."
He obliged and proceeded to kiss me senseless. Wonderful. Sublime.
He didn't hate me. He wasn't even really angry. More like annoyed. I could live with that.
This wasn't over yet.
Chapter Eleven
-
Saturday morning at the store began with a desperate call from Rachel Ross.
"I'm so worried about Isaac,” she whispered. I could picture her keeping an eye out for Jeremiah. “He was better for a while, but he had a terrible night, vomiting and crying. He can't even hold down water. I'm so worried..."
Her voice trailed off into a fit of tears.
Enough was enough. “Now Rachel, you listen to me, take that child to a doctor. Even if he just has a virus, he could die from dehydration. And it could be something far more serious."
"Jeremiah would never forgive me."
"Will you forgive Jeremiah if your son dies when he could have been saved by medical treatment? Could you forgive yourself?"
"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do..."
"You wouldn't have called me if you didn't want some help. I'll take responsibility. I'm calling an ambulance. Get Isaac ready for a ride to the hospital."
Rachel gasped. “Oh, my Lord."
"Rachel, God uses many paths to healing, including modern medicine. Wrap your boy in a blanket. Don't say anything to Jeremiah. When the EMS guys get there, let them handle your husband."
Rachel took an audible deep breath. “God give me strength."
I hung up and dialed 911. If I hadn't been alone in the store, I would have driven over to the Ross farm, but that might have made matters worse. A prayer for healing and peace seemed in order. I sent one up and hoped it sailed to the Ross residence.
Customers kept me busy for a couple of hours until Valerie charged in the door.
"Hey, what happened to my mural?"
"Well, it's nice to see you, too.” It was good to see her. Her clothes had a preppy look, very different from her usual semi-gothic attire. Some of the edgy energy was missing from her today, replaced by melancholia.
"My window was vandalized, honey. Someone painted over your pretty pictures. I had to clean the whole thing off. I'm sorry."
"Oh, man. Maybe I can do another one."
I didn't think Jason would want her hanging around the enemy camp and wind up with her picture in the papers. “Maybe after the first of the year. I've got the Christmas decorations up right now. How have you been? Are you enjoying having your mom around?"
She sat at a stool in front of the juice bar and proceeded to swivel back and forth in semi-circles.
"Yeah, I guess. Seems like she's either shopping or on the phone. Dad's gonna have a spaz when he gets the bill. I hear her calling her friends in Europe all the time. She and grandma are checking out that new boutique up the street right now. Dad's getting a haircut."
"A real family afternoon out, hmm?"
"Yeah, we're probably going to go out for dinner and a movie later."
A pang of jealousy shot right through me. I wanted to be part of that picture, passing the popcorn, indulging in a fizzy soft drink, holding hands in the dark.
Ruth and Christina made their entrance at that point, interrupting my fantasy. Ruth was laden with several shopping bags, while Christina carried her small shoulder strap purse.
Christina called to Val. “There you are, baby. You shouldn't wander off like that. You could get lost."
"I'm twelve years old, not two. I know my way around downtown. Don't I, Grandma?"
Ruth was puffing a bit. “Yes, dear, you know everything."
I hurried to take her bags.
She sighed with relief. “Thank you, honey. Christina's been doing her Christmas shopping."
"Why are you carrying all the bags?” I asked, setting them behind the counter.
"Christina doesn't carry bags. It throws her back out of alignment."
Christina smiled at me with her baby-doll grin. She was outfitted in a snug pants suit that showed off her perky bust line. Her alignment looked pretty good to me.
Ruth wandered toward the back room. “Oh, my, I need to sit down. I'm just going to watch a few minutes of TV while you all visit."
Christina opened the natural cosmetic jars on the shelves and sniffed. “Val was begging to see you, so Jason said he'll meet us here. He has something for you. Valerie has always been so independent. She takes after her father. Of course, I tell her men don't like independent women. I keep telling her, it's easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar."
Val hopped off the stool. “I keep telling you, I'm not interested in catching flies."
"Oh, you know what I mean. You need to refine your nature and learn how to be soft and gentle. Spiky hair and deep purple lipstick will not attract desirable friends. Don't you agree, Miss Jones?"
"I guess it depends on your definition of ‘desirable friends.'” I doubted I'd fit her criteria, the bastard witchy woman.
She continued a lazy inspection of my products. “Now that my little girl is approaching womanhood, I feel it's important to train her in the ways of femininity. When I was her age, I attended charm school. We learned how to walk, how to set a table, proper etiquette. Nowadays, that's all a lost art. I'm going to teach her how to be a lady. Right, honey?"
Val smiled weakly. “Right."
Glancing at Val's long-suffering expression, I knew she was itching to yell, “Bite me!” But if transforming herself into a Stepford daughter would keep her mother around, she was willing to pay the price.
Christina kept up her monologue regarding ladylike behavior and her aspirations for Val marrying well. She roamed about the store casually touching the merchandise in an almost sensual manner. She had really perfected the role of simmering seductress and stayed in character at all times.
Val's true in-your-face personality was so very different. She'd shrivel inside if she tried to be her mom.
"Stand up straight, sweetheart,” Christina purred. “Pe
rfect posture is extremely important. When you enter a room, you need to make an entrance. Maybe I should enroll you in some theater classes. You did show a knack for it in that church drama. I loved performing."
Val stood mutely as Christina shoved her shoulders back and tilted her chin up. “That's much better."
Jason opened the shop door at that moment carrying a large notebook binder. Dressed casually for the afternoon, his face and hair gleamed from his recent trip to the barbershop. Would I never get over the urge to simply sigh when I saw him?
The twinkle had returned to his eye when he looked at me. “I've brought you some light reading."
My arms sagged as I took the book. “This must weigh ten pounds."
"Something like that.” He leaned in intimately. “It's the Peeler Pork prospectus. There will be a test."
The door opened again with a bang. Jeremiah Ross stood with the afternoon light outlining his dark clothes. Motionless, a deep scowl contorted his face.
Uh-oh...
He continued to stare and then slowly lifted one arm, pointing at me as if lightning bolts could strike from his fingers. “Daughter of Satan."
His voice roiled through the shop like God speaking to Charleton Heston. “Remove the evil spell you have cast upon our son. I should have known you were a witch. The symbols are everywhere. But the devil is the great pretender, the most beautiful angel before his fall. You appear as a creature of light, but I see now the darkness of deception. In the name of Jesus, Satan, I order you to depart from this place."
Jason took a deliberate step toward Jeremiah. “All right, that's enough. Get out of here."
"This devil's spawn pretended to be helping our Isaac, but all along you were making him sicker, weren't you?” Drops of spittle spewed from Jeremiah's mouth. “Then you turned my wife against me and sent my son into the hands of the wicked ones at the hospital."
Hugging the prospectus to my bosom, I said, “I'm sorry we went against your wishes, Jeremiah. I respect your beliefs, I really do. But I think you are a little extreme. The doctors will take very good care of Isaac."