The House On The Creek

by Sarah Remy

  The car eased to a stop behind Abby’s ancient Mercedes. Dust settled, dulling the sports car’s fresh from the factory sheen.

  Now he’ll have to get it washed, Abby thought with a great deal of satisfaction. Serves him right for driving a car like that up here. He knows how bad the roads are.

  Or maybe he didn’t. Abby felt her stomach dip again as Everett stepped out into the heat. Maybe he’d forgotten.

  For a brief moment she was uneasy, ashamed of the rutted dirt drive and embarrassed by the shoe box sized house that crouched bravely in the dust.

  She crossed her arms more tightly across her chest and burned the doubts away with another flare of temper. Nobody, especially not Everett Anderson, had the right to make her feel ashamed.

  Not Everett, who’d taken most of his meals at her mother’s table. Done his homework on their front porch. Why, hadn’t she patched his torn trousers and cut down a few of her dad’s shirts when Everett had grown out of his own?

  Only, he wasn’t wearing patched trousers and hand-me-downs anymore. His slacks were grey and perfectly tailored. He wore a simple cotton t shirt green as the Creek woods. Green as the depths of his eyes. The watch on his wrist was gold and the shoes on his feet looked like good leather.

  He wore his shades with the old air of arrogance she remembered from childhood. In his right hand he carried a bouquet of white daisies.

  “Abigail,” he drawled, pausing in front of the porch steps and tilting his head in her direction. “You’ve given your ma’s place a face lift.”

  “Just some paint and new boards.” It had been her first real project and she was absurdly proud that he’d noticed. “It’ll do us for now.”

  “It looks good,” he said, and Abby could hear reluctant honesty in the admission. “Still smaller than a bread box, but prettier. Ma Ross must be happy.”

  “Mom’s dead.” Abby tried to ignore the lump that still formed in the back of her throat whenever she thought of her mother. “Dead and buried almost a year, now.”

  “I’m sorry, Abby.” And she knew that he meant it.

  She still couldn’t see his eyes past the blue lenses. He seemed to hesitate, and then recall the flowers in his hand. “These are for you.”

  “Why?” She didn’t want to take the offering, but white daisies were her favorite, always had been, and he knew it. She had the flowers in her arms before she could shake her head no.

  They smelled of spring and youth and shade beneath the hot sun. She cradled the offering gently, and sternly kept herself from burying her face in the soft petals.

  “An apology. My behavior yesterday was...inexcusable.” But he didn’t sound sorry. His voice was flat, Virginia drawl clipped. Abby wished, again, that she could see his eyes.

  “You said some nasty things.”

  “I know.” His left hand curled and uncurled at his side. Abby wondered that he didn’t seem to notice the movement. “I’m sorry. But you know the old man, Abby. His taste for women. And you got his house and his money.”

  Abby felt blood rise in a flush along her chest and neck. “So you assumed I’d just whored myself out.”

  He mouth had turned hard. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Rage heated her cheeks and Abby could hear her pulse thumping in her ears. “Little Abby Ross who always wanted money but never had any. Who’d kiss the boys at school because they’d give her candy and pop. Who always talked about the rich husband she’d marry and the big house they’d have. But that didn’t happen. You knew it wouldn’t. And maybe you just assumed I’d grow up and be a whore.”

  “Just like your ma.” Everett’s voice was Southern soft and full of venom.

  Fury flashed red. Abby tossed the daisies into the dust at Everett’s feet and swung around, intending to take the boil of her emotions into the safety of the house.

  He was up the steps before she could reach the door. His fingers locked around her elbow and he pulled her around. She stumbled on the edge of the porch and started to fall but his arm clamped around her waist and held her still.

  They stood for an instant, pressed thigh to thigh. Abby could see the faint tick of pulse in his tanned throat, and she thought she could smell the Creek off his skin.

  He’d smelled like that, like earth and tree and wet loam, so many years ago when they had wrestled in the water. She remembered drifting in the deep green current on the summer evenings, flesh against flesh. She remembered the sweet urgency and crude innocence of his kisses.

  She knew, looking back, that she was the first girl he’d ever tasted.

  Fresh heat warmed the pit of her belly. A fire that had nothing to do with temper.

  He looked down at her, his face very still, his arm a vise around her waist. His mouth had softened and his shades slipped down along his nose. Beyond their tilt Abby could at last see the expression in his eyes.

  Cool and remote and somehow faintly puzzled.

  He shifted slightly, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek.

  “Mom! The toast’s burning!”

  Abby saw the flash of disbelief in those green eyes, followed by something that looked very like horror. He released her so abruptly that she swayed and fetched up off kilter against the porch railing.

  When she straightened and turned, Everett had left her. He stood on the doormat, hands in his pockets, straight and stiff in as Chris faced him down with all the indignation a boy nearly twelve could muster.

  Chapter Five

  “MOM,” CHRIS REPEATED when Abby didn’t move. He stared at Everett as he spoke. “My toast’s burning.”

  Abby could smell the dry scent of smoke and charred bread. She brushed past her son and into the house.

  Smoke filled the kitchen, issuing in billows from the toaster. Abby grabbed a hot pad from a hook on the wall and yanked at the smoldering grill, trying to free it from the oven. The grill made an angry grinding sound as it came free. Three pieces of withered toast burned on the rack.

  “Toss it in the sink!” Chris suggested from somewhere in the smoke. “Douse ‘em!”

  Abby’s eyes watered and her nose itched. She balanced the grill away from her body, feeling foolish. In the hall past the kitchen the smoke detector began to wail, late.

  “Dammit!” She yelped.

  “Mom.” Chris materialized at her side. “The toast is still burning.”

  A hand, wrapped in one of Abby’s colorful dishtowels, reached from the smoke and snagged the grill. Over the angry alarm she heard the crackling sound of burnt toast hitting the bottom of her enamel sink and then groan of pipes as the tap ran. More smoke billowed and Chris sneezed.

  “Chris, the window,” Abby began, but Everett interrupted.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “Turn on the fan over the range.”

  Abby fumbled until she found the switch on the oven, and then heaved a sigh of relief when the whirred to life. The black smoke seemed to clear almost immediately. The detector in the hall went blessedly silent.

  Ears ringing, Abby wiped her eyes and looked around. Her son stood next to the toaster oven, peering doubtfully at its innards.

  “Careful, it’s still hot,” she warned, and then glanced over at the sink.

  Everett unwrapped the dish towel from his hand with a grace he’d only began to show as a teenager. He stood with one hip propped against her counter, apparently at ease. Spots of water darkened his t shirt and a back splotch of soot marked his forearm. His eyes were narrowed against the haze.

  “Toaster’s dead, Mom.” Chris announced. “The heating element’s fried. Told you it was bad.”

  “It was about done for,” Abby agreed. She wanted to smile at her son’s mournful tone. She swallowed her amusement and watched Everett warily. “You burn your hand?”

  His expression was remote, guarded. “No. Just your towel.” He held up the square of red and Abby saw two quarter sized holes seared into the fabric.

  “Bad day for the kitchen,” she said light
ly, and forced herself to cross linoleum and take the towel from his hand.

  “What were you doing in here, barbecuing?”

  “Very funny. Chris was making toast.”

  “I forgot about it,” Chris said. Guilt or defiance turned his nose pink.

  She sent him a reassuring smile. “We’ll blame it on the fancy sports car. Chris, I told you about Mr. Anderson.”

  “Everett.” He corrected, “Mr. Anderson was my dad.”

  “Christopher,” her child said. He abandoned the toaster and manfully held out a hand.

  Everett took the boy’s hand and shook it silently. Abby didn’t like the calculating light in his green eyes as he studied her son.

  “Thanks for the help,” Chris said. “How’d you know about the fan above the range?”

  “Your mom tried to bake a pie in this kitchen years ago. Nearly burned the house to ashes. I saved her butt and helped her clean up the mess before her ma got home.”

  Chris snorted. Abby felt her own lips curl in response.

  “If I remember it rightly,” she said, quirking a brow, “you were the one who wanted the pie in the first place.”

  Everett remained impassive. “Don’t recall. You’ll need a new toaster oven.” He considered the relic on the counter with obvious distaste.

  Chris nodded and started to reply, but the house phone shrilled, cutting him off.

  “I’ll get it.” He dashed from the kitchen with an energy that made Abby blink.

  She stood for a moment without moving, listening to the wordless murmur of her son’s voice in the next room.

  “Phone still in the back closet?”

  Abby turned, wondering if it was scorn she heard beneath his drawl. “Mom liked it there. I’ve never bothered to put in another jack.”

  “Boy’s a sharp one.” He hadn’t moved from his slouch against the counter but Abby felt suddenly trapped, pinned to the floor by his scowl.

  “He is something,” Abby grinned. “One day he’ll be President.” She tried to make it a joke, but couldn’t quite hide the quiver of pride in her throat.

  “Where’s his daddy?”

  Abby swallowed. “You’ve got burnt toast on you.” She grabbed a clean rag. “Let me get it off.”

  She wet a corner of the rag, and rubbed at the mark on his forearm. He jerked, but didn’t pull away. Goosebumps popped up on the flesh beneath her hand and tiny pale hairs stood along his arm.

  She peeked sideways at his face from beneath her lashes and then froze. His mouth was drawn tight, his nostrils pinched.

  “Boy’s got my old man’s eyes,” Everett said quietly. “Dark and blue as the night sky in deep summer.”

  Abby dropped the towel into the sink and took three steps away, muscles quivering. She feared sudden rage would make her scream, or simply weaken her knees and drop her to the floor.

  “Get out of my house.”

  “You set yourself up nicely, Abby. Got Edward’s house. Got whatever was left in his bank account.”

  “Your father was poor as a mouse and you know it.” Abby whispered. “He drank it all away before you were six.”

  “And you got yourself his bastard,” Everett continued, ruthless. The bones in his face seemed to stand out and Abby watched in horrified fascination as his fingers clenched white on the edge of her counter. “Your ma weep in embarrassment or pat you on the back?”

  Hatred fizzled orange and exploded behind Abby’s eyes. She reached for a weapon, any weapon. She wanted a knife, to cut him the way his cruelty stabbed at her heart. Instead her groping fingers found the round canister she used to store her flour.

  She heaved the cylinder with all of her strength.

  The canister crashed against the counter and spilled flour in a waterfall onto linoleum. Everett was across the kitchen before it hit, his fingers digging into Abby’s shoulders, his breath blowing quick and hot against her brow.

  “Still got your temper,” he said. Abby thought she could hear his teeth grind. “Good. I hope you railed at him every last day of his life.”

  “Get out.” Abby spat the words through shaking lips. And then, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she kicked out at his knee.

  She missed. Hands still grinding into her shoulders, Everett pressed her back against the front of the range, holding her still and helpless with the length of his body.

  Even through slacks and t shirt Abby could feel the fire of his flesh. He radiated heat. Rage, she thought. And her own temper rose to meet it.

  “Get out!” She repeated, refusing to raise her voice and alarm Chris, trying to express her disgust in a hiss.

  He didn’t seem to hear. “I hope you made him sorry he ever touched you. I hope you chased and shouted him right to an early grave.”

  Something in his voice made Abby pause, fists raised to strike at his chest. She looked up and saw that the anger had drained from his eyes. Tension etched across his brow in tiny lines, and the corners of his mouth creased downward as if in pain.

  “Ev,” she said slowly, understanding all at once.

  “Shut up,” he ordered. And kissed her.

  She remembered sweet, fumbling kisses and a boy’s questing hands. This was different. There was nothing of sweetness in possession.

  He took her mouth as if he meant to claim it, scalding with his tongue, dragging her up against his chest to bring her even closer. She felt one callused palm against the back of her neck and he tilted her head upward and ground his mouth against her own.

  Abby should have been frightened. The force of his need might have hurt. Instead it started a spark low in her belly, a heat that quickly spread. She felt the muscles in her back melt even as she stretched for more.

  He kissed her as though he intended to conquer. Deep, demanding, as though he meant to swallow her whole. And beneath the hunger a thread that was a question. It was that tiny hesitation that made Abby open her mouth and respond.

  Everett groaned against her mouth. He parted her thighs with one knee and pushed her up against the range until the abused metal shuddered. She felt the distinct swell of his desire through the fabric of her skirt.

  She couldn’t help herself. His urgency and the flick of his tongue against her teeth fogged her brain. She heard tiny whimpers and realized that the sounds were her own. She rocked her hips, moving helplessly against the bulge in his slacks.

  Everett groaned again and his hands found their way up beneath her skirt, searching, stroking.

  Abby gasped and dug her nails into the front of his T shirt. Her body answered his unspoken demand and her knee lifted slightly, allowing his hand to slip between her thighs.

  As though from very far away, she heard a sharp click and sizzle. And then she smelled propane.

  She stiffened. His hand was still under her skirt and his tongue grazed her lips. She quivered and almost went back under.

  “Everett.” She pushed at his chest. He didn’t seem to notice. The smell grew stronger.

  “Ev!” This time she pushed with all of her strength. He barely budged, but his mouth left hers and the searching hands retreated. Breathing heavily, he regarded her with lazy assurance, eyelids half mast.

  “The range,” she said, squirming between his legs. “You turned it on.”

  “I turned it on?” He stepped back, letting her free. He kept one hand clasped around her wrist, and his smile grew faintly mocking.

  Abby blushed and was furious with herself when his grin widened. “We turned it on. Move away.” She swooshed a hand at him. “Let me switch it off before we start another fire.”

  He retreated further, releasing her hand. His breath warmed her shoulders as she fiddled with the knobs on the ancient appliance. A finger trailed along the back of her neck and she shivered in reaction.

  “You’re still a danger in the kitchen.” The tip of his finger found its way along the curve of her ear.

  He sounded so very Southern, and so very pleased with himself. Abby bit down
on a smile.

  “Usually I let Chris do the cooking. He’s less destructive.”

  She meant to make him smile, but it was the wrong thing to say. He went still against her backbone and then his finger left her ear and he stepped away. When she turned he stood across the kitchen, fists on either side of the sink.

  “How old is he?” He stared out the kitchen window, expressionless.

  “Twelve at the end of March.”

  “Twelve at the end of March.” The venom was back. He seemed to have forgotten the way his hands kindled her body.