“See,” Rip said as leaned back in his chair. “What did I tell you? No sputtering or spilled tea, even if you were choking to death. If that isn’t a lady, what is?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Never again,” he answered enigmatically. Without giving her time to answer, he reached for her eating utensils, then flipped his own out onto the table. “All right. Show me what you’d do with these things if we were having lobster or pheasant under glass.”
“You really mean it?”
“I mean it,” he said, his gaze steady.
Anna lined up the silverware, substituting the extra dinner forks and knives for the missing salad fork, soup spoon, dessert spoon and so forth. As she worked, she explained the Victorian origins of the system based on types of foods served in a particular order. She was just getting to the simple logic of starting with the utensil on the outside and moving inward when something occurred to her.
“Wait a minute! You can’t need this,” she accused him as she pointed the tines of a fork at his chest. “You must have been wining and dining clients in the best restaurants for years. How have you been getting by, if you can’t tell an iced tea spoon from a sugar shell?”
He propped his elbows on the table, supporting his chin with his hands as he answered. “By letting the clients begin first then copying them.”
“But as host, you’re supposed to begin and let them follow. What happens if nobody makes a move?”
His lips twitched. “In that case, I pick out the most elegant older woman I see nearby, and hope she knows what she’s doing.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not just buy a book?”
“I worked eighteen-hour days, seven days a week, to make a go of Peterson Systems,” he said with precision. “The proper fork just wasn’t important enough.”
“Now it is,” she said, her gaze steady on his face.
“Now it is,” he agreed.
A warning bell went off in Anna’s mind like a signal for retreat as she saw the warmth in the depths of his eyes. The waitress wasn’t the only female susceptible to his decisive manner or the self-deprecating charm he could display on command. The realization was a reminder that she was not there for pleasure, or even from curiosity.
Carefully aligning the utensils on the table, she said, “You know, I’m glad we have this opportunity to talk. There are so many things I’ve wanted to ask you. I wrote to you, but you never answered.”
“Didn’t I?”
“You know you didn’t. I used to think maybe you had nothing to say.” She could hear the undercurrent of hurt in her words. Funny—she thought she’d put that pain behind her.
“There was that. It also seemed better to cut all ties and let you get on with your life.”
The explanation was so simple it might really be true. Or maybe she only wanted to believe it.
Selecting her next words with care, she said, “The thing that bothers me most, I think, is that I never had a clear picture of what happened that night Tom disappeared. There was no indication of just how much or how little he was involved in the robbery. I wish you would tell me—”
“What purpose is it going to serve to rake it up again?” he asked with trenchant reason. “It’s over.”
“No, it isn’t. I need to know if you saw Tom at all. Did you speak to him? Was he with you?”
“No, we Weren’t together then.”
She seized on the telling word. “Then, you said. Does that mean you saw him later?”
“For a few minutes. Anna, don’t do this.”
“Did he mention anything at all about leaving, say anything that might give some clue as to where he was going?”
Rip shook his head impatiently. “He’d been drinking, but there was nothing unusual about that. Several of the guys in the crowd he ran with that summer stayed lit up like the Fourth of July.”
“I know, drugs as well as alcohol. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t afford it. Besides, I had to go to work everyday. Anna—”
“Was anyone with him, friends, a woman?”
“Stop it, please,” he said, reaching across the table to take her hands. “I can’t help you. If I could, I’d have done it long ago.”
Finality rang in the words. She heard it, knew she had to accept it, no matter how hard it might be. At least for now.
Removing her hands from his, she said in cool tones, “You have your elbows on the table.”
“What?”
“You wanted your manners corrected, didn’t you? Well, don’t put your elbows on the table. The most you should do is rest your wrist on the edge.”
“Right,” he said, his face set in grim lines as he straightened. Clasping his fingers loosely together, he propped his forearms on the table rim. “How’s this?”
“Better,” she answered grudgingly.
The pose was easy, collected, lending an impression that was almost cosmopolitan. It emphasized the strong molding of his hands and wrists with their dusting of crisp dark hair. His hands reminded her briefly of a drawing by Michelangelo, long-fingered, square-palmed hands that were graceful in a masculine fashion, having more to do with inherent power than artistic purpose. At the same time, old scars made small white lines here and there across their bronzed backs and along the fingers, and one knuckle was a little crooked, as if it had been broken.
They were the hands of a man who was not afraid of work. He had used them to build something substantial, something that had probably meant as much as Blest did to her. Anna was forced to respect that, just as she was forced to accept his position on what had happened to Tom.
Reluctant admiration moved through her as she watched him. There was such pride about him, such dogged refusal to accept the estimation of others. He had come so far from what he had been. She had to applaud whatever it was inside him that had driven him to make it.
At the same time, she couldn’t prevent the odd sensation in her chest as she noticed a jagged white line that ended in a purplish depression, like a tooth mark, on the back of one forearm. Rip had that scar because of her, because he had saved her from being savaged by a rabid dog. She owed him something for that mark, and she always paid her debts. More than that, it was a reminder of the long relationship between them made up of mutual memories, mutual feelings.
Reminders like the sensation of his touch, hot against her skin on a summer’s day, his hands in careful exploration, as if she were made of spun glass. Thinking of it as she sat there brought virulent curiosity about the way he might touch and hold a woman now, after all he had been through. She wondered if his caresses would be as strong and tender as she imagined. Or as she remembered.
“Anna?” Her name had a tentative yet vibrant sound in his deep voice.
She lifted her gaze to find him watching. Hot color rose into her face, but she could not look away. His dark eyes had a soft sheen, like golden brown cut velvet. Such steady understanding lingered there that she was afraid he might understand exactly what was going through her mind, afraid that he might be planning to use it against her.
The salads they had ordered were crisp and fresh, spiced with arugula leaves and a hint of garlic. Their steaks arrived perfectly done, crisp and brown on the outside, tender and pink on the inside. Regardless, Anna could hardly force the food down her throat. She jumped when the waitress reached from behind her to light the candle in the center of their table. Anna’s hand shook when she picked up her knife or water glass. She was hyperaware of the man across from her, and also of the whispers that circulated through the room and the glances cast in their direction.
As the meal progressed, however, she recognized that it wasn’t nervousness alone that sizzled along her veins. No, it was also the champagne-like intoxication of excitement.
How long had it been since she’d felt so alive? How long since she’d stepped out of her staid routine and ventured everything for something she believed in? It must have been years. There had been few suc
h opportunities in her life, even if she had been inclined to take chances. She thought she might have missed a great deal while encased in her safe little world.
The peculiar task she had been set was a challenge that fired her brain and set her pulse to racing. Being with Rip Peterson was disturbing and fascinating. He was so familiar yet incredibly different. There were lines in his face put there by experiences she could not begin to guess at, shadings in his voice that suggested complicated emotions she had no way of unraveling. The urge to discover exactly who and what he had become burned in her mind like a caustic, cleansing acid.
At the same time, she knew she had to be careful. So much was at stake that failure was unthinkable. She could not afford to become too involved.
Not that she thought Rip would really force her to marry him. It was a threat to make her fall into line, that was all. Marriage was far too intimate, far too drastic a step to be used as a mere bargaining chip.
Unless, of course, he expected her to fail, expected to marry her as part of his so-called compensation. She shivered a little as the thought skittered through her mind.
“Something wrong?” Rip asked.
She shook her head, not quite meeting his black gaze. Her throat was so tight she wasn’t sure she could swallow. Putting down her fork, she reached toward her glass.
Before she could touch it, he caught her wrist, closing his fingers loosely around it “Relax, Anna,” he said evenly. “This isn’t a matter of life and death. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
A nebulous, disoriented sensation shifted inside her. Her wrist tingled where he held it, setting off a delicate vibration that she felt to the center of her being. Her stomach muscles tightened and she drew a short, constricted breath. At that small sound, she saw his pupils darken, widen, catch twin flames as they reflected the candlelight. The noises of the other diners receded, fading into silence.
The quiet was real, Anna saw after a strained instant, and had nothing to do with her and Rip. There was something going on at the restaurant entrance. As she turned her head, she saw her mother step inside. There was a man following close on her heels, a man who was obviously her escort.
It was Judge Amos Benson, the man who had sentenced Rip to prison.
The judge was an old family friend, a former hunting and fishing buddy of Anna’s father. His wife had died of cancer two years ago, and Matilda Montrose had invited him to dinner a few months back. The two of them had gone out a few times since. Their pairing tonight was not unusual. Still, the sight of them together sent dread pounding through Anna’s veins. It was, she thought, no accident.
4
Rip sat perfectly still as he followed Anna’s sight line to the woman who stood in the door. It had been long years since he’d seen her, but he recognized her without difficulty.
His grasp on Anna’s slender wrist tightened an instant before he realized what he was doing. Then he released her and sat straighter in his chair. He hadn’t expected this kind of confrontation, not yet, not tonight. But if it was coming at him, he was ready.
Matilda Montrose had aged since he last saw her, growing haggard and stout. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, and the black silk dress that covered her ample form seemed too upscale for Montrose’s country steak house. She scanned the sitting area, nodding at an acquaintance or two. Then her eyes locked on him where he sat with her daughter. Matilda’s features hardened. The restaurant hostess who bustled up to them at that moment was ignored as if she didn’t exist. With the judge in tow, Anna’s mother started toward him.
“What a surprise,” the woman said in glacially superior accents as she came nearer.
Rip got to his feet, partially from habit but also because he was reluctant to be caught at a disadvantage of having to look up at her. The back of his neck felt hot as he tried to ignore the stares and whispers around them. It had been a long time since he felt so crude and out of place. Anna’s mother had always had that effect on him. The old despair of ever being accepted for what he was caught him in its grip. Before he could recover, Anna spoke.
“I see nothing surprising about it, Mother. You knew perfectly well we might be here.”
Her bored, slightly patronizing tone was perfectly done, cutting through her mother’s pretense like a well-honed knife. That she had come to his defense, ranging herself on his side, made Rip’s heart swell in his chest. It also put him on his mettle.
“Won’t you and the judge join us, Mrs. Montrose,” he said, his smile pleasant as he issued the invitation. At the same time, he offered his hand to Judge Benson, though not at all sure the older man would take it.
“Wouldn’t think of horning in,” the judge said before Anna’s mother could answer. His handshake was firm and without hesitation as he met Rip’s clasp. White-haired and dignified of bearing, he was shorter than Rip remembered, but his appraisal was still keen. He continued. “I’m glad of the chance to say hello, nevertheless. It’s not often a young man who passes through my court turns around and makes something of himself. You beat the odds, son, and you did it on your own. I’m proud to know you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rip kept the words steady with an effort. The judge was one of the few people who had any real understanding of what it had taken to throw off the prison stigma and try for something better. His praise meant a lot.
“Why, Amos,” Matilda Montrose said in arch tones, “how very civilized of you. Under the circumstances.”
“Not at all.” The judge frowned as he glanced at her.
“Well, it seems so to me.”
“Mother,” Anna said in low warning.
“But then—” the older woman went on as if her daughter hadn’t spoken “—I’m only the mother of Rip’s friend who disappeared while Rip was embarking on his criminal career. No doubt that gives me a different view of the situation.”
On closer view, Rip could see the red-rimmed eyes and slack lines of Matilda’s face, could smell the medicinal scent of the mouthwash she had used to disguise the fact that she had been drinking. His voice was a shade softer as he said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Montrose, more sorry than I can say. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Perhaps not. Now.” Her face twisted as if she was near tears.
“Nor was there anything I could have done then.”
“You could at least tell me where he’s buried. You’ve served your time, after all.” She paused while a murmur of comment swept through the restaurant like a rising wind. Then she added, “Oh, but years served for robbery wouldn’t count against a charge of murder, now would they?”
“Mother!” Anna cried.
Rip reached out to touch Anna’s arm. Voice threaded with pain beneath its firmness, he said, “I didn’t kill Tom.”
“So you claim, and old man Vidal, too, for what good that does.” Tears spilled from Matilda Montrose’s eyes, making her mascara run. “My Tom’s gone, and you’re still alive.”
Anna withdrew her arm from Rip’s grasp, moving around the table. “That’s enough, Mother.”
“More than enough,” Judge Benson said grimly. Putting an arm around the older woman, he turned from the table. She resisted an instant before she wilted, allowing herself to be led away.
The other diners craned their necks, talking among themselves in a low hum of conjecture. Anna, left alone with Rip, could feel their avid regard, but refused to glance around to see. She was suffocating with embarrassment for her mother’s attempt to degrade Rip. She could not help wondering if this was the way it had been for him all those years ago, when he had stood up in court with the townspeople of Montrose staring at him, judging him.
Her voice husky, not quite even, she said, “I apologize for what just happened. My mother isn’t—hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Since she heard I was back, you mean.”
She couldn’t deny that, so made no reply.
His face tightened another notch. There was a white line around his mouth
that might have been from rage as easily as from humiliation. Reaching for his wallet, he extracted several bills and dropped them on the table. In taut command, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
She didn’t hesitate, but moved ahead of him toward the door. He was on her heels, keeping his hand at the small of her back in a gesture that felt oddly possessive rather than helpful. They looked neither left nor right until they were outside in the fresh, warm night air.
Anna’s car was there in the parking lot, but she didn’t protest as he led her toward his silver BMW and put her in the passenger seat. After the scene inside, she thought she owed him her company if he still wanted it. Moreover, there was unfinished business between them.
As he swung out of the parking lot and onto the highway, she glanced at him. The expression on his face, highlighted by the greenish light from the dashboard, was impenetrable. She faced forward again without asking where they were going.
He drove fast and well. The road ahead of them unfurled like a black carpet rolling into the night. Anna thought once or twice of saying something, anything, to relieve the tension. Nothing came to mind that wasn’t trite beyond words. She considered turning on the radio to fill the silence, but wasn’t sure she could bear the noise.
A turn appeared ahead of them, and Rip slowed to make it. As he swung the heavy vehicle onto the side road that led away from town and out into the country, Anna knew, abruptly, just where they were heading.
Blest appeared in ghostly splendor at the end of its drive as they pulled up before it. Rip lowered the windows, then turned the key to kill the engine. Silence descended. A few seconds later the automatic headlights clicked off and they were left in darkness.
Night sounds filtered to them—the peeping of frogs, the music of a cricket hidden in the thick, waving grass, the lonely call of a night bird. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape of the house emerged more clearly, looming massive and dark in front of them. A quarter moon hung just above the tops of the oaks behind the ancient slates of the roof, a sickle of silver almost tangled in the branches. Its pale light washed down the walls, cut black angles under the galleries and lay in cool, shining pools along their floors. It glossed over the imperfections of rot, mildew and sagging wood, searching out and finding the hidden beauty of form and proportion.
Southern Gentlemen Page 4