by Lois Battle
“Seems strange having Cam back,” he said, settling cross-legged on the blanket.
“I’ve hardly spoken to her. She disappeared from my party with H.A.”
He chuckled. “That’s Cam for you. Hardly changed at all.”
“You think not?”
“Well, sure she’s changed. She’s got that patina, that shiny lacquer now. Comes from being a career woman in the big city. They can’t avoid it. That sort of independent savvy doesn’t appeal to me. I’m more attracted to—” He broke off, but looked at her with the clear implication that he found her, for all her inhibitions, more alluring.
“Do you think she and H.A.... ? I mean in the past. Do you think they ever . . .” She couldn’t finish the question.
He took a pillow from the couch, put it beneath his head, and lay back, stretching, arms behind his head. “How would I know? Does it matter?”
She wanted to know if he and Cam had been lovers but couldn’t bring herself to ask. His belly was lean and flat. In the firelight his chest was gold bronze. She noticed the dark feathering in his armpits, the peculiar pattern of growth on his chest, the hair curly near his collarbone but shorter and straight around his erect nipples, his chest silky smooth, hardly any hair around the belly button but another vibrant sprouting where the studs of his jeans had been undone. She looked out the window. It couldn’t have been more than five o’clock but the storm made it seem later. “I ought to be getting back,” she told him, taking another sip.
He seemed not have heard her, his eyes slits as he stared into the fire. “ ‘And the rain doth fall, a weeping and a blessing.’ ”
It seemed such a beautiful thing to say, so appropriate to her own mood that she tried to neutralize it by saying, “My grandmother told me never to trust a man who talked poetry.”
“She was probably right. Hey, don’t you ever relax? We can’t drive till the storm’s over. Come toast your toes.” He took hold of her big toe and gave it a this-little-piggy wiggle, then suddenly released it. “Oh, I guess you have to report in. There’s a phone next to the bed.”
She bristled. “I don’t have to report in”—though that was exactly what she knew she should do.
He patted the space next to him. She felt both unnatural and uncomfortable sitting on the couch so she moved to the blanket, tucking her legs underneath her. “You know how these storms are,” he went on. “It’ll be over in ten minutes. Then we’ll leave. Promise.”
That seemed reasonable. Besides she didn’t want to leave. Not just yet. The darkness outside, the flickering fire, the rain pelting the roof, the cognac—all gave a cocoonlike feeling of privacy and protection that soothed her anxiety, made her want to relish every second. He closed his eyes and reached for her hand, found it without fumbling and patted it in a friendly way. “Little Lila Tatternall. Hang your clothes on a mulberry bush but don’t go near the water.”
The storm lashed the roof. An ooze of resin caught fire and sizzled. He was so still he might have fallen asleep. She lay on her side, curled and almost prone, feet toward the fire, propping herself up on an elbow, looking at his profile, his hair spread on the pillow. Feeling an almost irresistible impulse to touch him, she turned to the coffee table, picking up the first object she touched. “What’s this?” she asked, though its probable function was apparent from its shape. He turned his head, peering at it through dreamy eyes. “It’s a fish hook carved out of bone,” he said laconically. “Lots of Indian artifacts on the beach.” He took it from her, holding it up for mutual examination, then reached over, catching it on the sleeve of her sweater, tugging ever so gently, whispering, “Caught you,” as he pulled her down. Their lips were inches apart. She expected him to kiss her but he removed the hook with an easy twist, let it drop to the floor, moved slightly, making a space next to him.
They lay close and still, breathing together and then, as though guessing her thoughts, he took her hand and placed it on his chest. She remembered the thing he’d said earlier, the thing that had made her go with him in the first place: “If I repent of anything, it’s very likely to be my good behavior.” Her hand moved, skimming the muscles in his arm, finding the hollow of his neck, easing upward, fingertips on his scalp, fingers entangling his thick damp hair. His entire body arched as a pet animal’s would, rising to her touch. He rolled toward her, taking her head in his hands, pulling gently on the roots of her hair, twisting, tangling, untangling it so that the tingling in her scalp set off a more delicious tingling between her legs. Her lips found his mouth—already open, his tongue snaky with anticipation. It was one of the few times in her life that she’d kissed rather than been kissed and it gave her a tremendous charge of energy that brought her body on top of his, mouth to mouth, rib cage to rib cage, her sweater riding up so that she felt naked flesh belly to belly—hers surprisingly hot, his cool, as though all the blood had rushed to his genitals.
She pulled up, amazed and breathless, blinking down into his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth open, but he wasn’t gulping air as she was, but breathing slow and steady, like a trained swimmer, pacing himself. His hand moved so slowly she thought she’d scream out with anticipation, easing one of her breasts out of her bra, already kissing it as he reached behind, unhooking her with a single deft movement. Her mind went back to something she’d said to Orrie a few weeks ago when, coming home from a party, he’d varied his usual routine and tried to undress her, fumbling with her bra so long that she’d finally undone it herself and they’d both laughed when she’d said, “Honey, you could never have a woman without her total cooperation.”
Pushing his hands away, she arched back, panting, astride him, trying to recover. She tumbled off. He didn’t come after her, but lay there, reaching down to hold himself, then, slowly, rolling toward her, pulling her buttocks close, kissing her again and again, unzipping her slacks, pulsing her with his fingers, his tongue in her mouth, her ear, lapping her neck, slithering past her breasts to her belly. He eased up, releasing her. Now he was breathing hard too, but his caresses were teasing, light as a butterfly, waiting until he’d roused her, then kneading, demanding, then releasing again. It went on and on, beyond anything that could be called foreplay—more like the ritual petting of decades before. He brought her to such a pitch that she was aching, bruised and yearning, desperate for release, knowing that she’d explode with his first thrusts. She pulled at him, grinding into him, offering herself completely. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Tell me you want me.”
She could have killed him. She pushed away, squirming, crawling toward the couch, pulling herself up into a sitting position, holding the front of her slacks together. She didn’t know why his words had shattered the spell, but suddenly the dynamic had changed and she’d sensed something threatening: more than he wanted her, he needed to know that she wanted him. He wanted an admission of outright surrender. She burst into tears, not knowing which of them she hated the most.
He got up, patted her shoulder, refilled the snifter, and held it to her lips. “Hey, girl, hey. You kinda lost it there. You all right?” She shook her head violently, gulping down the contents of the snifter. He patted her head and turned, stuffing himself into his jeans, moving to the fireplace to poke the logs apart, then resting his arms on the mantelpiece, head down, waiting for her to recover.
“You want . . . I mean, you want . . .,” she blubbered, trying to explain.
“Hey,” he said gently, “I know what I want. You’re the one who’s confused. But I know all this is new to you.”
The storm had stopped. Only her sobs could be heard over the crackling of the dying fire. “Right,” he said when she’d subsided, her head sagging between her legs. “Time to leave.”
When she’d rearranged her clothes, he put his wool jacket over her shoulders and guided her out the door. He looked up as he flicked on the flashlight. “Hey, look at that sky.” It was navy blue, without stars, the moon hiding behind a drift of watery clouds. She felt dizzy and looked down, ho
lding on to the railing, following the bouncing circle of light down the rickety stairs.
The moment of truth couldn’t be delayed any longer. She sprinkled herself with talcum powder, rolled the clothes she’d worn to the beach into a ball and stuffed them into her overnight bag, put on fresh underwear, searched for Josie’s hair dryer, which was nowhere to be found. She sat on the toilet and pulled on her hose, zipped up her cocoa velveteen skirt, buttoned her gold satin big-sleeved blouse and cinched it with the topaz-studded belt. Her newly washed face still looked pale and strangely open, as though every thought and feeling could be read on it. Applying her makeup more liberally than usual, she realized she was humming, the words to the song running through her mind, insistent as a commercial jingle, “Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch, A long lonely time . . .” She slipped into her heels, clasped on her gold charm bracelet, which she’d brought along because it was Orrie’s custom to add a new charm each Christmas, and stepped into the hallway.
The music downstairs had been turned off and she could hear them talking, not, she hoped, about her, though the odds were that her disappearance would be the topic of choice. Walking to the landing, she realized she was still wobbly. She felt like a kid on her way to the principal’s office and resentment bubbled up. Didn’t she have a right to go her own way for a few hours? But who was she kidding? Her conduct had been shameful, inexplicable even to herself, so how could she possibly explain it to anyone else? She still hadn’t constructed a plausible story, but as she started down the stairs, all she could think of was the last thing Bedford had said to her as she’d opened his car door: “Next time we go to the beach, maybe there won’t be a storm.” And she’d nodded, as though there would be a next time.
Fourteen
ORRIE WAS STANDING in the archway to the living room as though on lookout. Seeing her, he came to the foot of the stairs, his anxious look easing into a wan smile. “Hey, sugar, where in the world have you been? I was really worried about you.” There was no accusation in his voice, only relief.
“I’m sorry,” she said as lightly as if she’d forgotten to buy his favorite cookies, but looking into his face she thought she might burst into tears. Maybe she should ask him to take her home right now, tell him about the whole sordid mess, beg him to forgive her. “Orrie,” she began, but Jasper’s voice boomed out, “Where the hell have you been, girl? We were about to call out the militia.”
“It’s just not like you to go off without telling anyone,” Orrie reasoned, leading her into the living room. Susan, cross-legged on the floor next to the tree, chided, “Really, Mother!” Ricky, sprawled next to her, smirked, “This is the woman who gives lectures about responsibility.”
“We thought you’d been abducted by gypsies,” Evie chimed in while Cam, sitting on a couch next to her friend, Reba, added, “We really were worried. Mrs. Beasley said . . .”
“I know I should have called but . . .” Lila began, then stalled.
“No matter,” Josie cut in, putting on an old Perry Como Sings Your Christmas Favorites, adjusting the volume to the level of background music. “We’re all here now and . . .” she checked her wristwatch. “We still have time to open the presents before we go to Cuba’s church service. I’ve been like a kid, reading all the tags and shaking them,” she went on, cheerful as a camp counselor. She handed a present to Susan, then turned to Reba, explaining, “It’s always been our custom to let the youngest hand out the presents. I know most people wait till Christmas morning but when the children were little, Lila, or maybe it was Cam, got out of bed one Christmas Eve and caught Bear red-handed, so ever since then we’ve opened them on Christmas Eve. I guess it was Cam. Yes, that was the year she figured out there wasn’t a Santa Claus.”
“Cam was a cynic at five,” Evie told Jasper.
“No, she wasn’t a cynic. If fact, she asked me not to tell you kids because she didn’t want to spoil it for you. So ever since then . . .” She was babbling and she knew it. Susan overlapped her with, “Hey, this first present is for me, from Grandma. I can tell it’s a book,” and started to untie the bow. For a minute it seemed as though things might proceed as though nothing had happened, then Evie asked, “So, Lila, where were you?” and all eyes were on her again.
“Yeah. Where were you? We were sick with worry,” Ricky mimicked her voice. “Didn’t you know we’d be anxious? Couldn’t you have called?”
“Well, it was so spontaneous, I ... I’d just started to unload the presents from my car when”—Lila took the plunge—“a couple I know drove by and—”
“Who?” Orrie wanted to know.
“You don’t know them.” Not likely. “That is, I think you’ve met them but you probably wouldn’t remember,” she foundered. “Jim and Constance Tidewell? They’re from Charleston. I worked with her on that fund-raiser for the Spoleto festival, remember?”
Orrie shrugged. “Can’t say as I do, but what—”
“Didn’t I meet her?” Josie rushed to Lila’s rescue. “Tall dark-haired woman with a lovely complexion?”
God bless you, Mama! “Yes. That’s her. She’s maybe five-foot-eleven, used to be a model.” Without realizing she could do it so quickly, she began inventing. “I hadn’t seen her since last summer, but she and Jim were on their way out to visit relatives on Fripp and they were driving around The Point because Jim had never seen it before, and—”
“They’re from Charleston and he’d never seen The Point?” Evie asked.
“No. They’re not from Charleston, they’re from Los Angeles.” From the corner of her eye she saw Reba studying her over the rim of her eggnog cup. Cam put her head down, examining her hands. “I think maybe she was born here but she went to Hollywood. That’s where she met Jim. He used to be in TV. A producer, I think.” Evie swallowed that scrap of information like a seal who’d been thrown a fish and wanted more. “They’re retired. Of course, they don’t look old enough to be retired, at least”—What name had she given the woman?—“. . . she doesn’t, but I guess she’s a lot younger than he is. They moved here a few years ago and they like the area so much that they talked his brother into taking a timeshare on Fripp.” Jasper, already bored, blotted a drop of bourbon from his vest. “... quite a nice condo, though it only has a marsh view . . .” Susan rolled her eyes with impatience. “... but they like the Lowcountry so much they’re thinking of buying . . .” Ricky yawned and pulled his cap down over his eyes. “... but I told them they should investigate Hilton Head as well, because they play both golf . . .” Josie nodded encouragement as though waiting for the punch line of a familiar joke. “... in fact, I even asked them to come visit us ...” She was flowing with details and asides, veering so far from the original story that she had to rein herself in. “... but I don’t suppose they will, because they’re only here until the New Year. So: they were just driving around The Point on their way out to Fripp, and they were so surprised to see me in Mama’s driveway, and they asked me about The Point, so ...”
“Why didn’t you bring them in and show them Mama’s house?” Evie persisted.
Lila wanted to slap her.
“Just as well she didn’t,” Josie came to the rescue again. “It was like hell with the lid off this afternoon. Cam wasn’t feeling well, Cuba and a couple of her grandkids were here, Reba and I were cooking . . .”
“... so I showed them around The Point,” Lila went on, “and then they said, why didn’t I drive out to Fripp with them and meet his relatives. They said the sister-in-law was an actress, so I couldn’t resist.”
“Who was she?” Evie wanted to know.
“Turns out I didn’t recognize her, but just to be polite I pretended I did. Anyway, I thought I’d be back within the hour, but then the storm started and—”
“And you couldn’t call because what?” Ricky sneered. “They were too poor to have a phone? Your hand was broken?”
“No, Mr. Smartie. The power went out. Since it wasn’t their condo, they didn�
�t know where the fuse box was and we were all scrambling around hunting for candles, which we couldn’t find.”
Cam raised her head and gave her the “big sister” smile. Its combination of amusement, warning, and scorn said, “I don’t buy a word of it.” You bitch, Lila thought. The only reason you know I’m making this up is because you’ve told so many lies yourself. But she knew that wasn’t true. Cam had always gotten into trouble because she’d told the truth.
“Oh, pull-ese,” Susan whined. “Can’t I open this present now?” Without waiting for an okay she tore off the paper and held up a book. “It’s about Billie Jean King,” she told everyone. “Oh, Grandma, I knew you were going to give me this, ’cause I remember when we saw it at the bookstore and I know you’re always trying to get me to read.” She crawled over to Josie, who had seated herself in a wing-backed chair, and gave her a kiss.
“Am I next?” Ricky asked.
“No, you’re not,” Susan told him, searching through the pile. “I’m the youngest and I get to choose the order.”
“How ’bout another round?” Jasper asked, heaving himself up. Evie put her hand over her glass, Reba said she was fine, Orrie said he’d stick with the ginger ale. Though she desperately wanted to ask for a double, Cam shook her head. A pregnant woman couldn’t drink or smoke. She was—she clasped her hands until the knuckles showed white, trying to assimilate the reality—a pregnant woman. She felt a cramp in her abdomen and wanted to run upstairs, check and see if she might not have started. A line from a book of poetry she’d edited—“No man has ever looked for his future in the crotch of his pants”—kept running through her brain.