by Sylvie Kurtz
"Have I ever sent you away?"
"No."
"Do you still have my phone numbers? Home and cell?"
"Yes."
"If you need me, you know where you can find me. Kissing or not kissing a man isn't going to change that."
Sasha puffed a small sigh of relief.
"Hello?" a voice came from above the table. "How much for the gingerbread men?"
Sasha started to rise, and Beth touched her arm once more. "I'm so glad you could come and help me today."
"Me too."
It was good to see Sasha smile. She'd already shed too many tears in her short life.
The ripples of a pond, Beth mused. She'd thought her decision a private one, one that would affect only her. But she was beginning to see it could swash outward and touch others in unexpected ways—Jamie, Sasha... even Laura. A new heaviness preoccupied her as she manned her booth. What right did she have to disturb their world to please only herself?
The day sped by. Laura took occasional potshots at Beth. Beth did her best to ignore them. Eve and Sasha ran interference. And when the crowd finally thinned, when the cookie boxes stood empty, Logan reappeared, and her heart sang at the sight of him.
She wanted to run to him, throw herself into his arms, burrow her head into his shoulder and have him hold her while she tried to sort the dilemma weighing her heart.
But she didn't. She simply smiled.
Silently he helped her clean up. Silently he walked with her to pick up Jamie at Bobby's house. Silently he sipped a cup of hot cider while the crowd gathered on the common for the tree lighting ceremony.
Dusk blanketed the sky. Stars appeared. The wind picked up bite. And the pitter-pat of uneasiness marched louder and louder with each beat of her pulse. Something was wrong, but what?
She tried to keep the mood light, but sensed armor plates of steel going up one by one as Logan hunkered farther and farther from the crowd. She took his hand. He pulled it away.
"Logan?"
He shook his head. "Watch your show, Beth."
"We can go."
In the fading light, in the hard darkness of his eyes, she could read nothing. But she sensed his distress. He hated Christmas—the noise, the bustle, the brightness. She'd placed him in an awkward position when she'd asked him for a ride this morning. His sense of duty wouldn't let him leave her stranded. "Eve can drive me home, if you'd rather—"
"I'm fine." He jerked his chin toward the street. "The parade's starting."
An antique fire engine honked its way up the common. Santa Claus, sitting proudly on its high seat, waved at the crowd. Church bells chimed a welcome. A children's choir sang "O, Christmas Tree." Microphone in hand, Mildred Wallace stepped up on the bandshell and introduced, then thanked each sponsor in turn.
"Now the moment we've all been waiting for," Mildred said. She patted the curl of her flip hairdo, smiling and nodding at the crowd. "Is everyone ready?"
"Yes."
Mildred cupped her ear. "I can't hear you."
"Yes!"
"Okay, here we go. Help me count. Five...."
"Four."
"Three."
"Two."
"One!"
A hushed moment of expectancy hung as the crowd held its breath, then the tree blazed to life, the bright-red bulbs shaming the stars into oblivion. Oohs and aahs of appreciation rippled through the crowd. The choir broke into a rendition of "Joyful Noise."
"For someone who hates Christmas, you did a wonderful job with the lights."
Beth turned, but Logan wasn't there. His hunched figure was fast disappearing into the night.
Her heart dropped to her feet. Panic plucked a frantic beat. She should have known this would be too much for him. All the children, their happy shouts, their eyes wide with wonder would remind him of his loss.
"Oh, no. Dear God, no." Her hand flew to her throat. She swallowed hard. Her sudden insight had the blood draining from her face, leaving her cold and queasy. His daughter had died during the holidays. And Beth had brought him here to witness a reminder of his dead daughter.
Torn, she glanced from Logan to Jamie.
Eve caught her eye and took Jamie's hand firmly into her own. "I've got him. Go."
* * *
Sam, Sam, Sam. Logan tried to flee from the pain, but it hunted him down, latched on to him, biting, gnawing, eating him alive.
"Logan. Wait!"
But he couldn't wait. He couldn't slow down. He couldn't give the memories a chance to catch up, to choke him.
She'd been there tonight, his beautiful Samantha, in every child. He'd heard her laughter, seen the sparkle in her eyes, felt her ghost bouncing up and down by his side. And her imagined wonderment had nearly swallowed him up. Daddy, oh, look, Daddy!
She'd loved Christmas. Everything about it. The colors. The noise. The whole messy excitement of it all.
"Slow down," Beth said.
He threw his coat open, welcomed the stab of wind. Gulping big bites of frigid night air, he threw himself into the rhythm of his frenzied strides.
"Where are you going?"
Anywhere. Nowhere. It didn't matter. Away, that was all that mattered. Away from the crowd, from the noise, from the joy—away from all the memories of his beloved daughter.
"Logan, talk to me."
"Go away." He wanted, needed to be alone.
"I'm staying." She shoved her hands in the pockets of her damned fuchsia coat and matched him stride for ground-eating stride. Her labored breaths became a companion as she puffed beside him, the swish of her coat a soothing balm, the crunch of her footsteps a grounding metronome.
It wasn't until he'd walked half a mile that he realized he was heading home. Six miles. Beth wasn't dressed for the long, cold walk. And she was stubborn enough to stick by his side. "How do I get back to the church parking lot?"
"This way."
She led him around the side streets, avoiding the common, her silent presence an unexpected comfort. He reached for her with one arm, pinning her to his side—a human crutch for his shattering spirit.
Sam, Sam, Sam.
When they reached his car, Beth got in. He found he couldn't tell her to get out. They drove in silence to his cold, dark house.
Before he could shut the engine, she reached for the keys and drilled him with a determined gaze. "I'm coming in."
He put his hand over hers, meaning to reclaim his keys. "Beth—"
"No, when your heart's breaking, you need someone there with you."
"Beth—"
"I've been there, Logan. I won't leave you alone. Not tonight."
Her eyes held no pity, only simple strength. The kind a friend lent a friend. The engine's rumble jittered her hand against his. His throat constricted. Suddenly he didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to fight the specters of Sam's ghost, of his guilt, on his own. He would ask Beth about her day and let her inexhaustible babble lull him back into the safety of not feeling. He would paint, and she would talk... and Sam's ghost would fade back into the dark hollow of his chest.
But once they were inside the house, Max greeted them with exuberant barks. In them he heard the echo of Sam's voice. One more time, Daddy. Just one more. And he knew he could never escape the pain. Not wanting Beth to witness his descent into hell, he pushed her away. "Go."
"I'm staying." Her voice was gentle but firm. And the feel of her arms wrapping around his waist, of her small hands clutching the shirt beneath his coat undid him.
He crushed her against him, pressing her head against his hardened heart. A rush of dread quivered through his body. When she left he would be alone. Again. Nothing would stand between him and the soul-shredding claws of grief.
Stay. Please stay.
But he could not ask for what he didn't deserve.
So he bent to kiss her. A kiss. One last kiss. Fight a ghost with the memory of another dead dream. He wouldn't wait until spring. Tomorrow he would leave. Before he hurt her.
But
one kiss wasn't enough. Not when she opened to him so willingly, not when she claimed his darkness as her own, not when she breathed so much warmth into his cold body.
"Beth." It was a curse. It was prayer.
He wanted more. He needed more. He was going to eat her alive. And when he was through, they would both be damned.
* * *
"I'm not afraid," Beth whispered against Logan's dark kiss. He wanted her to be frightened by his grief, by the pain and guilt eating him bit by bit. If she left, he could blame himself and let himself fall into the dark pit of despair. She knew; she'd been there. She knew what it was like to want to die, to have to live, knew what it was like to hurt down to the very nucleus of each and every cell of her being. "I won't let you fall."
She took in the darkness he offered her, swallowed it whole, and tendered him back the goodness of his own heart.
"Beth." Her name came as a hard rasp in her ears, heavy with pain, with need. Her body shook in a long-forgotten echo from deep inside her, inciting a small gasp of surprise, a small stab of fear. Not of him; of herself. Of her readiness to give of herself to this man who could not love her, might never love her.
Logan stilled in her arms. His hands gripped her shoulders, ready to push her away. The uncertain storm in his eyes touched her more deeply than any caress. She reached up, skimmed his jaw with the tips of her fingers. "Let me love you, Logan."
He stood there for a long time, searching her face, allowing her space to retreat. Then, without breaking the intense hold of his gaze, he nodded. "I've got to see to Max."
Max had seemed to sense her master's dark mood, and her exuberant welcome had soon faded. She'd slunk to the corner where she now shivered. Logan went to her, reassured her, then let her out while he filled her bowls with kibbles and fresh water.
The kitchen took Beth by surprise. He'd added a chair rail and painted the lower section the color of ripe wheat. The upper section was white with an ivy border. The cabinets were the same golden color as the lower walls, but in the center panels, he'd painted a white trellis design with the illusion of ivy growing through the slats. The whole effect was one of warmth and hominess. "I like what you've done."
He didn't answer, but brushed past her as Max pawed the front door. Moments later the dog followed her master uncertainly back into the kitchen, accepted the chew bone he offered her and settled on her bed with a snuffle. Her liquid brown eyes darted from master to intruder as if she sensed and feared the tension growing between them.
Without a word, he took her hand and led her up the cold, dark stairs. She swallowed hard as a fresh crop of doubt sprouted with each step she took. But one look at his drawn face, at his tense body, settled her apprehension. He needed to be held, to be loved, to be accepted—darkness and all.
The scent of loneliness filled his bedroom. The mournful slap of maple branches against the side of the house echoed the sense of forlornness. Shafts of moonlight pierced through the slats of blinds, hatching the night-grayed sheets of the unmade bed with bars of soft silver. A box spring, a mattress, the shoved-aside mound of a dark comforter, the slept-in sheets were all pushed against one wall. An opened duffel bag sagged across the top of a packing carton. A pair of running shoes and a pair of snakeskin boots were the only occupants of the closet.
He had no plans of staying, she realized with a start. He was a man in transition. But she'd known that on a gut level from the first day. Disappointment curled in her stomach, but she brushed it away.
She was a woman in transition, too, finding a way across the past into the future. It was time, past time. No one would get hurt tonight. She would be helping him abate the burden of his grief. He would ease her into that last step of reclaiming her womanhood.
What she did, what she didn't do, wasn't anybody's business but her own. Life would go on as it always had. And the ripples of this night would affect only her, only him.
With fingers that weren't quite steady, she undid the buttons of his shirt. His breath rasped inward. His nostrils flared. The muscle of his jaw tightened. The dark hunger of his unflinching gaze sped her pulse, heated her blood.
Her hands slid across his chest, pushing aside the denim of his shirt, admiring the hard pectorals beneath the smooth skin. It had been so long since she'd touched a man in this way, let a man touch her, that she felt awkward. To hide her sudden shyness, she placed her ear against his chest, heard the thunder of his heart. The powerful sound awoke something deep inside her. Like honey from a freshly cut comb, desire spiraled, thick and warm.
His touch was unsteady, too, as if this was an experience with which he was out of practice. And his hesitation gave her courage. She tilted her head up and pressed a kiss against his lips. Warmth and the heady taste of cider and desire greeted her. The tension in him shifted from guardedness to the potent sensuality of leashed male power. That honeyed ribbon of need inside her turned to surprising urgency, and a moan shivered up her throat.
His hands reached for the scrunchie holding her hair in a ponytail. His fingers raked the strands free. Delight serpentined down her spine. He framed her face with his hands and looked at her with eyes of silver smoke. "I want you. Tell me you want me."
"I want you." No question, no hesitation. Being there with him in this black and gray world of night and moonlight felt right. To leave the ghost of her loss at the door and give rein to her own physical desires felt right.
With trembling hands, they undressed each other, scattering clothes on the bare wood planks. On legs that were rubbery, she followed his lead to the bed. He sat on the mattress, pulled her into his lap. He devoured her mouth, her throat, her collarbone. His touch fired her skin, enlivening long-dormant nerves. Her breasts ached for his attention, but he skimmed past them to her arms and ended at the scar bisecting her palm.
"I hurt you," he said, kissing the scars tenderly. "I never meant to."
"I hurt myself." Her throat was dry, her body shivery. She wanted, needed more of him. "Kiss me again."
He did—in teasing nips and whispers while his hands cupped her breasts and his thumbs drew tormenting circles around her nipples. A raw sound of needy protest rasped at her throat. It was too much; it wasn't enough. "Please."
She had no idea what the plea meant, except that the intensity of the feelings building inside her couldn't go on much longer.
He leaned back against the pillows, drawing her down with him, a willing prisoner of his consuming gaze.
Her wedding ring on a chain, the symbol of her infidelity, sprang from the valley between her breasts and dangled between them. It twirled on the chain, glinting in the moonlight. Gasping, she reached up, cupped it in one hand, closed her eyes. What am I doing? She thought of Jim, but could not bring forth a vivid picture of him. He was fading as she was waking. And something inside her keened.
"Look at me." Logan gently pried her fingers loose, watching her, waiting.
Her thoughts spun a tornado, throwing up debris of the past, mixing it with the present, confusing the future. As she hung on to Logan's shoulders, the gold ring reeled between them, a pendulum, and she waited, breath held until it spoke its verdict. Up and down, yes. Back and forth, no. But it just wheeled in a dizzy circle.
She closed her eyes again. The ache in her heart played a heavy counterpoint to the need still singing in her blood. The decision was up to her. Jim was dead. He couldn't absolve her or condemn her.
When she opened her eyes, Logan's gaze, dark with desire, creased with worry, met hers. He cared. He would never hurt her. She had made the right choice.
He shifted so that they both lay on their sides, eye to eye, bodies joined by her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist.
"He's between us," Logan said.
The look in his eyes told her he would stop now, let her back out. He would wrap up his need, his bleeding grief to save her from regret.
The static of expectation built energy. It crinkled along her skin, raising the fine hairs at the back of
her neck until the sharp stab of lightning exploded into the thunder of understanding.
Her husband was dead, but she was alive. And though Logan's heart was breaking over his daughter's death, he was alive, too. They needed each other, if not forever, then for tonight.
She sat up, reached for the chain's clasp, and gently set the ring aside.
* * *
Logan moved his hands hungrily over Beth's body, feeding his senses with the feel of her skin. He took her mouth and drank in her taste, let the sweet scent of her swirl madly with the disjointed thoughts crowding his mind.
Even without knowing all the details, she understood. About Sam. About him. And she still wanted him. She wasn't scared of the darkness eating him alive, of the pain chipping slowly at his soul. It was in her, too, this core-deep hurt. She understood.
Her body flowed with his, melding, melting, soft, so soft. She wasn't a ghost haunting him. She was real. She was there. She was his.
Distantly he was aware of the shaking of his body, of the hunger so strong it fought him for control. He needed this to last. Needed the ghosts to stay at bay for a while. Her gentle touch, her hot kisses, the purr of pleasure low in her throat offered a comfort, a torture.
Her stomach trembled under the slide of his palm, and masculine satisfaction fed his hunger. A throbbing urgency sizzled through him.
Make it last, make it last.
But logic no longer held any ground. His body obeyed a primal instinct too powerful to deny.
He found her center, hot and wet, felt her shudder against his intimate caress. And he needed her acceptance with a desperation he couldn't understand. "Tell me you want me."
"I want you." Her voice fluttered in a breathy whisper filled with a need as urgent as his own. Her eyes shone like stars dancing in the moonlight for him. Her hands shivered against his nape, drawing him to her. "Logan. Please."
He took her plea into his mouth, savored its taste as he pushed himself between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, capturing him. She was alive against him, her body a sensuous invitation, her moans an erotic song.
Silky flesh moved into silky flesh. His pleasure was an exquisite torture. Heat slicked his skin. He wanted to claim his stake, to conquer, but forced himself to slow down.