Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

Her throat felt constricted and she was unable to reply. She looked at the planks on the floor, then at Jake, who came around the table to stand in front of her. “I want to show you something in my office.”

  She let him lead her to his panel-walled domain with its vague odor of cigars. The desk wasn’t organized, papers here and there, those photographic souvenir cards of Jake wearing boxing trunks in the midst of everything.

  He rounded the desk’s corner, opened the top middle drawer, and rifled through the mess. When he found what he was looking for, he grasped it and withdrew a modest-sized photograph. Without a word, he handed it to her.

  Truvy looked at the woman in the picture. She was so beautiful, not even the black-and-white shadows creating her image dulled her appearance. She was dressed in a rich gown and stood beside a pillar with a fern on its top. Her hair was curled to perfection; her eyes were large. Her figure was perfect—delicate and shapely, the epitome of womanhood. She wasn’t tall—average to more on the dainty side.

  The woman in the photograph was everything a man desired.

  “Who is she?” Truvy asked, lifting her eyes.

  “My wife.”

  Truvy dropped the photograph. The thick paper fell onto the desk and she took a step backward. “Your . . .”

  “My former wife. Laurette Everleigh.”

  Shaken, she knew the blood had siphoned from her face. “She’s the stunningly beautiful woman who made a poor homemaker.”

  “You have to understand why I married her. Hear me out.” His eyes probed hers with a silent query. “Please, Truvy.”

  Jake told her about his career with Florenz Ziegfeld’s touring show at the World’s Columbian Exposition and how he met Laurette Everleigh, billed as “Every Gentleman’s Dream.” Truvy’s gaze lowered to the picture; she could see why men would dream about Laurette.

  Truvy didn’t want to look at that photograph, but she was helpless not to as Jake explained everything, from the reasons—the wrong ones—he’d married Laurette to how quickly they’d divorced.

  “You’re divorced,” Truvy murmured.

  “It was a mistake to marry her,” Jake said, taking the photograph and putting it away in his drawer. “I wasn’t thinking about what I wanted for the future. Just the moment.”

  “Like you and me the last time we were together,” Truvy whispered.

  Jake put his hands on her shoulders and willed her to look at him. “No, Tru. Not like you and me. Never like that. Don’t you see—I didn’t have to tell you about Laurette. You would have never known.”

  So true. But did she feel better for knowing? Perhaps. Not because of the truth itself, but because of the honesty behind it.

  “I wanted to tell you that night we were together, but I couldn’t. And it’s been eating my guts ever since.”

  “Well . . . don’t let it anymore.” Disconcerted, Truvy pointedly crossed her arms and looked away. “It’s done.”

  “No—my marriage is undone.”

  Lowering her gaze in confusion, she wanted to hurt him and make him want her at the same time. Her mind spun; her pride had been driven into the ground. Even after what he’d told her, she still loved him. But with his admission of a former wife, nothing had changed in their relationship.

  She waited to go back to Boise, to teaching and her students.

  He had his life, and the groove of bachelorhood, here.

  Because he hadn’t spoken a single word about rethinking marriage. He wasn’t interested. And she’d all but told him that neither was she.

  So where did that leave them now? Here standing in his office . . . her longing for him. Him coming closer to her, and without words, enfolding her in his arms.

  “Just for a few minutes, Tru. Let me hold you.”

  Truvy had no time to fortify her resolve, to put up barriers against his arms as they came around her shoulders, cradling her next to the width of his chest. He smelled of freshly laundered linen, exotic cologne, and just a hint of cigar. Everything about him was warm. Unbidden, she rested her cheek on the part of his shirt where it opened at his throat. Breathing in, she identified every facet of his scent, growing content and mesmerized by how wonderful he could feel. He spread his hands across her back, keeping her close.

  Her nose nuzzled the base of his neck, as her arms lifted to encircle his waist. “Why do you have to feel so good?”

  “You’re the one who feels good, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart.

  “Oh . . . Jake . . .” She sighed, knowing she should leave but unable to tear herself away.

  His heartbeat hammered next to hers. It felt natural to stand like this, breast to chest, thigh to thigh, feet between each other’s—as close as they could get. The strength of his arms wrapped tighter. Then he pulled back to see her face and cradled the back of her head in his hands.

  He kissed her.

  She let him.

  She kissed him back with everything she felt in her heart. They stood together, mouth to mouth, tongue teasing tongue. She moved her fingers to his neck, feeling as if she’d been lifted by a gauzy cloud of heat. She wanted his mouth on her body—everywhere—on her naked skin. The sensations he created in her made her knees weak, radiated in a warm torrent from the tips of her toes in her new shoes to the top of her head. That warmth swirled and centered on the place between her legs, making her moist and wanting, needing him to touch her there.

  Their kiss grew to an intensity that Truvy could neither deny nor stop.

  “Tru, I can let you go—”

  “No . . .” The denial was lost on his lips as he reclaimed hers for a hot and searing kiss that went on forever.

  When she was breathless, her legs barely able to support her, she felt herself bumped next to the edge of his desk. Paper fell to the floor. The hard edge of wood caught her bottom and she leaned against it.

  Jake backed away from her. The loss she felt was indescribable, and she even whimpered her disappointment. Reassuring her, Jake brushed a chaste kiss on her bruised lips, then fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, cursing his unsteady hands. He slipped out of the sleeves and Truvy slid her hands over his chest, feeling the smooth skin that covered the taut muscles.

  “You’re better than the statue,” she said, bringing her fingers across the fine flesh that jolted beneath her touch. He felt hard and tight. He was so male, so perfectly sculpted and honed—he was the epitome of perfect male anatomy. It was right that his likeness had been captured in a piece of bronze. Never had there been a better subject. Jake Brewster’s honed and hewn body put Michelangelo’s David to shame.

  As Truvy fingered the line of coarse hair across Jake’s chest, she slowly outlined his nipples. They were the color of dark pennies, flat and wide. In a lazy, circular motion, she traced them. His breath caught low in his throat, and the discovery that she could pleasure him in such a way brought a quiver to her already weak legs. She liked knowing she could drive him mad, make him want her beyond anything else—because that’s what he did to her.

  Jake ground his mouth over hers while moving his hands up her waist. He cupped her breast, reshaping it from beneath and stroking her nipple. She was fully aroused, needing him to make love to her and unwilling to hide her desire.

  “Jake . . .”

  With one swoop of his arms, he lifted her into them and carried her out the office door and into that of the apartment off the gymnasium. They went through the kitchen and into the bedroom, where he laid her on the bed and quickly removed his clothes.

  As he stood nude before her, she marveled at his physique.

  “Take my shoes off,” she whispered.

  Jake unlaced a shoe with slow precision. “I told you not to wear these anymore.” He threw first one, then the other. Then his hands stroked her calf and higher, toward her thigh. He stopped at the apex between her legs and rubbed the mound that ached for him.

  Her pantalets came down, then each stocking with an exquisite roll off her leg and toes. Truvy unbuttoned he
r dress, frantically and efficiently. As soon as she was in her chemise and corset cover, she made fast work of getting rid of them.

  When she was naked, she held her arms open to Jake and he came down on top of her. Their open-mouth kissing moved from lips and earlobes to shoulders and nipples.

  Truvy discovered Jake got pleasure from the same things as she did, and she explored him with her hands. Dropping her hand lower, beyond his belly, she held him. The shaft was long and smooth and hard. Its tip was moist and ready. He was jolted by her boldness and ground his lips over her passion-swollen mouth. Her nipples had sprung to tight buds; her body had stirred and longed for him beyond imagining.

  A well-bred woman’s sexual desire is small.

  The book was wrong, so very wrong.

  The velvet hardness of his penis lengthened and she guided him toward her innermost place, taking all of him in one slow entry. Her hands lifted and felt the contours of his back and buttocks as he moved within her.

  This time there was an urgency to their lovemaking. She wanted him to move faster and harder. She met his tempo with her own, lifting her hips to him, driving him quicker.

  She felt herself nearing that place of utter release, and then came a shudder that rocked her to fulfillment. Jake buried himself deep, one last time, and groaned in ecstasy, kissing her fully on the mouth as he sought his gratification.

  They lay there, perspiration covering their bodies. Their mingled breathing was labored, their hair damp, their mouths tasting of salt and sweetness.

  It was a long while before Truvy spoke. Or moved.

  When Jake rolled to his side and took her with him, she gasped and held onto his shoulder. They settled in with their heads on the pillow, their legs in between each other’s. Gazing down, she saw the tattoo around his ankle.

  “ ‘A man without determination is but an untempered sword,’ ” Truvy recited, remembering what the tattoo meant. Turning back to face him, she nestled into the coverlet. “Tell me everything about you. Right now. In this moment. I want to know it all.”

  Stroking her hair from her brow, he tucked a strand behind her ear; the tender touch evoked shivers across her bare skin. “I can’t fit a lifetime into a moment. Tell me where to start.”

  “Where have you been? What have you seen?”

  “Hmm . . .” He brought the end of her hair to his lips, pressing the curl next to his mouth. “Well, I was born in Brooklyn. Grew up spending a lot of time in Queens. I did some traveling to Chicago. San Francisco. The Klondike.”

  “You were at the Klondike? Was there gold everywhere?”

  Jake laughed, reaching out to tease the tip of her nose with the end of her curl. “For some. My investment didn’t strike it rich.”

  She burrowed deeper into the warmth of his arms.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  Bending his knee between her legs, he held her closer. “Tell me about you. Something I don’t know. Has anyone else in your family been born on Valentine’s Day?”

  “Just me.” She touched the side of his shoulder, feeling the silkiness of his skin. “There is something. It’s a tradition with the Valentines. We have a family wedding cake topper with two entwined porcelain hearts. For many generations, I believe going back to the mid-eighteen hundreds, that topper has been on every wedding cake of every Valentine who marries on Valentine’s Day. My aunts have it. They’re keeping it for . . .”

  She didn’t complete the thought.

  Jake finished the sentence: “You.”

  “I won’t need it.”

  Jake gathered her tight, bringing his face to the curve of her shoulder and breathing in.

  “Are you sleepy?” she asked in a dreamy murmur.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to watch you sleeping . . .”

  His voice rumbled next to her breasts when he whispered, “Let’s keep what’s happening between us, sweetheart. For as long as you’re in Harmony. We don’t have to define it if you don’t want to.”

  She faltered in the silence that engulfed the room as he waited for her answer. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit, more in love with him than her heart could possibly hold. “I—I don’t want to define it.”

  Because if she did, she couldn’t bear to ever leave him.

  Chapter

  19

  B ackstage at the Elm Street theater, members of the Barbell Club prepared for the Mr. Physique competition to take place at seven o’clock that evening. The house was packed, each red velvet chair occupied by a resident of Harmony or the surrounding communities. Behind the curtain, competitors had their own area in which to get ready, to warm up their bodies, to strike poses, and, for the Barbell Club, to get last-minute advice from Jake.

  Jake’s heart pumped double time as the strings of the orchestra began to tune; he felt as if it were him getting ready to go out there on that stage.

  “Look, fellows,” Jake said, calling them to attention, “it isn’t just your physique that’s going to be evaluated out there. It’s how you present your physique to the judges.”

  Wearing warming togs, Gig Debolski, Milton Burditt, Walfred Kudlock, Lou Bernard, and August Gray stood ready to hear Jake out. They hadn’t gotten to the oiling-up and body-powdering part—Jake had told them to wait until the last minute so their sweat wouldn’t dilute or cake those enhancements. He could see Milton was sweating faster than he could dab his brow. His expression was one of a deer that had been caught in a hunter’s sight and knew it was history.

  “Facial expressions.” Jake looked pointedly at Milt. “Facial expressions.”

  Milt’s expression soured. “Yeah, Lou—don’t screw up your face on the lifts like you’re sitting on the closet wrestling with a—”

  “Milton, that was uncalled for,” Lou shot back. “I never do that.”

  “Listen up,” Jake broke in, not in the mood for joking around. “When you’re out on that stage, you are not only an athlete but also a performer. You keep your facial expression true to the art. Don’t fake it. You really have to believe in yourself and show that belief to the audience.”

  August Gray diligently listened, his body in the best shape it could have been in for tonight.

  “August, I want you to focus on posing with your arms overhead.”

  “Sure, Bruiser.”

  “Milton and Lou—back poses.”

  “Right,” they said together.

  “Gig and Walfred—side delts.”

  They nodded.

  Jake sternly went on, pacing as he spoke. “Your mind needs to be sharp for all three categories. You can do it.” Clapping once, he meshed his fingers together and called, “It’s time to oil, get the hair combed back, put your heads in the right places.”

  Rather than move into action, the four of them stared hard at Milton, as if waiting for him to confess something.

  “What’s the matter?” Jake asked.

  “We want to see if Milton went through with it,” Lou said.

  “Through with what?”

  “The bet.”

  A bet. That’s just what they needed.

  Tamping down his raw anger, Jake ground out, “You boys don’t seem to understand; this isn’t a situation for betting. This is damn serious. There are thirty-eight other men around you—in case you haven’t noticed—who want to win this title. Get rid of the clothes and get on with the oil.”

  The boys began removing their cotton tunics and loose-fitting trousers, giving Milton furtive glances. Milton took his sweet time about it, to a degree that Jake urged him to speed it up.

  As soon as Milton stood there in his leopard-skin trunks, flesh-toned tights, and Roman sandals, Jake saw what the drama had been about.

  Milton Burditt had shaved his chest as smooth as the bottom of a beer bottle. Not a single shadow of curling hair. Just wide chest, a pooch of a pot belly, and a navel.

  Looking embarrassed at first, he then pulled his barrel-shoulders b
ack and sucked in his belly as far as he could get it. Proudly, he declared, “I told you I was going to win the Mr. Physique belt.”

  Jake wasn’t shocked by the shaved chest. Hell, he’d seen all sorts of tactics at events. Despite his opinion of Milton Burditt as a piece of cheese between two slices of pumpernickel bread, you had to admire the man’s nerve. “Milt, you go out there and win ’em over.”

  “Yes sir, Bruiser!”

  “I never figured you’d go through with it, Milt,” Gig said in admiration.

  “I told you I would. And it wasn’t for any bet, either.”

  The boys passed around the Hammerhead’s Body Definition Powder, then oiled up in other places where the reddish powder wouldn’t give a body its full effect. As they readied, they talked about the competition. And about the bet they’d made with Milton.

  “I guess we owe you big, Milt,” Lou said, buffing the powder from his upper arms.

  “Really big,” August remarked.

  Gig put in, “How much was that? A five spot each?”

  “Geez, Milt,” Walfred mumbled while calculating beneath his breath, “you just made out with twenty dollars.”

  “And that twenty is going to buy me a Winchester twenty-five- to thirty-five-caliber ‘Take-Down’ rifle at Wolcott’s Sporting Goods. And a lot of beer at the Blue Flame with the change.” Milton greased up his chest. His pomaded hair was parted down the middle, with two curls at his forehead that looked like commas. “Bruiser, I think you should take the boys on for that Miss Valentine bet and up the ante from beer to cash. These fellows are on a losing streak, and that dance is only a week away.”

  Jake’s jaw clenched down so hard, his teeth ached. “I told you all to drop that. I’m not betting on her.”

  Milton attempted to argue. “Yeah, Bruiser, but—”

  “Milt, if you don’t shut your mouth, you’ll never see your name on a sandwich marquis because it’ll be on your tombstone instead.”

  Milton blanched.

  “Wrong facial expression, Milt,” Jake noted while walking toward the curtain to look out. “Never show your fear in front of your opponent.”

  Jake gave each man final instructions; then he took his place in the audience to wait for the event to begin. Walking to his seat, he looked for Truvy. She was coming to the competition with Tom and Edwina. He would have asked her to come with him, but as a sponsor, he was too wrapped up in the night’s events to be of much company to her. And afterward, there was going to be a party at Bruiser’s Gymnasium for all the competitors, losers and the winner—beer, cigars, sandwiches from the restaurant, and lots of gym talk.