by Mallory Rush
Love. He kept calling her that, when more than anything she wanted to hear him say "I love you." Of course, if he said it now, he'd be saying it to a fake. And he'd made it clear he had no use for anything artificial, not even an eyeball, and surely not a wife. But if he'd just say it, she knew she'd feel safe enough to throw herself on his mercy.
Mariah wavered, pitted between what was right and the possible consequences of her wrongdoing. She searched his expectant and open gaze, one that said he trusted her and was patiently waiting for whatever she might have to say. For a moment, she actually thought she could do it.
"Something on your mind?" he prompted.
"Yes. Yes, there is." She tried to force the words, but try as she might, they wouldn't come. A heavy sense of failure and self-disappointment weighed on her. As well as a disturbing remembrance. "Last Sunday, at the church picnic, when you were roasting the corn, I went for a little walk around the town square. I met an old friend of yours there. Does the name Desiree strike a bell?"
"Desiree?" Sol was suddenly busy with his camera. "Why didn't you tell me you met her?"
"Because... well, I got the impression the two of you were very close at one time. I wanted to get over my jealousy before I brought her up so I wouldn't say anything petty or immature. Such as mentioning that she was more undressed than dressed and I didn't care for the way she fawned over you and asked me if you were still as good a lover as she remembered."
Sol uttered a few expletives, then pinned her with a dark look. "Desiree is a troublemaker, Mariah. I slept with her, as I'm sure she took great pleasure in telling you." He paused, which bothered her. "Stay away from Desiree, do you hear me?"
He was wearing that same formidable expression, using that same harsh voice of unbending authority that conjured up nightmares of what she'd have to endure once she made her confession. But apparently, Sol had a few secrets of his own. Secrets about a woman he'd known all his life, a woman she'd be hard pressed to compete with if she weren't married to him—or if their marriage suffered a fatal blow. That fence post might have ample support, but their marriage was still so new she was terrified to test its strength.
"She's beautiful." Mariah sniffed with distaste. There had been a hardness about Desiree, a calculated kind of display of her too-sensual features. "Not only that," Mariah added, "but I'd be a fool not to see that she's still sweet on you."
"Sweet? Desiree's sweet only when it serves her purpose. I'm telling you, Mariah, she'll make waves between us if she can. Desiree is history, and unless you want to do some story-swapping on old lovers and past lives, I'd suggest we drop this topic for another time."
Mariah picked up on his challenge. She was also knocked flat by the sensitive nerve she'd unexpectedly hit; the force of his reaction intensified her old insecurities.
As he stared at her and she stared back, the air pulsed with tension. No, she decided, any confessions that either might make could definitely wait.
"Okay, consider the topic dropped. You don't want me to pry, and I won't. When you're ready you can tell me, of your own free will."
"Fair enough." Sol sighed heavily and shook his head with something close to disgust. "As usual, we seem to think alike, even about the darnedest things. Now let's take the picture. Ma's waiting for you to can pickles and I've got to help Dad vaccinate cows."
Remembering Desiree's voluptuous curves and her hip-swaying saunter, Mariah pressed her arms against her breasts and revealed some cleavage. Deciding that wasn't provocative enough, she leaned vampishly against the barn gate. Besse nuzzled her through the fence.
"Be sure to get Besse too," she said.
"You and that damn cow," he muttered. She replied with a sexy pout and more exposed cleavage.
Sol took one shot, then put aside the camera and studied her—endlessly, it seemed. His lips were tight and his brow creased in disapproval.
"Nice pose," he said shortly.
"You didn't like it?" Well, she thought with a huff, he'd certainly liked Desiree's slutty charms well enough.
"What I like is the real you, and that's not it."
"What makes you so sure?" she challenged, feeling the sting to her feminine ego. "People have different sides to their personalities, even their tastes. Don't underestimate mine, as I apparently did yours." Mariah gave him her back and fed a handful of hay to Besse. "Mom's waiting, so I'd better go on."
Feeling quite smug, she patted Besse's head and turned, intending to brush past him.
Mariah collided with his massive chest instead, and his lips came down on hers, exerting an overbearing demand. She pushed against him, angry not only for thwarting her exit but for rejecting in her what he'd enjoyed in Desiree.
Sol's mouth was relentless in its plundering and his hands were totally unprincipled in what they grasped. But as their battle of wills ensued, principles ceased to matter to her and she gave up fighting him to return his hungry kisses and heated strokes.
Once she'd succumbed, Sol released her and she grabbed blindly for the gate to keep her balance.
He was ten feet away when he swung his crutches around and pointed a stern finger in her direction.
"Mariah," he said in a rough, warning tone. "Be careful."
*
"Let's see, honey. The vinegar mixture is made and heating up—"
"To approximately two hundred and twenty degrees, right?"
"Well... I suppose. Just a hard boil, my mother taught me. I'm not sure of the exact degrees."
"Two-twenty," Mariah said absentmindedly. She cleaned another cucumber and tossed it in with the others in a heap. "Remove the blossoms from an unwaxed variety," she muttered to herself. So caught up in the adventure of canning, she was barely aware of LaVerne's curious eavesdropping as she recited the instructions she'd memorized from just a quick glance through the recipe book.
"Use granulated pickling and high-grade vinegar of four to six percent acid. No copper, brass, galvanized, or iron utensils. Stoneware, aluminum, glass, stainless steel advised. Bread and butter. Dill. Sweet gherkin. Quick mustard..."
"I'm finished," Mariah called out. "Thanks for letting me help, Mom. This is a total blast."
"Well, it's certainly... interesting," LaVerne answered from mere inches behind her.
Mariah jumped. "Oh, I—I thought you were by the stove."
"No. Just getting a lesson on pickling, when I thought I was teacher for the day. Didn't you tell me you'd never even eaten a homemade pickle, honey?"
"I—well, I—" Mariah stared helplessly at the cucumbers. "It's really simple. I just—"
"Mariah." LaVerne's voice was softly chiding. "Why don't you tell me the truth? Even a blind person could see you're hiding something."
Tears burned behind Mariah's tightly squeezed lids. Cornered without warning. What was she going to do?
"Come sit with me, honey." LaVerne urged her to the sunny breakfast nook. Taking a seat opposite her, she reached for Mariah's hands, which were folded in earnest prayer, and pressed them between hers.
"Mariah, you're obviously a very bright young lady—bright enough, I hope, to realize you can't run and hide forever. Being a parent, I can't help but wonder if yours are missing you. It's not right to worry them."
"They're not missing me." Taking a steadying breath, she plunged ahead. "At least not yet. They're still in Europe."
"They don't know you're married to my son, do they?"
"Not... exactly." Glancing out the window, Mariah saw Sol heading toward the house. Anxiety clutched at her stomach. "Sol's coming, Mom. Please, don't tell him—"
"That's your place, not mine," LaVerne assured her. "But I would like to know why you hid the truth from your folks, then took off once their backs were turned. Was it a bad home, Mariah? Were you mistreated?"
"Not mistreated. Just... misunderstood. I was unhappy and so I took it upon myself to change that. I regret the way I went about it, but I don't regret anything else. Sol's a wonderful man," she said passionately.
"I didn't know how to stand up to my parents to tell them that before, but when they get back, I swear I will."
LaVerne smiled as she looked out the window at her son. "Judging from the way you stand up to that ornery boy of mine, I imagine you will. He's given you some practice at it, hasn't he?"
"Daily doses." Deciding LaVerne was an ally, Mariah risked a burning question. "He gave me a dose of something I wasn't expecting today. It was about Desiree."
LaVerne jerked her attention from the window. She had the look of a bantam hen protecting its young.
"What about that girl?"
"I met her, and she was no girl. She was—"
"A floozy. A spoiled-rotten, rich snob without a stitch of moral fiber who practically got my son down the aisle."
Mariah could feel the blood drain from her face. "You mean Sol... and Desiree were engaged?"
"If he didn't tell you, honey, then it's not my place to do the tattling."
Tapping a finger on the table, LaVerne said firmly, "You didn't ask for my advice, but this once I'm giving it anyway. Your marriage is new and I understand a need for time before heaping some manure on the perfume of love. But what you and Sol have is good. Don't take too long before you trust it; otherwise one cow patty gets tossed on top of another and before you know it you've got a whole heap of dung to deal with. Don't let it pile up."
The front door banged open and both women jumped as if caught in a conspiracy. They scooted out of the nook.
"Thanks, Mom." Giving her a quick hug, Mariah said softly, "I've always heard you don't just marry one person, you marry a whole family. I lucked out both ways."
"Works 'both ways' all right, Mariah." LaVerne heartily patted her back. "You're good for my son, and I thank God every day that he's married to you and not that Desiree." She all but spat the name out, much to Mariah's satisfaction. "Just one more question. How did you come upon so much know-how in the pickle department?"
"I guess you could say it has a lot to do with why I'm here and why my parents don't know it."
"Hey, what's this?" Sol's frame filled the kitchen doorway. The memory of his warning kiss arced between him and Mariah, as did her stung pride. It wasn't a comfortable feeling, especially with the secrets between her and LaVerne.
When Mariah stepped back, LaVerne put a protective arm about her, then wrinkled a nose at her son.
"Well, Sol, did you come in here to stare at us while looking like you just downed a quart of those sour pickles on the boil, or have you got news?"
"Besse's acting like she's ready to have that calf," he said flatly. "I thought Mariah would like to know."
"She's calving!" Mariah darted for the door, but stopped short. "Oh, the pickles. Mom—"
"Go on. You know enough about pickling to set up your own cannery, so shoo. Go keep Besse company."
Mariah stared up at Sol. She was still irked at him, but he had come to tell her about Besse. Deciding he deserved a peck on the cheek, she kissed him and took off.
When Sol turned to follow her, LaVerne snapped out, "You just wait one good minute, young man. What's the meaning of stomping into my kitchen and glaring at your wife like that?"
"That's mine and Mariah's business, Ma. I'd thank you to keep your nose out of it."
"Just so you keep yours clean."
"And what do you mean by that?"
"Think about it, son. And while you've got your brain kicked into gear, remember one thing: A man usually treats his wife the way he's seen his father treat his mother. The next time you come in here to fetch your wife, take a few pointers from your daddy and don't come empty-handed."
It never ceased to amaze him that no matter how old a man got, he could still feel like a kid called on the carpet with one sharp word from his mother.
"What did you expect me to do, Ma, bring her flowers?"
"Good idea, son. It takes half a minute to yank a fistful of posies out of the yard. And don't you dare go back to that barn without some from my garden—to go along with a kiss for your wife for putting up with my prodigal son."
Chapter 11
"She might be at this awhile, Mariah. Dinner's already cold, so why don't we go ahead and eat, then check back on Besse in an hour or so?"
"But she could have the calf while we're gone." Stroking the long-suffering cow, who was bearing up stoically, Mariah glanced at Sol. His attitude had improved considerably since he'd returned to the barn, flowers in hand, several hours before. "Everyone else left once the last milking was done and I don't want her to be on her own."
"For heaven's sake, it's not as if you won't get another chance to see a calf born. They get dropped around here like flies."
"But they're not Besse's. She's special, and I'm not about to leave her in her time of need."
"'Her time of need'? She's just a cow," Sol insisted.
"Don't you listen to him, Besse," Mariah said, covering the cow's ears. Besse rolled her eyes to the side. "He's just jealous because you won't pay him any attention."
"If I'm jealous, it's because you're giving her more attention than you are me." When he nudged her behind with a crutch, Mariah spun around to see him quirk a brow and give a half smile.
In his own way he was trying to make up, she realized. LaVerne had probably given him the idea for the flowers, but stroking her with his crutch was typically Sol. Whether he was infuriating or gruffly sweet, she did find him irresistible—even when she didn't want to.
Looping her arms around his neck, she pressed her cheek against his chest. He embraced her, and she felt his heart thudding out a steady, reassuring beat. Moments like this, when she felt such completion, made her heart ache.
"I'm sorry we had words today," she said quietly. "I can't stand any distance between us." She hated her cowardice, the insecurities that created the invisible chasm he couldn't know was there.
"Neither can I, love." He held her tighter. "But it's up to us to close any distance that exists."
Mariah searched for a hidden meaning to his words, but his expression was unreadable. So she took him at face value and nodded.
"Marriage isn't easy, is it, Sol?"
"They say the first year's the hardest. We're still feeling our way around, and in some ways it's like the blind leading the blind. We'll get through it. It's just a matter of paying our dues. Nothing worth having is for free."
And having Sol meant paying up; the price could be his distrust, his distance, the end of the marriage. Digging her toes into the hay, she sighed wistfully.
"I know it's wrong to wish your life away, but sometimes, Sol, I can't help but wish we had this first year behind us."
"What? And miss out on all the discoveries yet to come?" He lifted her chin, and his smile was bittersweet. "Just think of all the moments like this we'll have to share. Even arguments have their purpose in the weaving of a marriage."
"Arguing is the pits," she interjected. "And it's one part of the tapestry I wish we could leave out."
"No such thing, Mariah. This might be my first and only marriage, but I saw enough head-butting growing up to know there's no getting around it." He raised a brow. "Didn't you ever see your parents have one doozy of a row?"
"No. Any disagreements they ever had they kept to themselves. But I wish—" What she wished was that she had seen them have a few good brouhahas. If she had, maybe she'd know how to handle conflict and resolution, instead of floundering around in all these murky unknowns. Projection. Rationalization. Denial. She knew she was guilty of all those things, but what it came down to was guts, and that was something she was going to have to find on her own.
"You wish... what?"
"Right now I wish they'd been a little less fond of each other and butted heads more often in front of me. Then maybe I could deal better with paying certain dues."
"Is that a fact?" Sol shook his head. "It's a pity you never saw them fight, Mariah. That's quite an education you missed out on. Watching Ma and Dad, I learned there's a real art to clearing t
he air and putting things right."
Mariah looked at him curiously. Whether or not he was alluding to more than the obvious, she didn't know, but she was eager to have any insights he could provide.
"And just what exactly is the right way to go about settling your differences?"
"First, you have to have some ground rules. No name-calling; that's a biggie. Door-slamming... That's kind of iffy, and so is stomping around. It might let off some steam, but all that noise tends to rile things up a bit more."
"You mean it adds some spice to what's already simmering on the back burner?"
"I'll say—like cayenne pepper. Of course, the silent treatment is almost worse than too much racket. When one won't talk back, the other person usually starts talking too much. That's when things really start brewing, and it's like the lull before the storm. Anybody around better take cover because things could start flying soon."
Mariah combed her memory for an experience she could relate this to. She'd never had to take cover at her house. A vision of pots and pans sailing through the air and vases smashed on the floor had her gaping.
"But throwing things—that's immature. Uncivilized."
"You're right. That's why throwing things and hitting is absolutely not allowed. What I mean is, words start to fly. And this is the tricky part, something that takes a lot of skill—sticking to the subject at hand. Tempting as it is, you can't dredge up old garbage. And saying things like, hmmm, let's see..."
Putting a hand on his hip, he spoke in a falsetto. "I'm sick and tired of picking up your dirty, smelly socks, and if you track manure onto my clean floor one more time I'm going to rub your nose in it. And don't you know what deodorant is? I can smell you from here. Now go take a shower and just leave me alone." Sol chuckled when Mariah giggled at his imitation of LaVerne. "Of course, socks and floors and deodorant don't have a dang thing to do with the real issue. That's just the lead-in."
"Now let me guess at the comeback." Fully into the spirit of the conversation. Mariah tightened her lips the way she'd seen Herbert do, a mannerism he'd apparently passed on to his son. "I'll take a shower when I'm damn good and ready. Or better yet when you quit dumping too much salt into the chicken noodle soup."'