The Cherry Harvest

by Lucy Sanna

  Ben’s jaw tensed. “Well, then. Maybe you better go play Old Maid.”

  Josie jumped off the swing.

  He grabbed for her, tried to tickle her. “C’mon, Josie. I was just teasing.” His tone softened. “You know I’m a kidder.” He stood and moved toward her. He touched her cheek, her shoulder.

  “Oh, Ben!” Josie hugged him, crying. He kissed her hair.

  Kate turned away and walked down the path toward the house, resisting the urge to look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  KATE UNFOLDED THE LINEN NAPKIN on her lap to protect her white summer dress and bit into the messy barbecue beef sandwich. She closed her eyes and savored the dark smoky flavors, and when she opened them, Clay was watching her. She dabbed her lips with the napkin, embarrassed to be caught in such an unladylike moment of enjoyment.

  They sat at an outdoor table overlooking Kangaroo Lake. The sky had cleared and the evening held that rich loamy after-rain scent of damp earth and roots and wild grasses. Loons bobbed on the lake’s surface, diving down and coming up somewhere else.

  When Clay had picked Kate up earlier, he’d asked about Ben.

  “Lost a leg?” Clay repeated. He looked startled at the news.

  “The Army’s making him a new one.” She rushed her words. “He says he’ll be fine.” She wiped away tears.

  Clay put an arm around her.

  “He doesn’t want anyone to worry about him. But how could he possibly be fine?” Kate wanted to ask Clay’s advice about how to help Ben. She looked at his tense jaw. No. It was too close, too close to his own coming war. Besides, this was their last night together before he left, and she didn’t want to spoil it. Clay squeezed her hand. They were quiet on the drive to the roadhouse, and once there, they didn’t speak of it again.

  Dusk had shifted into a magical blue-gray twilight. Stars peeked out here and there. And then the moon rose full.

  Clay’s Navy whites shone bright. I must be glowing too, Kate thought. With Clay’s admiring eyes on her, she felt beautiful. She sipped her beer and licked foam from her upper lip. “After the war, where do you want to fly?”

  “Everywhere.” He gazed off over the lake. “California, Mexico, Argentina—”

  “That’s South America!”

  He laughed. “New Zealand, Australia . . .”

  “Gee whiz! I wonder what it’s like in Australia.”

  “That’s what we’ll find out.” He took one of Kate’s sticky hands and kissed her fingers.

  We? Oh yes! “I could write about it.” She had never thought of writing about faraway places. “I haven’t read any novels about Australia, or Argentina. Maybe I’ll be the first—”

  “That’s what I like about you, Kate. You just head right into life like an aviator into a storm.” He grinned. “Bare feet and all.”

  “Could we go to Cornwall, where Daphne du Maurier lives? She’s an author I like. Do you think we might visit her?”

  “If you want to visit her, we’ll do it.” He touched the tip of her nose.

  Was this really happening? Were they really talking about a future together? Kate was too excited to eat any more. She took a swallow of beer and closed her eyes to hold the moment.

  “Look there,” Clay said. “Is that an egret?”

  She squinted at the tall blue bird stalking the shore. “Great blue heron.”

  “Smarty pants. That’s what you are.”

  When a gentle breeze lifted the ends of her wispy hair, Clay smoothed a palm along her hair and cheek. “Smarty panties.”

  Panties. Kate was wearing the silk lacy ones Josie had given her for her birthday, which for months had lain wrapped in the original tissue paper, hidden in the back of her underwear drawer. She was used to heavy cotton ones; these were so light she felt naked under her dress. Yesterday in the cherry shack Clay had led her hands to his belt before she got scared and stopped him. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it too. She hoped he had one of those rubber things the girls at school talked about because she certainly didn’t want to get pregnant.

  Kate didn’t know what had happened between Ben and Josie after she left them in the cottage, but the next day, when she went to the bedroom, the sheets Josie had brought were still fresh, unused. The cottage smelled of wildflowers.

  Wild. She smiled into Clay’s eyes, sipping her beer.

  His hands grasped hers across the table, his face serious. “You know I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  The great blue bird rose up from the shore, spreading its wide wings, and drew its reedy legs together like a rudder and glided off across the still lake.

  ON THEIR WAY HOME, Kate asked Clay to park the car near the cherry shack. She took off her sandals and led him barefoot along the edge of the woods to the cottage. “Do you mind waiting here? I have to run into the house for a few minutes.”

  Clay had never asked Kate why she didn’t invite him in to meet her family, and she was glad of that. Her parents would have too many questions, reasons she shouldn’t see him. He was older, an “out-of-towner,” as Mrs. J had suggested, not to be trusted.

  It was after nine. Mother, Father, and Ben were sitting in the parlor.

  “How was the party?” Father asked. A party given by one of the girls at school. A lie. Kate hadn’t asked the girl to cover for her. As long as she was home in time, she knew they wouldn’t check. Their focus was on Ben now.

  “It was nice.”

  “Glad you’re home,” Mother said. “We were just going up to bed.” She put away her sewing and rose from the couch. Father emptied his pipe into an ashtray and followed.

  “I’ll be along.” Ben sat on the couch under a reading lamp, a tray of carving tools on his lap, whittling away at a figurine.

  Kate sat close. “What are you making?”

  He rotated the figure, a carving of Josie’s head.

  “Wow, I can see her,” Kate said. This would be a good time to talk with him about Josie and their plans. But Clay was waiting. She faked a yawn and stood. “See you in the morning.”

  “G’night, Kitty Kat.”

  She went up to her room and closed the door. After stuffing pillows under her covers, she climbed out the window and down through the branches of the oak tree.

  Clay came forward along the path and took her arm. “Sweet little place you got here.”

  Crickets sang from the trees, mating calls.

  Once they’d settled on the cottage swing, Clay pulled out a flask and handed it to her. The two beers Kate had drunk at supper had gone down easily. The whiskey was harsher. He offered her a cigarette and lit it with his own. She drew the smoke into her lungs, and Clay put an arm around her, sweet and gentle. She gave the swing a push with her foot. They were quiet for a while, his warm hand on her bare shoulder, his hip next to her hip, his thigh touching hers. The gentle lapping of the lake. The slow squeak of the swing. The first star. She closed her eyes and wished for Clay forever.

  He sucked in the last of his cigarette and flung it onto the grass. “I’m going to miss you, Kate.”

  “Me too.” It came out in a whisper.

  He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. When she kissed him back, he opened the top few buttons of her sundress and his palm brushed across the filmy fabric of her bra.

  Kate’s nipples came erect at his touch. Her insides rushed down in a flood of desire, and she couldn’t help but move her hips toward him. He put a hand under her dress and moved it slowly up and up until his fingers played along the lacy edge of her panties and then teased around that spot, that embarrassing wet spot, and she sighed.

  “Oh!” There, right there, the touch she didn’t know she longed for.

  He rose and put his arms beneath her knees and shoulders and carried her through the door, into the cottage, into the bedroom, and gently lowered her onto the bed.

  Moonlight from the window softened the small room around them.

  He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his white trousers and
let them drop to the floor. His shirt and undershirt followed, exposing that strong deep chest she remembered, the dark curly hair diving down in a V.

  Dressed only in his boxer shorts, he knelt over her and opened the remaining buttons on her dress. She arched up to help as he pulled it over her head. Exposed in her bra and panties, she slid between the sheets and he gently pulled the top sheet down and touched her skin, his face serious.

  “I don’t want to get pregnant,” she breathed.

  “Don’t worry, my love.”

  My love!

  When he took off her bra, he sucked in his breath and put his hands on her breasts and then his lips, his mouth. His hand moved down her tummy, under the waistband of her panties, his fingers in her pubic hair, finding that place. Swirling a finger in that wet place, pushing his finger up into her. Moonlight in his eyes.

  When he lay beside her, he brought her hand to his shorts and she touched the warm thickness, full and alive. She watched his face, his eyes half-closed, dreamy, mouth open. And she grabbed it, pulled on it, wanting him, wanting him.

  “Easy,” he said, husky voice. He pulled off his shorts and showed her the way, touching it up and down, slowing her hand. Then he reached to his trousers on the floor and came back with the rubber thing and pulled it down over the length of him.

  “Are you okay?” he whispered. Rapid breath. Excited eyes.

  She could barely speak. “Yes.” Her skin warm and tingling, her heart beating loud, her breath uneven.

  “Oh!” When he moved into her she tensed.

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded because she didn’t want him to know that it hurt, tugging at her insides, burning. What am I doing wrong?

  He must have known because he slowed and kissed her and touched her breasts and breathed into her ear. And she relaxed, and then it didn’t burn so much and being so close—Is this really happening?—so close to Clay, wanting to please him. Her arms around him, his skin hot and slick. He moved faster now, burning her insides with his excitement, then he shuddered and cried out, straining.

  He breathed hard, then slower, slipping out of her. He opened his eyes and kissed her face. He took off the rubber thing, and then his body returned to her, warm and solid, his arms around her. She pulled the sheet over them, together.

  His face lay on the pillow next to hers. A hand in her hair, then on her cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

  She smiled.

  “Good night, my sweet Kate.” His eyes closed, and he was soon asleep, breathing softly beside her.

  It had all led to this. All the beautiful suspense—the weeks and weeks of suspense—and these last few days—it had all led to this. She had expected to be marvelously content, like Amber in the book, but she only felt chafing pain and a rousing restlessness.

  She lay awake in the moonlight, afraid to move, afraid to wake her lover, watching him as he slept. Dark curly lashes against his pale skin, tiny cinnamon freckles dotting his nose, a sleepy smile lingering on his lips. It must have been what he’d expected.

  WHEN KATE OPENED HER EYES, there was Clay, propped on an elbow, waiting for her. He brushed stray hair from her face. “You were dreaming.”

  She blinked awake, mildly conscious of the illusory world she was leaving. “Where do we travel when we dream?”

  He kissed her forehead. “This is my dream, right here with you.”

  The night was warm. She was sore down there and hot from their coupling, sweaty. “Let’s go down to the lake.”

  He groaned.

  “C’mon, lazybones.”

  Outside, they ran naked to the beach and paused on the shore, holding hands. The lake lay velvety still before them. Moonlight dusted rippling waves like diamonds.

  Kate dove out across the surface and turned and floated on her back. Clay was soon floating beside her.

  “It’s cold!” he said.

  She laughed and moved her arms in a slow backstroke. “Do you know the stars?”

  “Tell me.” He followed her pace.

  She pointed out the Pleiades, Little Dipper, Big Dipper, Milky Way. “If you listen, you can hear them.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “They’re saying, ‘Look at those beautiful lovers on the lake.’ They’re jealous. Wouldn’t you be?”

  A sudden flash of bright light pierced the sky. Then another. Vivid green and blue streaks. Puffy clouds tinged pink. The lights got brighter, more intense.

  “Wow!” Clay grabbed Kate’s hand, floating together now. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “They’re showing off,” she whispered. “Northern Lights. Aurora borealis.”

  The colors changed and grew and saturated the huge dome of sky with an electric green, vivid and close.

  “It’s you,” he said. “A reflection of you.”

  “It’s us.” She laughed. “You and me together.”

  They swam to shore and walked to the cottage, to the bedroom perfumed with wildflowers, and pulled the sheet up around themselves beneath the breeze of the open window. Kate closed her eyes, content now, and breathed in the earthiness of the night.

  SHE WOKE WITH THE SONGBIRDS. Sunrise already. She kissed Clay’s cheek, and he opened his eyes. He ran his hand along her torso.

  “I have to go,” she whispered.

  When his hand moved toward her breasts, her nipples tightened and she felt the wetness down where it was still sore, but not so much now. He kissed her lips, and she clung to him. Yes, not wanting to leave him, kissing him back, her mouth open.

  He pulled away and reached for his trousers and brought out another rubber thing. And she opened to him, unafraid this time, no longer thinking, alive now to his fullness inside of her. This time he was slower, more gentle, and the soreness turned to a feeling like scratching an itch, and her insides came sighing down to that place and her hips went up to meet him, moving instinctively up and up. She held him tight, slick with sweat, her sweat, his sweat. Her legs moved up around his thighs, rocking with him. She shivered and shivered again and cried out, and he kissed her, breathing “Kate” in her ear, “Sweet Kate.” And he pulsed into her, wet and fast, and then dropped, breathing hard.

  And yes, this was what it had all led to, the anticipation, the suspense, it had all led to this. This amazing moment elastic with pleasure extended in time. She could live on this precious night forever.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  KATE CLIMBED THE TREE to her bedroom window and changed into her overalls. Down in the kitchen, she tried not to smile too broadly lest she give herself away. Mother greeted her as if nothing had changed.

  Outside she walked barefoot on lush grass glistening with morning dew. A band of silver rimmed the lake’s horizon where the Northern Lights had come out just for them.

  As she approached the barn, Kate saw that the big door was already open. Ben sat on the high stool at the lathe, the radio playing.

  “What’s that you’re making?” she asked.

  “A new leg.” He said it matter-of-factly.

  Kate recoiled, afraid to look, until she realized he was talking about the chair. She went over to the bench and watched his large hands deftly craft the cylindrical piece of wood. “I like having you home. You like what Josie’s done with the cottage?” She was eager to find out what had happened after she’d left.

  “Sure.” He switched on the noisy lathe, effectively cutting off the conversation.

  Crossing the barn to Mia’s pen, Kate paused at the place with the bloodstain. The hair on the back of her neck bristled whenever she neared it. She glanced toward Ben. He need never know.

  While she pulled gently on Mia’s teats, Kate’s thoughts wandered. During past harvests, Ben, a fast picker, worked in the trees, but surely he couldn’t climb a ladder now. She could ask him to help her in the cherry shack—it would give them an opportunity to talk about things, about his plans with Josie—and she wanted to tell him about Clay. She wanted Ben to meet Clay, to show
them off to each other. They’d shake hands, swap stories—Ben coming home, Clay leaving. And when the war was over, they’d share experiences. Like brothers. Yes, brothers! But no, this was her last day with Clay. Introductions would have to wait.

  Outside, the early sun shimmered across the lake, pooling on waves and ripples like liquid silver. Squawking seabirds hovered and wheeled away and back. Kate breathed it all in. Everything was good again. Ben was home and Clay loved her.

  After breakfast Kate went to the cottage and pulled the sheets from the bed and brought them up to her closet to hide. She would wash them later.

  She took time to bathe and wash her hair, then chose a lavender sundress, ribbony straps at her shoulders—Mrs. J said that lavender complimented her skin tone. She brushed her hair until it shone like gold and added her pink barrette.

  The sun was bright, and sales at the cherry stand were brisk. Kate tried to focus on serving the customers, but her thoughts were on Clay. She closed her eyes and relived precious details of their night together. She was still sore down there, beautifully sore.

  With every approaching car, she looked up, expectant.

  Just before noon Kate heard the tractor, Father bringing fruit. And there was Ben, sitting on the flatbed amid lugs of cherries and a rack of pies. “Want some company?”

  Kate’s heart sank, but she couldn’t very well say no. “That’d be swell.”

  After they unloaded, Father drove off and Ben stayed.

  Sitting next to Kate behind the counter, Ben put a cherry into his mouth and spit the pit out onto the gravel lot. Watching him, Kate noticed that his face was thinner now, his rosy cheeks roughened. Squinty lines had formed on his forehead between his eyes.

  “Did you miss the cherries last summer?” she asked.

  “I missed everything.” He plopped another cherry into his mouth, spit the pit. He laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the fruit they grow around the Mediterranean. Figs, dates, persimmons, pomegranates . . .” He closed his eyes. “I liked the figs best. And so many different kinds of olives and nuts—”

  A car pulled up to the stand. A family emerged—man, woman, three redheaded children. The woman marched forward. “Came for the pies.”