by Webb, Peggy
“Remember the time I drank from your shoe?”
The sudden sound of his voice startled her. She set her glass carefully on the table, not looking at him. She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to be sitting in the kitchen thinking about Jim and Lovey holding hands and wondering what it would be like if she had the right to do the same thing with Flannigan.
“Remember?” he said again, so softly she was forced to look up.
His face had that intense brooding look she knew so well, the look he always got just before they made love. Slowly he reached down and caught her ankle. His thumb drew circles on her leg as he lifted it to his lap.
She felt as if all her nerve endings were centered in the spot he touched. She had lied to him. From the minute he had walked into the kitchen, she had wanted to rake her fingernails down his chest and feel the tight muscles underneath his gleaming skin. Just once. Just long enough to see if it felt as good as she remembered. Oh, it had been a whopper of a lie. She had wanted a half-naked man. She had wanted him then, and she wanted him even more now.
And where in the world did that leave her? She might as well be in the urn with Babs as hook her star to Mick Flannigan’s wagon again.
She pulled her foot out of his grasp, slowly, so he wouldn’t see how he bothered her.
“You were young then,” she said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ve grown dull in your old age.”
“Dull?”
His voice sent shivers down her spine. She should have remembered what it was like to provoke Flannigan. She saw the sparks come into the center of his eyes, saw the muscle tighten in his jaw, saw the tensing of his shoulders. But she wasn’t about to back down. It was already too late.
“Yes, I said dull. I noticed it the minute I set eyes on you.” He was out of his chair now. Adrenaline pumped through her, and she felt more alive than she had in years. “What a pity you’ve lost all your excitement.”
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he leaned down and scooped her out of her chair. Her robe slid off her shoulders and landed on the floor. She lifted her gaze to his, and for a heartbeat she thought she’d been hurled back in time. Her lips parted.
Flannigan knew temptation. Tess was still firm where she should be, and soft in all the right places. She was like an armful of camellias, creamy and satiny and fragrant. He leaned so close, he was almost touching her lips.
“Do you think I’m going to kiss you, Tess, my girl?”
Her mouth snapped shut.
“It takes two to kiss, Flannigan. And I have no intention of kissing you.”
“Good. Just so we understand each other.”
He swung her over his shoulder, bottom up.
When she recovered her breath, she banged his back with her fists.
“What do you think you’re doing? Put me down.”
“Not until I get what I want.”
He held her flailing legs still with one arm as he pulled off her left shoe.
“There now. That should do it.”
He plunked her down unceremoniously onto her feet, and she stood in one shoe, lopsided, glowering at him. Now she knew how OToole had felt when she’d hauled him off the bed.
Flannigan held her shoe aloft, laughing. “Did you think I was going to kneel at your feet to get this?”
“I can never tell what you’re going to do.”
“You said I had grown dull with old age.”
He reached for the bottle. A bright drop splashed onto the floor as he poured champagne into her shoe. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted her shoe toward his mouth. She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth—lush, warm, satiny. She knew just how it would feel.
“I was goading you,” she said.
“Why?” He stared at her over the top of the shoe.
“I don’t know.” Suddenly she sat down and stared at the urn. “We always did bring out the worst in each other.”
“And the best.”
Tess watched as he tipped up her shoe and caught the sparkling champagne in his open mouth. One small drop wet his chin. She put her hand on the urn to keep from reaching up to wipe it off.
“Don’t let me make a fool of myself, Babs,” she whispered.
“Did you say something?”
“I said it was past time to go to bed.”
The saints only knew why, but suddenly Mick wanted to prolong their time together in the kitchen.
“You didn’t drink your champagne,” he said.
“So I didn’t.”
Tess picked up her champagne and finished it off without lowering the glass. She wanted to be out of the kitchen, away from Mick Flannigan, but she’d die before she’d let him know that. Instead of retreating, she poured herself another glass.
“Toast, Flannigan.” She held her glass aloft.
“Toast.” He held out her shoe and clinked it against the rim of her glass.
“To Babs,” she said.
“To the good old days.”
They drank, their gazes locked.
“She used to say nobody else in the world could satisfy you except me. Remember that, Tess?”
“She was wrong.” Tess swung her head toward the urn. “Sorry about that, Babs.”
“So am I... extraordinarily sorry.” Flannigan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Tess’s shoe. Then he knelt down and slipped it on her foot. “You still wear your dancing shoes wherever you go. “
“Some things don’t change, Flannigan.” She steadied herself against the pleasure generated by his hand on her leg.
“You’re right.” He circled his hand slowly on her leg before letting her go. “Some things never change.”
He stood up then, and she caught a glimpse of the little boy lost she’d known so many years before. He’d been tough and strong and wild, but every now and then his guard would slip and she’d see a bewildered child peering out from his blue eyes. Now, seeing that look again, she melted.
“Still chasing rainbows, Mick?”
“Always. It seems to me that the big one is just over the next hill.”
“Where was your last hill?”
“Down in South America. I’ve been running a little flying school.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I’ve always craved excitement. I guess it’s my carnival upbringing.”
“I think it’s in your blood, Flannigan.”
Tess caught his face between her hands and kissed him full on the lips. Then, with one hand still on his cheek, she whispered, “Someday I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
She left the kitchen swiftly, trailing ostrich plumes, the scent of jasmine, and a disgruntled cat. Mick was too stunned to tell her she’d forgotten Babs.
“I’ll be damned.”
He touched his hand to his lips and watched the empty kitchen doorway. It seemed Tess lingered there. That was the way it had always been with her. She stamped herself onto a place so that a part of her spirit was forever imprinted there. Everything she touched, even the very air she breathed, seemed permeated with her essence. That’s why, after he had left her, he’d got rid of his belongings, one by one—the old battered suitcase she’d sometimes used in her out-of-town singing engagements; his favorite T-shirt she’d often worn while she hummed around the kitchen, burning hot dogs; his hairbrush with the few red strands of hair tangled in the bristles; his red wool socks she wore to bed in the winter when her feet got cold.
He reached for her glass and filled it with champagne.
“Here’s to the past, Babs. I thought it was dead until I came here and saw her again.”
Flannigan tipped up the glass and drained it in one single, smooth swallow. Then he refilled it, leaned back in his chair, and propped his bare feet on the table.
“Excuse me, Babs. A man likes to be comfortable when he drinks.”
That’s one of the things Uncle Arthur had taught him: Be comfortable when you drink. Good old Uncle Arthur.
God rest his soul. The Incredible Fire-Breathing Man, finest attraction at the Brinkley Brothers’ Carnival.
Arthur wasn’t really his uncle, of course. He didn’t have any uncles. Or parents, either. No, he decided as he poured himself another drink, Mick Flannigan was a man alone, a man who knew how to move from place to place in order to find what he wanted.
When he was twelve years old, he’d merely wanted to be rid of the drab, structured life at the orphanage. So he’d run away, joined the carnival, taken up with Uncle Arthur. They’d more or less adopted each other. Then, when he’d left college, he’d been looking for the big score.
He hadn’t found it yet, just a series of small, unsatisfying scores, enough to keep body and soul together. And when he’d left Tess...
He held the glass high and inspected the golden liquid. What had he been searching for when he’d left Tess? Damned if he knew.
Even now, ten years later, he still didn’t know what he was searching for. All he knew was that he had to keep searching. The siren song was playing, calling his name, wooing him, luring him over the next hill.
“Here’s to the next hill... wherever it might be.”
He sat in the kitchen until the bottle was empty. Then he stood up to go. His bare foot touched something soft and silky. Tess’s robe. Looking down at the bit of herself she’d left behind, Mick smiled.
“You always did leave a trail, Tess.” He scooped up the robe and held it against his face for a moment. Then he tossed it carelessly over his shoulder as if holding on to a part of Tess didn’t matter anymore.
He put the bottle into the garbage can, picked up Babs, and left the kitchen. After he had carefully set the urn in its resting place, he climbed the stairs. His walk was sure and steady. Uncle Arthur had also taught him to hold his liquor.
He was halfway through his bedroom door before he changed his mind about going to bed. Pulling the silk robe off his shoulder, he smiled.
“Might as well return this to its rightful owner.”
CHAPTER THREE
Tess was spread across the bed like a fallen flower, her creamy gown glowing softly in the moonlight, her shoes still on her feet.
“Tess?” Flannigan stood in the doorway, softly calling her name, but he knew even as he did that she would not answer. Once Tess fell asleep, nothing less than a tornado could wake her.
He tiptoed into the room. Habit, he guessed. In his orphanage days he’d learned to tiptoe across a floor at night to keep from awakening a child who was dreaming of a home with real roses climbing on the white fence and real parents waiting beside the hearth. That had been his dream, too, when he was six years old. Fortunately for him, he’d got over that particular fantasy when he was about ten. He’d learned the hard way that it wouldn’t happen, and never let himself wish for it again.
He approached the bed. At first he thought he’d drop the robe on the foot of her bed where she’d be sure to find it next morning; then he decided that he’d spread it over her. As usual she hadn’t pulled up the covers, and he knew that when she woke up, even in the summertime, her feet would be cold—air conditioner cold now.
He sat down on the bed to spread the robe across her legs. She looked so silky, so soft. Without meaning to, he put one hand on her leg. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the gown.
Suddenly he was transported out of the bedroom in Tupelo, flung backward to a walk-up apartment in New York where the paint was peeling off the walls and the plumbing never worked right. He slid his hand down her leg, expecting any minute that she would turn over and reach for him, saying, “Flannigan, Flannigan,” in a voice that always reminded him of music, even when she was drowsy.
“Ahhh, Tess, my girl. How could I ever have let you go?”
She didn’t answer, of course. She slept on, just as she had ten years ago when he’d quietly packed his bags and walked out the door. Had it been an act of cowardice or an act of heroism? He didn’t know then, and he didn’t know now. At the time he’d believed he was making a great sacrifice for her sake. He had to be moving on, and it wouldn’t be fair to uproot her when she was making a name for herself.
She might have argued, of course. In fact, seeing her now, seeing the stubborn thrust of her chin even as she slept, he was certain that she would have argued. He had left without a word to avoid that argument. He’d propped a note on the nightstand and walked out the door and never looked back.
“Did your other husbands leave you, Tess?”
He couldn’t imagine they would.
“Or did you send them packing?”
He hoped so. He hoped they were so inadequate they couldn’t possibly have satisfied a woman like Tess Jones Flannigan.
Funny how he automatically added his name to hers. He supposed that’s what came from being with the group again, resurrecting old memories.
He spread the robe across her legs, smoothing it down and tucking it under her feet.
Tess stirred. Something was disturbing her dreams. Half awake, she was trapped by her dream in which she was running through her apartment, clutching a note in her hand, flinging open closet doors and kitchen cabinets. Looking for a toothbrush, a sock, a pair of wrinkled gym shorts—anything to tell her Flannigan had not left her.
Then, suddenly, she felt his hand on her leg. She knew it was Flannigan, for his touch was like no other, exquisitely tender and thoroughly possessive at the same time.
“Mick?”
She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. And there he was: sitting on the edge of her bed, looking delicious.
“You’ve come back.”
She flung her arms around him and pressed her face into the warm hollow between his beard-stubbled cheek and his hard shoulder. Her tears wet his skin.
“Oh God, Mick. I thought you had gone. I thought you had left me.”
She rained kisses along the side of his neck, across his shoulder. He gently cupped her face, tipping it up toward his.
“Ahh, Tess. “ His eyes were shiny in the moonlight, and she knew he was crying too.
“I thought you didn’t love me, Mick. I thought nobody loved me.”
Lulled by memories and champagne, they came together like two separate stars, destined to find their way back home across the sky. Her lips were sweet, and his were .tender. Her embrace was warm, and his was safe. Her sighs were soft, and his were full of regret.
He kissed her knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing that he’d had too much champagne and too much nostalgia.
She kissed him with growing wonder, coming slowly out of her half-dreamy state, rising out of the fog of the past and landing in the middle of now.
Mick had not come back. She was in Tupelo in a strange bed and in the arms of her first husband. The first and the best, she thought as she kissed him. Flannigan had always been the best.
With her lips still on his she imagined the angels bending down to sigh with envy. Flannigan kissed with more than skill, more than expert knowledge; he kissed with his soul. She could feel his hopes and his dreams, his sadness and his disappointment, his strength and his joy, hovering just beyond the surface of his satiny-smooth and exquisitely possessive lips.
When they had to break apart for air, she opened her eyes and leaned her head back to look at him.
“Ahhh, Flannigan. How we could love.”
He traced the graceful lines of her neck with the tips of his fingers.
“Don’t think I’m not tempted, Tess.” He bent down and skimmed his lips over her neck, bringing chill bumps to her skin. “I’m tempted to spread you across this bed and kiss every inch of your body.” He lifted his head to look into her eyes. “Did you know that you’re still the most sensational woman alive?”
“Yes.” Her laughter was low and throaty.
“Always the invincible Tess Jones.”
“Always.”
She didn’t, of course. But she wasn’t about to tell him the truth. Even when they were best friends, she’d kept part of herself secr
et from him. Like the rest of the world, he thought she was indestructible. That’s what she wanted him to think. That’s what she wanted them all to think.
Flannigan took one last taste of her skin, then he let her go. He stood up, and the mattress sprang back into place like a relieved toad that had been squashed under a rock.
“I can’t say I’m sorry this happened, Tess.”
“Neither can I.”
She gazed up at him with her hair tumbling around her shoulders and one strap hanging so low, her gown barely covered her. Her eyes were the deep green of summer trees in the late evening. He’d have given a fortune to know what she was thinking. But he didn’t have a fortune. And he didn’t need to learn her thoughts again.
They were both merely passing through Tupelo. Chances were, after this weekend they wouldn’t see each other again. And that’s the way it should be. There was no going back.
He half turned to go, but her voice stopped him.
“Why are you here... in my bedroom?”
“I was returning your robe. You left it in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Mick.”
“You’re welcome.”
She stacked two pillows together and lay back on the bed, her arms laced behind her head.
“I lied to you earlier, Mick.”
“When?”
“When I said you had lost your charm.” She smiled. “You haven’t.”
“I knew that all along.”
“But that doesn’t mean this is going to happen again.”
“You’re right. It won’t. I promise you.”
She felt deflated, as if she were a party balloon and someone had maliciously stuck a pin in her and let out all her air. He didn’t have to be so positive about the whole thing. Why was he so cool all of a sudden? Did he have another woman down in South America? Some hot Latin number who made him turn poetic in bed? Or maybe he had two or three women waiting for him. One in every port.
She didn’t even want to think about that.
“You can leave now,” she said. “And don’t forget to close the door on your way out.”
He left. The door had closed behind him with a muted sound of finality.