I’m grateful for the serendipity that brought us together. But, lightning doesn’t strike in the same place more than once.
I’m glad we didn’t walk out of here and leave our reunion to fate. A tangible chemistry courses between us. It carries with it an effortless ease, an immediate comfort and mountain of physical attraction. He’s powerful, brilliant, passionate, decisive, honest, funny, and he’s kind. He’s shown me all of that and it’s only been one weekend. What would it be like to spend a whole week, month, year with him? I can’t wait to find out. I have a feeling. Just a feeling… That this man could be my man. So, I decide I’m going to fake it until I make it happen.
I stand and extend my hand. “Let’s go out onto the terrace. It’s quiet and private.” He nods and smiles up at me for a beat before he takes my hand into his and stands up.
We step out onto the red brick paved balcony. It’s another beautiful, if unpredictable, day. Puffy light gray and white clouds dot the powdery blue sky, birds are chirping, the sea rolls and crashes, and the breeze blows lightly around us. From here, the menace of the rocks that I fell from is obscured by a blanket of pine tree. The beach below is beautifully kept and the water is crystal clear.
He stands behind me, wraps his arms around my waist and drops his chin on my shoulder. I cover his hands with mine and try to memorize the way it feels to have him surrounding me. He sighs—it’s not a heavy sigh, but it’s not one that says, “I’m content.”
“I’m listening, Hayes,” I say into the silence.
“Yeah, I can tell.” His voice vibrates from his chest and resonates against my back. I feel the gratitude in his words, even though he didn’t express it explicitly.
We speak with our brains. People hear with their hearts.
“I’ve been preparing half my life for a job that I don’t feel even close to being ready to assume. My father, and then my aunt, told me repeatedly that I have something important to do with my life. And now, it’s one of my strongest desires,” he says.
“I think that’s what everyone wants,” I say.
“No.” He shakes his head and his chin brushes my hair. I nestle tighter against him and his hands come off the rail and wrap around me. It’s the most possessive yet tender embrace. “Some people just want to be important. There’s a difference. I’m learning it now. I’m seeing it in you. Everyone I know is pursuing glory for themselves. Money for themselves. Prosperity for themselves.” His arms tighten around me. “You’re talking about preserving things that benefit your entire community. That’s how I want to think about my family. If I only have this finite time to make my mark, then I want to do it in a way that matters. Like you said, make it count for more than just time spent,” he says.
“Yeah.” I nod, but inside of me, something is blooming. He listened to me. He thought about what I said and found value in it. I think this man might be a unicorn.
He tilts his chin in the direction of the horizon and says, “Those men who sailed out past what looked like flat earth and kept going even though they weren’t sure they wouldn’t fall off—they’re the people I admire. They conquered the earth and then laid claim to it,” he says.
“There’s no conquering the earth,” I scoff.
“Tell that to them.” He nods at the horizon again.
I turn to face him. His eyes are bright and beautiful and just looking into them steals my breath. But I force my mind back to the point I want to make. “Maybe it’s because I grew up on the river. No levee we’ll ever build is strong enough to hold back more rain than the human mind can imagine. Mother nature is merciless. It made me realize how really insignificant we all are,” I say.
“You’re only insignificant if you leave nothing worthwhile and lasting behind,” he pushes back.
“How do we measure what’s worthwhile? Who decides that?”
“What does history record?” he asks.
“Are you saying that if we don’t write down what happened here this weekend you’ll forget it and it won’t mark a moment in your life that will influence how you make decisions in the future?” I ask.
“No, I’m not saying that. And that’s a very nicely-made point,” he says with respect in his voice. I shrug and turn back around to look out at the horizon.
“Until you’ve been overwhelmed by life—found a wave you can’t surf, a mountain you can’t scale, a river you can’t cross—it’s really hard to understand how small you are,” I say.
“I guess …” he says.
“If I hadn’t seen how mother nature gives not one whit about even the best laid plans of men, I may not be sure either. To watch that happen is humbling, heartbreaking, and transformative. We don’t conquer anything. We just have use of it for a short while, but those trees, they grow back.
“Those monuments? They need men to write their existence into history. On the other hand, the acts of bravery and kindness those horrible events inspire may not make it into history books. But they will pass from generation to generation by word of mouth. And when people hear about them, they’ll get goose bumps,” I say.
“So, instead of conquering, I should be thinking about contributing something lasting,” he muses.
“That’s for you to decide. But it’s what I hope for. That I’ll do well enough with my life that when my story is told or read …” I drawl and he laughs. “That people will feel something.” I sigh and his arms tighten around me.
“If you really want to make a difference, you don’t have to chase horizons; just look around you and do something that calls you,” I tell him.
I touch the pendant around my neck. “This necklace?” I touch the small pendant at my throat.
“Yeah. I like to think of it as your fishing hook,” he teases and I smile.
“It was the very first thing I bought for myself when I won that case. It’s a reminder that I may just be a drop in the bucket, but it only takes one drop to overflow it. Little old me … I did something. We all can,” I say.
We stand there quietly for a few minutes. “I’ll get off my soapbox now,” I say sheepishly.
“I like the way you look up there,” he says quickly and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“That’s because you’ve only had one weekend of it,” I joke.
“I think if I’d had any more, I’d be trying to find a way to keep you right where you are for as long as I could,” he murmurs in my ear. And my heart that’s been tripping all weekend finally gives up the ghost and falls.
SURE THING
CONFIDENCE
ONE MONTH LATER
* * *
“You miss me?” I murmur softly as soon as the call connects.
“Too much.” The words, enveloped in Hayes’s fatigue-roughened voice, deliver a delicious jolt to my heart.
“I miss you, too,” I say and hug my pillow tightly to my chest and inhale the lingering scent of him on it.
“I’ll be back next week, and I think I can come up on Thursday, so we’ll have an extra day.”
I feel a pang of guilt that he’s the one doing all the traveling.
“I can’t wait until I can come and see you …” I start and then trail off because I know what he’s going to say. This is our constant argument.
“I can’t wait for that either. Say the word. I’ll make it happen,” he says and a yawn escapes.
“Do you want me to get us a hotel in Memphis next time?” I ask him and do the math in my head really quickly. I should be able to swing it even after I pay Mama’s rent for the month.
“No, I like staying at your place,” he says. He sounds sincere. But I’ve seen pictures of the house Hayes grew up in, in Houston and the villa he lived in with his aunt in Italy. Our double-wide is clean and cozy, but it’s a huge step down in terms of the luxury he must be used to.
“My bed is so small. Don’t you want a weekend without your feet hanging off the edge?” I ask.
“Nope. That small bed means you can’t roll away in the middle of the
night. In fact, when we get a bed, I think we should make sure it’s not too big,” he jokes.
“We’re getting a bed?”
“Yeah. We are. One day. And in the meantime, I’ve never slept better than I do in yours. With you beside me.” My heart is … it’s going wild. Every word he says is kryptonite. I’m falling so hard for him. He talks about the future like it’s a given.
“You sound so sure.”
“I am. I’d lay good odds on us,” he says easily.
“I would, too.” I sigh. I’m so happy, it’s surreal. We’re such an unlikely pair. Our paths should never have crossed. But here were are. There’s something really right about us together. His visits have been so easy. Not a moment of awkwardness. My mother loves him. The people he’s met in town think he’s some sort of rock star and he’s nothing but gracious and patient with their questions about what he does. He brought Tripp, my neighbor’s nine-year-old, a new fishing rod this weekend because he overheard him talking about his being broken last time we were down at Harps for groceries. He’s brought my mama every book on Abraham Lincoln he can get his hands on, and they sit and talk outside together every night after dinner.
“Your mother home?” he asks.
“Yeah, she has a night off,” I say and then nearly crack my jaw on the yawn that follows my words.
“Get sleep, my little treasure. I’ll call you in the morning. Tell her hi for me,” he says.
“Okay. I will.” I never know what to say in return because Hayes’s family isn’t around. I know he’s close to his brothers but he talks to them less often than we see each other. “Sleep well,” I tell him
“Sweet dreams.”
And then he disconnects.
When I drift off a few minutes later, it’s with my pillow cradled in my arms, a smile on my face, and a song in my heart.
WILD RIVER
HAYES
ONE MONTH LATER
“All of these rivers—St. Francis, the White, and the Arkansas—come together and empty into the Mississippi from this delta,” Confidence points out to me.
“So, it must have been booming once,” I say and look around at the dead downtown of Amorel. There’s the one church building that looks like an ice sculpture that’s melting and the two long park benches chained to the ground in front of the town’s police station.
“It still is,” she tells me. She’s been idly running her fingers through her hair and she slips the end of her ponytail in between her smiling lips.
“Yeah, all of these abandoned buildings scream a booming town.” I laugh and she bumps me with her hip in reproach.
“No, but the blues festival that still happens every single summer does.” Her voice is tinged with defensive love and brims with pride.
“You love it here, don’t you?” I ask her.
“I’m proud of its persistence,” she answers after thinking for a minute. “It’s seen every boom and survived every bust since it was settled in the 1800s. But … the river has given it a constancy. It’s made the soil here some of the most fertile in the world. Most of the forests have been cut down, but look at how ardently what remains still grows. There’s only a small fraction of people who live here when you compare it to before.”
“Where’d they go?” I ask.
“To the city for jobs. Like me.” She shrugs and leans back into me.
We’re driving back to her mother’s house after a day spent sightseeing or maybe just seeing. This is my fifth trip here in eight weeks. It’s the first time we’ve ventured beyond her small town. She drove us out in her mother’s beat-up, old Oldsmobile Delta 88. I’m driving us back. The front bench seat that lets her sit right next to me is the only thing that has made driving around in a car with sponge and wires poking out of the seats, no air conditioning and a barely-functioning radio through the swampy Mississippi Delta bearable.
We roll over the railroad tracks that seem to run through every town in this part of Arkansas and turn onto her mother’s street.
“The place still calls me sometimes, my love for it … This is where blues was born,” she reminds me for the hundredth time. I just smile and nod, grateful that the sun is setting and taking the punishing heat with it. I glance at her. I’ve noticed that when she’s happy, she tucks a lock of hair between her lips. Today, she’s done it so much I’ve lost count. She gazes out of the window as we drive into the wooded area where her mother’s house is.
“The delta is the soul of the South. And while the rest of the South is looking to become the ‘New South,’ we still own our past. Can’t forget that the same time that we gave the nation the blues, we also harbored the KKK. And then, in the sixties it was a steaming cauldron of social change. So, yes, we’re flawed, but we persist.”
We fall silent for the rest of the drive. It’s nearly a mile down this dusty road, lined with white clapboard houses that sit on at least half an acre of land each.
“Do you think you’ll want to come back here and settle?” I ask her, and my throat closes around the question because I’m desperate for the answer to be a very firm no.
“It’s home. But, it’s also got so many bad memories. Between my father and the river, living here was like having a devil at my front and hell at my back. As much as I love our way of life, I’ve never felt like this is where my life was supposed to take root,” she says. “The first flood I was old enough to remember was when I was twelve. I saw how we were left holding nothing, and it made me want to do what I could to make sure that next time we’d do better than just barely survive. I think I can do that more effectively outside of here,” she says without hesitation.
The knot in my throat unclenches, and I smile down at her as we roll into the parking spot under her mother’s covered carport.
“I understand that,” I say simply. Because I do. It’s how I used to feel about returning to Houston permanently. But now, I can see how much potential the city has.
I push the gear shift into park, unbuckle my seat belt, and give her a kiss. She cups my neck with both of her small, strong hands and kisses me back. Her mouth tastes like sunshine and water and trees and smoke. I pull her onto my lap until she’s straddling me. “You’re so sexy when you’re up on that soapbox,” I murmur against her lips.
“Yeah, well my convictions give me the feels …” she jokes.
I don’t laugh. “I know, and that gives me feelings, too,” I say, refusing to use that ridiculous slang.
She hums and rolls her hips in my lap. “Hayes …” she drawls lazily.
The storm door at the back of the house slams against the wooden frame and startles us both.
“You two better get out of there like that before Sheriff Tommy sees you.” Her mother’s distinctive raspy drawl reaches us through the open window.
Confidence jumps so high she hits her head on the sagging ceiling of the car. “Ow,” she complains and rubs it while she climbs off me.
“Go on.” The door wrenches open, and I look up at her mother’s ever present, good-natured smile.
“Hey there, Ms. Dorothea, you look nice tonight.” I smile back.
“Don’t try to charm me, you handsome devil,” she chides.
“I’m not,” I insist and take her hand in mine while I climb out.
“Well, why the hell not?” she asks and then cracks herself up laughing. I walk over to the other side of the car and pull the heavy door open for my girl.
“Hey, Mama,” Confidence calls as she slides out. She mouths a silent thank you before she leans over the top of the car to face her mother.
“Hey yourself, baby. I’ve got Bingo, and I’m gonna be late, so I’ll see you later.” She smiles at her daughter without moving to get into the car.
They are mirror images of each other. Except for the deep lines that bracket and shape Dorothea’s tanned face, they could be twins. Thick blonde hair, vibrant blue eyes, small but generous mouths. They’re even the same height. But where Confidence is shaped like a classic coke
bottle—all curves, tits and ass—her mother is as spare as a reed.
“Hayes is leaving tomorrow,” she reminds her.
“I know he is. I’ll see y’all for breakfast.” She winks at both of us before she gets in her car.
“I’ll be back at the crack of dawn, so y’all should get to bed early so that when I wake you up, you don’t feel like you’ve been hit by a two-by-four,” she calls out of the open window before she turns the key and the powerful engine roars to life.
“Last one in the hot tub brings the beers,” Confidence calls out to me as she runs toward the house. In a blur of tanned limbs and blonde hair with a huge smile on her face, she disappears inside.
“It’s about time,” Confidence shouts when I step out onto the deck.
“Says the girl who wore her bathing suit all day. Some of us had to change.” I scowl at her, hand her a beer, and step into the huge hot tub on her mother’s deck.
She takes a swig of the beer, and some of the cold foam dribbles down her chin and lands on her bare chest. “Ooooh, that’s cold,” she purrs and casts her head back slightly, her eyes gazing downward at me suggestively. As if I need any suggestion. I lean down and lick it off and then drag the tip of my tongue up the damp, salty skin on her neck.
“Mmm, you smell like everything I love about this place,” I tell her and drag her onto my lap.
The bottoms of her bikini are crammed between the two firm, with-just-the-right-amount-of-cushioning ass cheeks that fill my hands.
The Rivals Page 12