I’ve been in Chalice Bay almost eight months to the day now. If he was going to find me, I rationalize, it would have happened already. Maybe he wasn’t as attached to me as I thought. Maybe I was the one who had been too attached. Maybe he’d moved on to the girl from the hood I know he spent every Wednesday afternoon with.
I know he loved me on some level, but what he loved more was what I represented. I was the quintessential trophy wife: from the right family, with the right background, with the right looks – everything that represents success. All wrapped up neatly in a bow and perched on his arm like a trained parrot.
Say this Taz.
Don’t do that Taz.
Bad girl Taz.
Good girl Taz.
Here’s your treat Taz.
“Nothing to say, just stating a fact,” Luther says, still gabbing. “You and Ford; I hear he’s taking ya to the big dance on Saturday night.” Luther stops sweeping and props his pointed chin on the broom that seemed to forever be in his long, thin, blue-veined hands.
“Yes,” I confirm. It is pointless to deny it, and I find I don’t want to.
“I remember that days of taking a pretty girl to a dance. May not look like it now, but I was quite the catch when I was younger. Not because of my looks, mind ya, but because I was a swell dancer. Still am. And I’ll be at the dance on Saturday, so don’t be surprised when I tap on Ford’s shoulder and cut in for my dance. You will save me one, won’t ya?”
“Well if you’re as good a dancer as you say, then I most certainly will. I’ll be looking forward to that tap on Ford’s shoulder,” I remark, smiling.
“Hot dang! Got me a guaranteed dance with the prettiest girl in town,” Luther yelps, sweeping non-existent dust as he turns his attention back to his broom.
“And my dance card has been filled with the best dancer in town. If you like to dance as much as I do, I think more than one dance may be in store for us,” I declare.
Luther’s bald scalp turns a bright pinkish-hue, matching the color of his thin, sunken cheeks. For a hair of a second, I can see the youth he had been. All the years melt away, and he is a young man with dancing shoes on. I smile at the vision.
Small-town living; so everyone knows that Ford and I are apparently an item, and that we are going to the Valentine’s Day dance together. I’ve never lived in a small town. I have read plenty of books where they were featured though. And everything I’ve read is in line with what I experience about small-town living. Everybody knows everybody’s business, even if you don’t tell a soul. As I muse over this, a shadow catches the peripheral of my eye. The surety that something is there is so strong that I go to the front of the store and look out the window.
Can it be? Can he be?
But, nothing out of the ordinary catches my eye as I scan the sidewalks. Still unable to shake the feeling, I step outside, walk to the corner, and peer around it. Nothing. Not a soul who doesn’t look like they belong in Chalice Bay. Because if you don’t belong, you definitely stand out. But not a hair of a person is out of place. They all scream, I belong, as they go about their daily lives in this bucolic little town I’ve come to adore.
As I make my way back to the hardware store, I cross my arms to thwart a sudden chill that penetrates my fur-lined, jean jacket. One of the things that had surprised me about Alabama weather is that it does get cold.
Coming from New York, I always thought the south had a temperate climate. The people were, but the weather definitely wasn’t, at least not in this little northeastern hamlet of the state.
“Anything wrong?” Luther asks, as I re-enter his store. “That pretty smile is gone?”
“No,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “It’s freezing, and I was just trying to remember all the stuff I came in here for. I usually keep a list; forgot it today.” That part, at least, is true. I had been so excited about coming to town to buy something for the dance in a couple of days that I’d left the list on the kitchen table.
“When that happens, I usually just browse the aisles. Eventually, you remember at least one thing on the list, then others start to pop into yer head.”
“You’re a genius, Luther. Thank you. I’ll try that.”
Luther went back to his forever sweeping, and I went to the paint aisle. I’d decided to add some color to the kitchen.
He never liked color. Everything was beige and gray and black and white. I thought that’s what I liked too. But the old kitchen table in the farmhouse screamed out for color. And turquoise was the color it screamed.
With the black and white tile floors, a pop of color like turquoise is just what the cozy kitchen needed. I’d already bought some fabric for pillows I wanted to make for the window seat by the refrigerator: a dusty yellow with pink, red, and purple flowers littering it.
I am deep in color-chart land when a pair of strong arms circle my waist from behind. I let out a high-pitched wail. “Aaaaiiiiyyyyyy!”
“It’s just me, Ford,” a soothing voice croons into my left ear.
“Oh my god. Oh my god,” I breathe, gulping for air as a full-on hyperventilation spell starts.
“Breathe, Taz. Breath baby, breathe.”
Tears stream down my face. “You scared me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scream like—”
Ford wraps me in his arms, burying my face in the haven of his chest. “Shhhh—you don’t have to explain. I should know better than to come up behind you like that. It won’t happen again. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
He kisses the top of my head, which I keep buried in his chest. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. No one’s in the store but me, you and Luther.”
“He must think I’m a nut job,” I hiccup, as I continue to struggle for even breaths.
“No he doesn’t. And neither do I.”
As my tears subside, Ford asks, “What’s got you so jumpy? Has something happened that I should know about?”
“Only my overactive imagination at work. I thought I saw—I felt somebody was watching me earlier.”
“You started to say you saw something. What did you see?”
“That’s just it, I didn’t see anything. I thought I saw a fleeting shadow, but I looked and no one was there. It was more a feeling than an actual sighting.”
“Trust your gut, Taz,” Ford says. He didn’t want to frighten her, but if the feeling was that strong, then there is probably something to it.
The dance is a couple of days away, and she’s out there at that farmhouse all by herself. Thank God she has her German Shepherd, Yip. And a shotgun. But she would also have an extra pair of eyes on her. That she doesn’t need to know though. One thing that works in his favor in a small town like Chalice Bay is that every stranger stands out. And if there is a stranger in town, he’ll know.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, finally convincing myself that I am being paranoid. I refuse to live in paranoia. If he has actually found me, he certainly wouldn’t be lurking around. He is the kind to announce himself and brutally take what he wants. No. It is my imagination; something trying to steal my newfound happiness. I won’t let him. He’s already taken too much. I deserve this. I deserve to feel at peace.
I reluctantly pull myself out of the circle of Ford’s arms. “Thanks for being so understanding. What are you doing in here, by the way? I know why I frequent the hardware store so much. Why do you?” I ask, wanting to forget the incident and get back to the feeling of normal I’ve been reveling the last few weeks.
“I was at the grocery store, and I saw you dart in here, so naturally I had to come in here for this,” Ford explains, claiming my lips before I can guess his intentions.
It doesn’t matter. They respond of their own accord. As soon as I lift my face to his, he presses me into the same shelf that holds the hammers and wrenches I was going to use as a weapon the first time we talked in this spot three weeks ago. Had it only been three weeks. It seems like a lifetime ago. I realize that I don’t want to r
emember a time in my life that doesn’t include him.
“Luther’s going to see us,” I breathe, swallowing hard as his gold eyes skim my eyes, lips, chin and neck; landing on my breasts, which pebble beneath the soft cashmere black sweater I’m wearing under my jean jacket.
His answer is to palm the back of my head, lean his hips into me so I can feel his hardness, and plunder my mouth. The earthy smell of outdoors and pure masculine pheromones make up a scent that is uniquely him. It invades my every orifice, wrapping me in his him-ness so completely that I forget where I am, why I am, who I am. I exist in this moment only to receive him; any and all of him that he wants to give.
A shiver slithers down my spine as his tongue does crazy, surely illegal things to my mouth. Damn this man knows how to put a kiss on a girl. I’ve been fucked by men who didn’t shatter me as much as a kiss from him. He angles my head to deepen the kiss, and I roll with the sensation, putty in the powerful hands that hold my head and my middle to the center of his. My arms, legs, stomach, ass; they all puddle into him until the only thing between us is a burning flame; one that can only be put out in one way.
With a sharply drawn breath, he slowly lifts his lips from mine. His sweat-beaded forehead rests on my warm, moist one. I close my eyes and continue to lean into him, inhaling the richness of him; a man who tortures me with a glance, and lights me on fire with a touch. I giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, one hand leisurely palming my ass.
“I keep having all these fire thoughts about you: flame, burn, light.”
“It’s a good thing I’m a firemen then. Putting out fires is my specialty; those unintentionally started, and those very intentionally started.”
“You scare me, Ford,” I say, immediately wishing I could reclaim the three simple words.
“Why?”
“Everything about you is so familiar; yet, I’ve only known you a few weeks. And this thing between us—”
“Yeah,” he says, resting his forehead back on mine.
“It’s not normal,” I breathe, suddenly shy.
“You know what I think?”
“What?” I ask.
“I think I’m exactly what you need.”
“And what about what you need?” I say, looking into his hypnotizing, seemingly all-knowing eyes.
“You suit my needs just fine,” he drawls, his even white teeth showing.
I softly punch him in the chest.
“Don’t overthink what's happening between us, Taz. It’s real. It’s meant to be. Fighting it is useless.”
“And what is ‘it?’” I ask boldly.
“Whatever we want ‘it’ to be,” he says, pecking at my lips again.
“Enough of that mister,” I declare, reluctantly squirming away from him. I know that if I don’t resist him, he’ll be able to take me right here in the aisle of this cramped little hardware store. And I don’t need that kind of gossip.
“Tease,” he chuckles, letting me squirm away.
“I have to find something decent to wear Saturday night. That’s why I came into town.”
“Want a ride home?”
“I got my bike.”
“Drop by the firehouse when you’re done. I’ll take you, and your bike, home.”
I bite my bottom lip, loving the way he takes control of simple situations like this. “Alright, I’ll do that. Now scoot, and let me get my shopping done.”
“I’ll be waiting on you, Ms. Palmer,” he grins, adjusting himself as he leans against the iron shelf holding hammers, and wrenches, and nuts and bolts. His Levi’s hang a little low on his slender hips. In his checkered shirt; Army-green jacket; and brown leather motorcycle boots, he looks like a hunk in a pin-up calendar. Mr. February. My Mr. February, I silently declare.
Lord Jesus, no man had a right to be that damn sexy, I muse as I back away from him.
Chapter 12
Preacher
Preacher slowly twists the fist of his right hand into the palm of his left as he sits on the side of the king-sized bed.
So that’s what the bitch has been up to; throwing herself at some man like a common whore. She is still my fucking wife. How dare she?
Maybe that’s why her father had taken the choice of who she would marry out of her hands. Obviously, she just flitted from dick to dick like a common slut – just like my own mother. And to think I thought she was different. My first instinct was right – all women were whores in some form or another. It’s just that some of them contained it better than others. But she’ll learn. Or rather, re-learn.
I thought I had taught her a lesson, and for the first five years of our marriage, it had stuck. She was perfect. She was dutiful. She was exactly what a man could want. A freak in the bed and a lady in the streets, as the song went. And that pussy; that’s what had blinded me. I had tried countless times to find the same feeling I got from fucking her from other women. But I never did.
Taz made me understand what my mother had called it ‘the power of the pussy.’
“YOU CAN MAKE A MAN do any damn thang you want if you learn how to put it on him right?”
I look at her, a clump of oatmeal stuck in my five-year-old throat. I want to ask for a glass of water. But I know not to bother her when she goes on one of her rants. They could last for a few minutes, or a couple of hours. Even that young, I know to sit me down and shut up until they are over.
“Men think they rule things, but women are the true rulers because we have the power of the pussy. You can string a man out and get anything you want from him if you learn how to use the power of the pussy right. And as your mother, I’m telling you this so you don’t ever get caught up. Don’t you be no weak-ass man who falls under the spell of the power of the pussy. You can get pussy from any heifer. You might have to pay for it, and it might not be no good. But all a man needs is to get his rocks off anyway, and he’s good.”
She leans down to my level as I stand there in the middle of our little kitchen in the five-story walkup in the Bronx.
“Repeat after me, ‘I will not be ruled by the power of the pussy.’”
I stare at her mutely, the oatmeal feeling like it has swollen in my throat, making it hard for me to speak.
She points a shiny, red shellacked fingernail at me. I can smell the cigarette she holds between her fore- and middle fingers.
“I said repeat after me: ‘I will not be ruled by the power of the pussy.’”
I must have got it right, because she put a cold glass of water between my still-chubby little hands. A glass of water had never tasted so good.
The next day she sold me for a dime bag of crack.
THAT MEMORY CRYSTALLIZES for me everything I need to know about women.
She knows I don’t like whores. And here she is acting like one. Some lessons apparently have to be retaught for them to stick.
The bottle of cologne on the dresser shakes. I rub my right hand, straightening the collar of my burgundy dinner jacket. I open the door and make my way down to the dining room of the elegant little inn I found in this backwater town. It is a few towns over from where she is.
This place is perfect for our reunion.
Chapter 13
Taz
“You all set to be gussied up for tomorrow night?”
Dear lord, people actually do talk like that, I think at Ford’s statement. “Well I declare,” I say in the thickest southern twang I can muster. “I guess I am. Although, I’m not sure what gussied up entails, but I’m sure gonna try Mr. Burns. I’ll be the most gussied-up girl you ever did see.”
Ford laughs as he pulls up to the farmhouse.
Yip meets us, as Ford helps me down from the passenger side of his midnight-black Ford Silverado.
THE SOUND OF THE ROCKERS on the porch have a peaceful melancholy to them; as if in a duet. I rock back, and the squeak of my rocker ends just when the squeak of his on the hickory of the porch flooring croons in. I can sit like this with him forever, I find myself t
hinking.
“Thanks for dinner. I swear I wasn’t angling for a meal when I offered to bring you home,” Ford smiles. His smile gives me butterflies every time.
“Well I’d be remiss, especially hearing the growling of your stomach on the way out here,” I tease.
“Hmm, you heard that, huh?”
“The dead heard that,” I clarify.
We both fall silent as the sun starts to set.
“Can I ask you something; something that’s been puzzling me?” he starts, breaking our easy silence.
“Sure,” I reply.
“You said your mother left you this homestead, and that your father never knew about it. Have you ever wondered why she didn’t tell him? Something just doesn’t sit right about it. I know it’s none of my business, but – maybe it’s the soldier in me – I just need for things to sit right, or they bug the hell out of me.”
“It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I inherited this place; especially since I almost didn’t find out about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a long story,” I sigh.
“I got time.”
I look to the almost-finished setting sun out by the western fence post. I’ve walked this property many days, musing on life, how I came to be here, what it all meant. I think it’s why I’ve fallen so deeply in love with this place. The land has wormed its way from the bottom of my booted feet into the stringy veins that bear the blood of my body, all the way up to my heart. It’s buried itself there, deep in every ventricle. There’s no separating me from this land now.
I lean back in my rocker and spill everything that has been inside my head for the last two years; things I hadn’t been able to concentrate on because simple survival has been my paramount job for so long.
Secrets of Chalice Bay Page 4
