Kiss Me (Promise Me Book 3)

by Brea Viragh

  She chuckled, crossing and uncrossing her legs at the ankles. “Worse! You were definitely worse. You did try to drown me, too, remember.”

  “It was a dunk in the river to clear your head,” I said, waving it off. “Now do you want more of this tea or what?”

  “Yes, but don’t do anything. Please, I’m serious. Don’t touch anything.”

  I turned to the kettle on the stove and watched the water boil, ignoring her. My final day of work before the holiday break and I’d all but shoved the last of my patients out the door to make time for Leda. I didn’t want to waste an instant of it, despite her berating.

  “I don’t need to remind you, but you were breaking up a marriage. I was getting a piece of ass. There’s a big difference.”

  She flashed me a grin and pointed out the obvious. “A big difference in age, too, am I right?”

  Leda had gone through the trouble of setting up an antipasto plate the way I liked it. I toyed with a mini gherkin before setting it aside. “My advice to you was to get your head screwed back on straight. Now I need the same advice.”

  “For you, I think not.” She shook a finger at me. “I would rather tell you to go after this guy and have fun. Running away is your MO, after all. Why don’t you live on the edge and”—she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand—“go on a date? Heaven forbid you see a movie with a man!”

  “I am the epitome of restraint, thanks. If you keep talking like that, I’ll make dinner the next time we get together.” Crossing to the couch, I threw a pillow at Leda to let her know I was serious. “Food poisoning for everyone.”

  I needed the evening off, my last night of true freedom before the chains of the holidays slapped down. Not for my sanity—of which I didn’t have much left—but for the camaraderie. The mental fortitude. Sure, all those hours with Kai did a body good, yet there was something about Leda’s company that helped to get my mind in the right place.

  Girlfriends like her were a rarity. All that honesty and integrity wrapped up in gracious Southern style, though she’d like to pretend otherwise.

  I knew Leda was right, on a subconscious level. It would be nice having a man around outside of a one-night stand. Someone to do the heavy lifting for me and rub my feet after a grueling day at the hospital… A woman could get used to coming home to someone.

  Then I remembered Peter.

  There’s no point in lamenting the past now, I thought. Or trying to change for the future. I watched her divide the boiling water between our two mugs and return to the loveseat, balancing the cups and a platter of goodies.

  “Thanks.” I took the offered cup, drawing it up to my nose and inhaling. The green tea we shared was good, better because I hadn’t had to cook it.

  She lowered her mug and stared me down.

  I pointedly ignored the look. “I’d rather be alone. I have a ready number of plausible excuses for my reaction to Kai.”

  “You named him. How adorable.”

  Though she teased me, the comment got on my nerves. “One of which being he’s damn good-looking,” I continued as though she hadn’t spoken.

  “I know. Trust me, you’ve said it a thousand times already.” Leda flopped back in the chair before taking a sip from her own mug.

  “I don’t want to deal with him.”

  She blinked. “You never do. But let’s change the subject. When are you going over to your mom’s?”

  I sighed and toyed with the ends of my shirt, feeling like I teetered on the edge of defensive and cranky. “Tomorrow. She wants to do a pre-Thanksgiving dinner to get everyone reacquainted, or some garbage. Are you sure you can’t come with me for moral support?”

  Leda shook her head until stray strands of golden yellow hair fell across her forehead. “Like I said, you’re on your own. Duncan and I are going down to spend time with Papa over Thanksgiving.”

  “Cancel and come with me,” I begged, straight and to the point. “He’ll understand.”

  She only chuckled and told me in a brisk tone, “Not on your life. This is going to be the first holiday I’ll celebrate with both my men and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  It was worth a shot. I buried my disappointment in another pickle. “Fine, leave me.”

  “Go call your new boy toy,” Leda retorted. “Did he ask you what you were doing for the holidays?”

  I rubbed my hands over my face. “No,” I said. “And I didn’t ask him either. It was just one night and he pissed me off by staying over, anyway.”

  She tapped her fingertips together. “Oh…” The way Leda drew the word into a single long syllable had me leaning forward.

  “What?”

  “You like this guy. No, hear me out. I can tell.” Leda set her cup down, drops of tea sloshing over the rim. “You let him stay over, which is a big one for you. You gave him breakfast, kind of, and the biggest one…you won’t look me in the eye right now.”

  It was nothing. I was making a big deal out of nothing. Consciously, I didn’t peer too deeply at my motives for letting Kai stay. Or how Leda probed for them now. The points she mentioned were a combination of fuzzy brain and a night of no rest. Except for the part about refusing to meet her gaze.

  “I swear, I can still smell him here,” I commented through the crunch of food in my mouth. I had to lead her off the trail. “In a good way. It’s a linger-er.”

  “And what does this delicious younger fellow smell like?” Leda leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  Sex, I thought instantly. Adventure. In the quiet dreams I kept to myself, I could already picture Kai here. Leaning against the counter with the shit-eating grin on his face while he whipped up breakfast.

  I shrugged casually. “Some kind of cologne...”

  “Sure.” Another single syllable with a wealth of meaning.

  I grabbed another handful of mozzarella balls and olives, as though munching away would somehow help ease the tension. Or the compressing in my chest. I hunched my shoulders and changed the subject. “I’m going out of my mind and I’m here with you. What will I do when I get to my parents’ house?”

  Leda opened her mouth to comment, then shook her head. “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m the type of person who will let you make your own mistakes without the added I told you so when you eat your words.”

  “Stop being sneaky,” I muttered. “It doesn’t suit you.”

  Soon I wouldn’t have enough brain cells to allocate to function normally. They’d all be used trying to find a way to survive my yenta of a mother and her penchant for matchmaking despite her Catholic upbringing.

  I sat back, shifting until my head rested contentedly on the back of the chair. Yes, Thanksgiving was wonderful for some. Good for others. And a marathon for me. One day I’d be able to come to terms with it, but for the foreseeable future, I’d be doing the grin-and-bear-it routine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Heartwood is a town of mountains, sloping hills, peaks punctuated by winding valleys. I made my way toward the old homestead through those rolling knolls, the road falling behind me. In summer the trees would be covered in deep shades of green, oaks and pines dotting the mountain slopes, their gnarled branches reaching toward the sky and squat trunks digging deep into the soil. Now each leaf tumbled and returned to the earth. We’d had warm enough weather to make me thankful and the farmers consult their almanacs to see if they’d read the signs correctly. How long would it last?

  Flipping on my blinker on the odd chance someone may come around a curve too fast, I turned onto the mile-long driveway and began the uphill climb. Some people preferred city living over remoteness. The Quades were not part of that crowd. Their home and farmstead, located on a considerable ninety acres, provided a barrier between them and the closest neighbors. Growing up, I’d run wild through the pines and fished in the river on the edge of the property. All alone until I was ten. Then my brother came.

  The house was old enough to have charm and e
legant enough to be considered classic. In the summer, gardens bloomed in every direction, a veritable hum of color and activity and butterflies and bees. Those varied greens and vibrant blossoms lay dormant now under a layer of brittle brown. Waiting for warmer weather to make their striking debuts.

  I’d lived here for much longer than I had in my apartment in town, but I’d never considered it mine. It was a place to rest, to eat, to escape from when the time came. My driving force for going away to college was escape. Escape the needs and desires other people had for my life. There were plenty of happy moments in the old yellow Colonial, sure, but there were also tears and arguments. It was a place where I’d bided my time, enduring my parents and their expectations for my future, until I could run free.

  I knocked to be polite and waited on the front stoop until I heard the bid to come inside.

  “Take off your shoes!”

  The call burst to life the moment I placed my hand on the doorknob. From the opposite end of the house, Thessaly knew the moment someone entered and if their shoes had the barest hint of mud.

  I glanced down at my sneakers and sighed. Better to get this over with, plaster on a happy face. Better to not make waves. That was the rule of the house, the motto for the two of us who’d had to live under her rule until we were old enough for a mass exodus. My poor father still bobbed along behind his wife, unable to move, to breathe, without her permission or approval. It was better that way.

  I couldn’t help the jab. “For a hippie, you sure are a terror when it comes to cleaning,” I shouted in response.

  It was true. Why she and my father hooked up I will never understand. He was the straight-laced one, professional and punctual beside her free spirit.

  “Because I had two disgusting children wreaking havoc wherever they went!” Thessaly retorted.

  I kicked off my shoes to avoid further arguing and stomped down the hallway. “Momma, where are you?”

  “I’m in the greenhouse. Come on back.”

  Threading my way through a formal dining room with mandalas painted on the wall and homemade wreaths of dried fox grape vines, I continued out the rear door toward the adjacent greenhouse. It was a recent addition and one my mother considered essential. Thessaly desired to be wrist-deep in soil year-round lest she suffer from seasonal depression.

  Her words, not mine.

  At least there were stepping stones, though my bare feet felt the cold all the same. The glass walls and short walk made it easy for her to do what she loved despite the outside temperatures. Handmade wooden shelves rose from the floor to hip height and housed a number of herbs and flowers. Tiny purple buds sprouted from their containers on delicate spears of new growth.

  This was the sole area of the property where she didn’t care about the mess. Tools were scattered and buckets tilted in leaning towers.

  The view from the windows showed wedges of woods and the corner of another long, low outbuilding. There, Thessaly cultivated houseplants, exotic to casual classic, and sturdier varieties for outdoor gardens. She opened to the public in the spring, summer, and fall, happy to sell the fruits of her hard labor. There were no soil additives or plant foods outside of the natural varieties. All seeds came from whatever plants she grew, sought after for being durable and pesticide-free. Her setup was nothing compared to wholesale nurseries, but she made a living.

  I stopped in the doorway, leaning against the wood to watch her work. The air was warmer here, wet and heavy, filled with the scent of lavender and growing things. My hair frizzed in response and I slid my hands into my pockets to keep from fiddling with the ends. “Aren’t you going to come over and give your only daughter a hug?” I asked. The headiness of the lavender assaulted my nostrils.

  Thessaly didn’t slow in her digging, merely looked up and sent me a calculating look accompanied by a tired grin. I recognized my brother more there, less of myself beyond the long dark hair. Her face was rounded with no hard angles. Deep, long eyes the color of earth caught mine and held while her mouth, full and unpainted, stayed hiked up in a smile. There were wrinkles fanning out around her eyes, thin grooves marking her time, but they added to her natural prettiness.

  “Aren’t you going to come down here to say hello to your mom? Or do you want to stand there and be snooty?” she questioned.

  Snooty, sure. It was one of her favorite nicknames for me. She considered it a perpetual twig up my bottom ever since I refused to join her on her annual summer solstice dance under the moon. I’m sorry, but getting naked in front of your mom loses all appeal once you age past toddler.

  “This is going to be a long week,” I muttered under my breath. Two steps and a lifetime separated us. I traversed the uneven ground before bending at the waist to place a kiss on her cheek. Dirt streaked her skin from misplaced scratches with hands covered in grime.

  She was controlled chaos, and wore a flannel shirt rolled up to her elbows, with violets stitched into the collar. Every bit the hippie chick, the type to wear tie-dye on most any occasion and sport several long pieces of dreadlocked hair amidst her dark mane.

  “You’re here early,” she commented, shifting her weight. “The boys aren’t expected for another hour.”

  “You told me to come after I got done with my errands, so I did.” I shrugged. Hands went to my hips while I looked around the fully-stocked greenhouse. “You should be happy I actually listened to you.”

  Thessaly was not the type of woman you sought out for counsel. In my experience, whatever she said had little bearing on the situation and was difficult to swallow. Half a dozen times in my life, I’d gone to her for answers and went home more confused than ever. It was better to dump my problems on my closest friends than deal with my mother. Blood ties or not.

  When I needed a woman’s shoulder, I went to Leda. End of story.

  Thessaly sat back on her heels to survey me. “You didn’t go home and change first? You look bedraggled.”

  “I came from home. Why?”

  Her critical green eyes took in my loose tunic, black leggings, and hastily bundled hair on top of my head. She gestured vaguely. “There are extra clothes in my closet, nicer ones, so why don’t you change before the boys get here.”

  “Who do I need to impress?” I scrutinized her for a hint of a secret. Any secret. Any reason she could possibly have for wanting me to change. “This isn’t another one of your setups, is it? Like the time you called me to dinner and there was a guy and his buckteeth looking to make a score? Or the day you told me you needed help cleaning the trail because a tree limb fell and I found a picnic basket and a potential admirer waiting for me?”

  My mother may be a free spirit, but she wanted me married and settled more than she wanted her next breath. I supposed my brother would be a disappointment to her once he decided to open the closet doors. He had no interest in children of any kind. His stint in college bought him time so Thessaly’s focus fell on me and me alone—part of the reason I tried to stay away.

  “You don’t need to impress anyone,” she answered cryptically. Her mouth pressed together in a thin line and her eyebrows drew closer in contemplation. “But there are dresses in my closet that would better compliment your body than those rags you like to wear.”

  I grabbed the front of my top and pulled it away from me. “This is what I want to wear. It’s bad enough I’m stuck in scrubs for my job. Not everyone gets to wallow in dirt and call it a career.”

  She didn’t bother to look at me again. “Nell, go put on different clothes. I won’t ask you a third time.”

  Running away from home at my age would be a first. Imagine, almost thirty with my face on the side of a milk carton? Still, I considered it. My feet remained rooted to the floor until Thessaly turned, surprising me by running her muddied hands down my legs. Long brown streaks were out of place atop the black, bits of soil dropping to the floor.

  I screeched and jumped away too late, the damage done.

  “There. Go change.”

&nb
sp; I gestured down at the mess, mouth hanging open. “What the…”

  “Now you have no choice. Upstairs. Now.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, woman? Mud stains don’t come out!”

  “Then you better find something else to wear.”

  Jaw tensed, I stood for a moment longer, hands finding their way back to my hips. “You’re something else.”

  The long hair hid her face from view. I still caught the tail end of a smile. “So I’ve been told.”

  There was no sense in arguing with her. Stinking of mud and fertilizer, I sent a final, sour look over my shoulder before clomping up the steps to her bedroom, bare feet slapping down on old wood.

  “What a fucking mess,” I muttered. There was nothing I could do. The woman was incorrigible. Worse than a child when it came to getting her way. Sure, she’d found a way to force me into compliance. It figured. For retaliation, I swiped the crumbled bits of dirt and left a trail along the stairs.

  My parents slept in opposite ends of the house. Not for any particular reason, but because the arrangement appealed to their natures. Mom had a small space with windows facing the eastern horizon. Those panes of glass guaranteed a beautiful sunrise every morning. My father preferred his “man cave,” where the furniture all matched and his clothes were arranged in tidy rows according to color.

  I was neither clean nor casual, cluttered nor chaotic, but a nice mix of both and neither. What I wouldn’t give to throw away my inhibitions and live like tomorrow didn’t matter.

  Thessaly’s room was in its usual state of disarray, with clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor. Scarves flung over the lampshades and an unmade bed completed the picture. I resisted the urge to rub my muddy legs along her sheets to see how she liked having someone invade her personal space. It wouldn’t make a difference either way. More than likely she would have sweet thoughts falling into dream land with her favorite scent. I smelled lavender incense. In this room, there were piece of her everywhere—the gemstone collection on the windowsill, the canary-yellow walls and purple curtains, the paintings clinging to bent nails. Impressively ugly.