Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  He stepped back out before Artemas could ask who it was. Such evasive behavior was not LaMieux’s habit. Frowning, Artemas slid up on the bunched pillows behind his back and laid his papers aside. The doors clicked again; the visitor had entered.

  With his good hand he gingerly pulled the sheet across his black jogging sweats and bare chest. Every movement sent small agonies up his arm and shoulder. Leaning his head back on the pillow, he listened to the rubbery clump of heavy shoes on the entrance hall’s wood floor. It couldn’t be a surprise visit from someone in the family, because he’d told them all not to come.

  Perhaps he was more like James than he cared to admit. He was uncomfortable being helpless.

  Lily entered the room. She halted, her blue eyes shuttered in a face as pale as cream. She wore a sweater and long T-shirt with faded cutoffs. Her hair hung around her face and over her shoulders in luxurious red waves. In her hands was a bulky cardboard box dotted with holes.

  “How are you?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

  He felt as if a Mona Lisa in denim and brogans had just appeared, asking him to comment on her transformation into living, breathing flesh. Wordless with conflicting emotions, he was aware only that he’d been ignoring a fierce need to see her again. “Parboiled,” he said finally.

  She winced. “Mr. Tamberlaine called me. He said it wasn’t serious, but it sounded bad to me.” There was unmistakable concern in her eyes, and Artemas couldn’t stop looking at her. “How serious is it?” she asked.

  “Just superficial, but I could enter the blisters in the Guinness Book of World Records. I’ll be back in commission by next week.”

  “The child you pushed aside … wasn’t burned at all?”

  “No. Thank God.”

  She nodded, her gaze liquid and admiring.

  This was dangerous. The pain medication should have deadened all sensation, but it was no match for the arousal curling through his blood. He gestured toward the box with his good hand. “A baby bear?”

  Her face relaxed a little. “No, two baby wildcats.” She came forward tentatively and set the box on one corner of the bed. “They’d taken up residence under Aunt Maude’s house. I was planning to adopt them, but I decided you could use the entertainment.”

  Artemas’s gaze remained riveted on her as she opened the box and reached inside. Two kittens bounded past her hands and landed on the bed. Looking around with the inane mixture of curiosity and arrogance of which only cats are capable, they spotted the subtle twitch of the exposed fingers of his bandaged arm, and jumped on them.

  He inhaled sharply and pushed at two fiery balls of determination, who saw his movements as intriguing and began scrambling over him, catching wrinkles in the coverlet between their paws.

  “Oh, my God,” Lily said. She hurried to his side of the bed as he tried to move his injured arm out of their range. One sprang at the expanse of white gauze and hung there, gnawing at the bandages. Lily bent over him, her hair brushing his face, her hands working swiftly to unlatch one kitten from his injured arm and corral the other, who ran madly up his chest.

  When she had them both safely cupped in her hands, she looked down at him in abject apology. “I’m so sorry.”

  Artemas collapsed on the pillows, breathing heavily. “I could laugh at this if I weren’t thinking of ways to cut my arm off at the shoulder.”

  She sat down limply near his feet and set the kittens on the floor. “Tamberlaine said you needed distractions. I’m sure he didn’t mean painful ones.” Her face colored, and her eyes narrowed in distress. She started to rise. “Don’t go,” he said quickly. His tongue was thick, his hunger unleashed. Instead of killing the sensation, the pain only made it seem welcome.

  He grimaced and rearranged his arm on the pillow. The way her gaze went over him, hinting at unspoken distress, made him look away from her and straighten the scattered papers on the bed. She exhaled softly, a gentle, weary sound. His attention was drawn back to her like a magnet. He saw her tired face and the chapped hands she clasped on her knees.

  “You’ve been working as hard as ever, I s’pose,” he said. “Let me see.” He reached across his body with his good hand, beckoning her. She was soft around the edges to his hazy mind—no frown of censure, no stiffening, just a warm, beautiful gift who ought to grant him her hand for a moment. “Goddammit, don’t be prissy,” he said with a glibness he was certain she would find funny and compelling.

  Instead, she bent over him and grasped his chin fiercely. Holding him still, she said, “I haven’t been in this room five minutes, but you’re already exhibiting very bad form.”

  He was pleased to study her up close—the wide, luscious curl of her mouth, the blue eyes glimmering over flushed cheeks, her breath pulsing against his face. “I think the lady is suspicious of her own motives, not mine,” he said.

  “Your pupils look like two black dimes. Is anybody home?”

  “I’m not sure. I take half the medication that’s prescribed for me, and all it does is make me stupid.” He pulled her hand away from his chin, held it over his eyes, scrubbing his thumb over the hard palm and trying to focus. Her fingers stood out stiffly, trembling. The small quakes traveled through him. Warning and self-control made him let go of her abruptly.

  She seemed mollified by his condition, or at least resigned. She sat down in a chair nearby He languidly turned his head to one side, watching her. Lily knew how tenuous his restraint was; she was the one person who could make him prove that. In a way it was comfortable to be exposed.

  The kittens scampered wildly around the room, and Lily tracked them with a pensive gaze, using the excuse to study the place. It had a handsome wood ceiling with a network of beautifully carved beams. Large glass doors opened onto a stone balcony, and tall inner doorways with naked hinges, still waiting for the magnificent doors that would be hung there, led into various areas, one of which appeared to be a kitchen.

  His bedstead was made of some dark, rich wood, but the style was simple, with plain, blunt posts and no headboard. On the nightstand beside it was a brass lamp, a sturdy black office-style phone console, and a plastic fast-food cup filled with gold pens and chewed yellow pencils. A stereo receiver and compact-disc player were stacked on the hardwood floor nearby, and a pair of five-foot-tall speakers sat unceremoniously atop wooden packing crates. Free weights were stacked on a rack in one corner. Cardboard cases crammed with paperback novels were scattered around the floor, and issues of The Wall Street Journal vied with the latest, liberal Utne Reader—a strange contrast.

  “Not exactly hedonistic yet, is it?” Artemas said with a strained attempt at humor.

  “It’s an interesting, messy place,” she said. “What kind of music does a tycoon listen to?”

  “When I’m lifting weights, Jimi Hendrix, or the Grateful Dead. When I’m feeling intellectual, a little opera. And everything in between.”

  “Dear Lord, not Barry Manilow or Madonna. No, no, I can’t stand the thought.”

  He chuckled and winced.

  She leveled a look at him that could split hair, but there was also an earthy humor, an easy arch to her red brows, and that voice! He could imagine it saying, with perfect, drawling sassiness, I’ve got no use for you, rich boy. He could also imagine her swigging whiskey and flipping aces in a poker game, or stirring grits in a smoky kitchen with an old chenille bathrobe wrapped around herself, or slapping him on the bare ass with lusty good humor but then, in the next instant, turning him inside out with a kiss.

  Waving his good hand, feeling expansive, he announced, “The problem with you and me, Lily, is that we’re too much alike. Territorial. Have to mark boundaries all the time, chase off invaders, protect our clans.”

  “I’ve tried putting my scent around the farm. But, personally, I find it difficult to pee on the side of trees.”

  “Takes coordination.”

  “And balance.”

  “But it keeps the males from poking around your life and leaving
their mark on your plans.”

  “I hope.”

  Artemas frowned. “Someday, MacKenzie, you’ll see that you can’t close yourself off from other people and live like a hermit.”

  The light mood crumpled. Her expression tart, she said, “Oh, I expect I’ll tease my hair up eventually and hang out at a motel lounge, looking for unsuspecting men to beat up and drag home for a little entertainment.”

  “Does Mr. Estes know about this?”

  “About my plans to be a floozy? No.”

  “You know what I mean. Does he know you’re here?”

  “No. Little Sis coaxed him into going with her to take Big Sis to a doctor’s appointment in Atlanta. Big Sis is having trouble with arthritis in her knees again. She’s seeing a rheumatologist.”

  “Would you have come to see me regardless?”

  Lily stared down at him darkly. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  She couldn’t resist straightening the sheet across his chest, carefully keeping her fingers from touching his skin, but wanting to touch him. “Tamberlaine said you’re too stubborn to rest.” She glanced at the pile of paperwork lying beside him. “I came to see for myself. He also said you don’t want the family coming here to look after you. Why?”

  “Makes me uncomfortable, being helpless.”

  “Ah, I see where James gets his attitude.”

  “Hmmm.” He was too lethargic to take offense at that, apparently. “They’ve got work and personal lives of their own. Besides, Cass is off somewhere with John Lee. Vegas, I think. Very mysterious, these past few weeks. I don’t want to disrupt everyone’s lives.”

  “What unlucky soul is in charge of bullying you then? Who changes your bandages and makes sure you don’t trip over your own feet on the way to the bathroom?”

  “I asked for Mary Poppins, but she wasn’t free.” He scowled. “I could have hired a nurse, but I don’t like strangers fiddling with me.”

  “Well, somebody needs to. Have you eaten anything lately?”

  “Not hungry.”

  “How will your thick, stubborn hide heal right, if you don’t eat?”

  “I can call down to the kitchen anytime I like.”

  She nodded toward his private kitchen. “Is that just for show? Is there food in it? Does the stove work?”

  “I can cook, and I do cook. It’s fully stocked.”

  “Then I’ll make you some lunch.” The unmistakable flicker of surprise and relief in his eyes sealed her decision. Studying the tube of antibiotic ointment and the rolls of gauze and tape on the bedside table, she asked, “How often do your bandages need changing?”

  “Once a day.”

  “I’ll do that after you eat, then.” She hesitated. “If you want me to.”

  He raised his good arm, laid his hand over hers, and asked gruffly, “Is this going to be another emotional hit-and-run?”

  Lily went very still. “No, this is going to be two old friends making the best of a bad situation, with no illusions. I ought to pretend I don’t worry about you, but the idea of you lying up here alone—in pain, too stubborn to rest, and fumbling around trying to help yourself—is more than I can stand.” She turned her hand upward and slid her fingers through his. Her voice softened. “I want to be with you for a little while in peace and quiet and privacy, with nobody condemning us. I want to take care of you the way you’ve always tried to take care of me. That’s all we can hope for.”

  Artemas searched her eyes. What he saw in them—a mystifying blend of serenity and sorrow—was new. “I love having you here,” he whispered. “Stay as long as you can.”

  “She’s there, goddamn her. She’s with Artemas.” James replaced the phone on a small lamp table and leaned back in his chair, his fingers biting into his thighs. Through the burgundy silk of his pajama bottoms he felt the long indention of a scar on his bad leg.

  Alise stepped out of the bath, her hair wrapped in a towel, a thick white robe knotted around her waist. He looked at her standing uncertainly across their large, dimly lit bedroom. A brooding antique armoire loomed on the wall nearby, making her seem more delicate, more ethereal, too vulnerable. “What are you saying?” she asked, frowning.

  James slammed a fist against his leg. “Lily’s sequestered in Artemas’s private wing at the estate. She’s been there with him for the past two days. Playing nurse. Cooking for him. Changing his bandages. A new maid went into the bedroom suite by mistake yesterday morning and found Lily asleep on the bed with him.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  He was too angry to care that he’d been indiscreet about his methods. Pushing himself up—thank God, he no longer needed a cane—he limped to a large dresser and jerked one of its drawers open. “I asked one of the servants to let me know if Lily ever visits the estate.”

  Alise gasped. “You mean you bribed someone, don’t you? You bribed a servant to spy on your own brother?”

  “If that’s what you want to call protecting the family’s reputation, then yes.” He retrieved a slender, leather-bound book and shoved the drawer shut.

  She ran to him as he returned to the phone. James turned, scowling with impatience, as she grasped his arm. The look on her face stabbed him. Disgust and fury glittered in her eyes. “Have you lost all of your self-respect? You can’t justify this.”

  “Do you think I enjoy doing it?” A muscle throbbed in his neck, and he wrenched a hand over it, squeezing hard. “I hate going behind Artemas’s back. But what about the way he’s disregarding the family’s concerns? Goddammit, I’m not going to let him throw away the good name we spent years rebuilding. I’m not going to have it overshadowed by gossip and innuendo about his relationship with the widow of one of the men who was responsible for Julia’s death.”

  Alise cried out and shoved at his bare chest. “What you’re doing is more damaging to the family than any compassion and loyalty Artemas has shown Lily!”

  “If Richard Porter had murdered Julia with his own hands, would you want to see Artemas involved with Lily?”

  “Oh, James.” She moaned with frustration. “You can’t honestly believe that’s a reasonable comparison. There are too many shades of gray. What happened was a mixture of mistakes, poor judgment—”

  “Don’t. It’s bad enough to hear that kind of shit from Elizabeth and Michael. Cassandra is starting to retreat too. They don’t want to admit that Artemas could let a personal obsession drag him down.”

  “He’s needed someone important in his life for years. He’s been so lonely since Glenda died. Let him have a chance to find some happiness. He’s not a fool, and I don’t believe Lily is bad for him.”

  “That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.”

  Flipping the book open, he reached for the phone again. “I’m calling William DeWitt. He may be the only one who can make Artemas recognize the brutal reality of this situation.”

  Alise stepped back, her hands falling to her sides. “I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know what you’re capable of.” She left the room. James slung the address book down and followed, but couldn’t reach her before she entered a guest room down the hall and shut the door. As he halted before it, he heard the smooth click of the latch bolt, a shocking, obscene sound of distrust and separation.

  Sweating, sick to his stomach, he leaned against the door. He would make ail of this up to her, somehow. She’d see that he was right.

  Lily woke to the feathery touch of a tiny paw patting the tip of her nose. Artemas sat on the bed beside her, smiling. He held up a long strand of her hair, rubbing it between his fingertips. Clearly the kitten had been provoked.

  The warmth in his eyes was affectionate and provocative. The faint light of a lamp across the large room cast shadows on him, making his dark hair meld with their background, reflecting old silver in his eyes. The room had a hushed, middle-of-the-night stillness about it. She was hypnotized.

  “Is your arm hurting again?” she whispered finally, rising to one elbow.
A soft, down-filled comforter slid down her chest. It made a sensuous weight, pressing her oversized flannel shirt against her breasts. Her legs felt contentedly relaxed inside a cocoon of old gray sweatpants.

  “I’m fine. I want to take you downstairs, and now’s the best time. No one will see you with me. You won’t feel uncomfortable.”

  She sat up and studied him, silent and thoughtful, her pulse kicking into a rapid patter of excitement. A narrow white sling made a sharp contrast to the dark hair of his chest. It cradled his burned arm at the wrist. He’d draped a dark blue robe around his shoulders and somehow managed to don a pair of soft old jeans and white socks. He read her thoughts and said, “If any of the live-in servants are awake at this time of night and wandering where they shouldn’t be, they’ll assume we’re sleeping together, regardless of how we’re dressed.”

  She glanced at the oversized bed, with its black coverlet and white sheets pulled back on his side. She lay on top of them, an arm’s length from his mound of large white pillows. “The Puritans would be proud of us.”

  Artemas glanced grimly at his arm. “I have a built-in bundling board. Blistered, drugged on pain pills—it’s a helluva way to get you into bed.” Before the discussion moved into even more hopeless territory, he took her hand and tugged gently “But it’s a start. Come on. Let’s go downstairs. I have something to show you.”

  She stood beside him in front of a pair of overwhelming, heavily carved doors in the darkness. “I’m lost,” she whispered. “Where are we?”

  Artemas took an ornate key from the pocket of his robe and fitted it into the doors’ gleaming brass mechanism. “It’s a surprise. Cover your eyes. Don’t peek.”

  She did as he said, feeling a little foolish. The slight chill of the polished wooden floor crept up through her heavy socks. She heard the smooth, ponderous sound of the doors opening. He took her by the elbow and guided her forward. The sweet, earthy smell of flowers and plants was easily identified. The air cooled. Water, gurgling languidly somewhere, was unmistakable.

  There was a sense of having stepped into a vast space. Shallow steps met her feet, some type of stone. As he nudged her downward, she felt the glasslike surface of tiles. She judged their square perimeter with her toes.