by Nora Roberts
“I’ll be back,” he told her. “I’ll be waiting. Remember.” His lips curved before he died.
“Come downstairs, Grace.” Ed pulled her from the room.
“Do you think we’ll ever know why? Really why?”
“You learn to be satisfied with whatever answers you find. Sit down, I’ll get you a brandy.”
“I won’t argue with that.” She sat, elbows on knees and her face in her hands. “I told him I didn’t want to hurt him. And thank God, I meant it. Once I saw him, saw how it was, I didn’t hate him quite so much.”
“Here, drink.”
“Thanks.” She managed one shaky sip, then a second stronger one. “So …” After a sniffle, she rubbed the back of her hand under her nose. “How was your day?”
He studied her a moment. Her color was coming back and her hands were steady. Tough lady, he thought. She was one tough lady. Crouching in front of her, he took the snifter from her hands. She opened her arms, and he gathered her to him.
“Oh Ed, I never want to be that scared again, ever.”
“Me either.”
She turned her head so that she could press her lips to his throat. “You’re shaking.”
“That’s you.”
On a half laugh, she held tighter. “Whatever.”
Ben hesitated in the doorway, then cleared his throat.
“Kiss off, Paris.”
“In a minute,” he promised his partner. “Look, we’ve got Renockie’s statement, so there’s no hurry for yours, Grace. We’ll have our people in and out of here as soon as we can and leave you the hell alone.”
“Thanks.” Grace drew away from Ed far enough to hold out a hand. “You’re a pal, Ben.”
“I wish we’d been quicker.” He took the offered hand and squeezed. “You’ve had a rough time, Gracie. Tess would want me to tell you that if you need to talk it through, she’ll be there.”
“I know. Tell her I’m glad to give her back her husband in the evenings.”
Ben laid a hand on Ed’s shoulder. “In the morning.”
“Yeah.” When Ben slipped out, Ed handed Grace the snifter again. “Try a little more.”
“I could use the bottle.” She heard the steps and voices on the stairs and knew what they meant. This time she didn’t rise to watch. “Ed, would you mind? I don’t want to stay here, I want to go home.”
He touched her cheek before he rose. It wasn’t possible to stay close to her when he was losing. “I’m sorry, Grace, it wouldn’t be possible for you to go back to New York tonight. In a couple of days, after we’ve got the paperwork wrapped up.”
“New York?” Grace set the brandy aside. She didn’t need it after all. “I said I wanted to go home, Ed. That’s next door.” When he turned to stare down at her, she tried a half smile. “That is, if the offer still holds.”
“It holds.” He slipped his arms around her. “It’s not much of a home yet, Grace. It needs a lot of work.”
“My evenings are free.” Content, she snuggled against him. “I never told you that when I first came I picked your house out as the one I’d most like to live in. Let’s go home, Ed.”
“Sure.” He helped her to her feet.
“One thing.” She dragged the heels of her hands over her face until she was sure it was dry. “I’m not going to iron your shirts.”
To Amy Berkower
with gratitude and affection
CARNAL INNOCENCE
A Bantam Book
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991 by Nora Roberts.
Hand lettering copyright © 1999 by Ron Zinn.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-54920.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56726-0
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Carnal Innocence
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Dedication
prologue
The air was raw with February the morning Bobby Lee Fuller found the first body. They would say he found it, when in truth what he’d done was trip over what was left of Arnette Gantrey. Either way, the end was the same, and Bobby Lee would live with that wide white face floating into his dreams for a long time to come.
If he hadn’t broken up with Marvella Truesdale—again—the night before, he’d have been hunkered over his desk in English lit, trying to twist his brain into coping with Shakespeare’s Macbeth, instead of dropping his line into Gooseneck Creek. But this last fight in his rocky eighteen-month romance with Marvella had worn him down. Bobby Lee’d decided to take himself a day off, to rest and reflect. And to teach that sharp-tongued Marvella that he wasn’t no pussy-whipped wimp, but a man.
The men in Bobby Lee’s family had always ruled the roost—or pretended to. He wasn’t about to break the tradition.
At nineteen, Bobby Lee was long past grown. He was six one and gawky with it, the filling-out years still to come. But he had big, workingman’s hands, like his father’s, on the ends of long skinny arms, and his mother’s thick black hair and luxuriant lashes. He liked to wear that hair slicked back in the style of his idol, James Dean.
Bobby Lee considered Dean a man’s man, one who wouldn’t have tolerated book learning any more than Bobby Lee did. If it had been up to him, he’d have been working full-time in Sonny Talbot’s Mobile Service Station and Eatery instead of hacking his way through twelfth grade. But his mama had other notions, and nobody in Innocence, Mississippi, liked to cross Happy Fuller if they could help it.
Happy—whose childhood name was appropriate enough since she could smile beauteously as she sliced you off at the knees—hadn’t quite forgiven her eldest boy for being held back twice in school. If Bobby Lee’s mood hadn’t been so low, he wouldn’t have risked hooking a day, not with his grades already teetering. But Marvella was the kind of girl who pushed a man—a man’s man—into doing rash and reckless things.
So Bobby Lee dropped his line into the sulky brown waters of Gooseneck Creek and hunched in his faded denim jacket against the raw air. His daddy always said when a man had powerful things on his mind, the best cure was to take himself down to the water and see what was nibbling.
It didn’t matter if you caught anything, it was the being there that counted.
“Damn women,” Bobby Lee muttered, and peeled his lips back in a sneer he’d practiced long hours in the bathroom mirror. “Damn all women to hell and back again.”
He didn’t need the grief Marvella handed out with both pretty hands. Ever since they’d done the deed in the back of his Cutlass, she’d been picking him apart
and trying to put him back together her way.
It didn’t sit right with Bobby Lee Fuller, no indeedy. Not even if she made him dizzy with love when they weren’t scrapping. Not even if she had those big blue eyes that seemed to whisper secrets just for him when they passed each other in the crowded hallways of Jefferson Davis High. And not even if, when he got her naked, she near to fucked his brains out.
Maybe he loved her, and maybe she was smarter than he was, but he’d be damned if she was going to tug him along like a pig on a rope.
Bobby Lee settled back among the reeds along the skinny creek fed by the mighty Mississippi. He could hear the lonesome whistle from the train that was heading down to Greenville, and the whisper of the damp winter breeze through the limp reeds. His line hung slack and still.
The only thing nibbling this morning was his temper.
Maybe he’d just take himself down to Jackson, shake the dust of Innocence off his shoes, and strike out for the city. He was a good mechanic—a damn good one—and figured he could find work with or without a high school diploma. Shitfire. You didn’t need to know nothing about some fag named Macbeth, or obtuse triangles and the like, to fix a dinky carburetor. Down to Jackson he could get himself a job in a garage, end up head mechanic. Hell, he could own the whole kit and kaboodle before too long. And while he was at it, Marvella I-told-you-so Truesdale would be back in Innocence, crying her big blue eyes red.
Then he’d come back. Bobby Lee’s smile lit his tough, good-looking face and warmed his chocolate eyes in a way that would have made Marvella’s heart flutter. Yeah, he’d come back, with twenty-dollar bills bulging in his pockets. He’d cruise on back into town in his classic ’62 Caddy—one of his fleet of cars—duded up in an I-talian suit, and richer than the Longstreets.
And there would be Marvella, thin and pale from pining away for him. She’d be standing on the corner in front of Larsson’s Dry Goods, clutching her hands between her soft, pillowy breasts, and tears would be streaming down her face at the sight of him.
And when she fell at his feet, sobbing and wailing and telling him how sorry she was for being such an awful bitch and driving him away from her, he might—just might—forgive her.
The fantasy lulled him. As the sun brightened to ease the stinging air and danced lightly on the dun-colored water of the creek, he began to contemplate the physical aspects of their reunion.
He’d take her to Sweetwater—having purchased the lovely old plantation from the Longstreets when they’d fallen on hard times. She’d gasp and shiver at his good fortune. Being a gentleman, and a romantic, he’d sweep her up the long, curving stairs.
Since Bobby Lee hadn’t been above the first floor in Sweetwater, his imagination shifted into high gear. The bedroom he carried the trembling Marvella into resembled a hotel suite in Vegas, which was Bobby Lee’s current idea of class.
Heavy red draperies, a heart-shaped bed as big as a lake, carpet so thick he had to wade through it. Music was playing. Something classic, he thought. Bruce Springsteen or Phil Collins. Yeah, Marvella got all gooey over Phil Collins.
Then he’d lie her down on the bed. Her eyes would be wet as he kissed her. She’d be telling him again and again what a fool she’d been, how much she loved him, how she was going to spend the rest of her life making him happy. Making him her king.
Then he’d run his hands down over those incredible white, pink-tipped breasts, squeezing just a little, the way she liked it.
Her soft thighs would spread apart, her fingers would dig into his shoulders while she made that growly sound back in her throat. And then …
His line tugged. Blinking, Bobby Lee sat up, wincing a little when his jeans bunched against the bulge at his crotch. Distracted by the hard-on, he flicked the fat fish out of the water, where it wriggled in the silvering sun. With his hands clumsy and slippery with arousal, he thumped his catch into the reeds.
Imagining himself about to pop it to Marvella had him tangling his line in the reeds. He hauled himself up, swearing a little at his carelessness. Since a good fishing line was as valuable as the fish it caught, Bobby Lee waded into the reeds and began to set it to rights.
The perch was still flopping. He could hear its wet struggles. Grinning, he gave the line a quick tug. It resisted, and he muttered a half-hearted oath.
He kicked a rusted Miller can aside, took another step into the high, cool grass. He slipped, his foot sliding on something wet. Bobby Lee Fuller went down on his knees. And found himself face-to-face with Arnette Gantrey.
Her look of surprise mirrored his—wide eyes, gaping mouth, white white cheeks. The perch lay quivering with its last breaths beneath her naked, mutilated breasts.
He saw she was dead—stone dead—and that was bad enough. But it was the blood, frosty pools of it, soaking into the damp ground, turning her limp, peroxided hair into something dark and crusty, drying hideously from where it had spilled out of dozens of jagged holes in her flesh, necklacing her throat where a long, smiling gash spread—it was the blood that forced the harsh, animal sounds out of him and had him scrambling back on his hands and knees. He didn’t realize the sounds came from him. But he did realize that he was kneeling in her blood.
Bobby Lee struggled to his feet just in time to lose his breakfast grits all over his new black Converse Chucks.
Leaving his perch, his line, and a good portion of his youth in the bloody reeds, he ran for Innocence.
chapter 1
Summer, that vicious green bitch, flexed her sweaty muscles and flattened Innocence, Mississippi. It didn’t take much. Even before the War Between the States, Innocence had been nothing but a dusty fly-speck on the map. Though the soil was good for farming—if a man could stand the watery heat, the floods, and the capricious droughts—Innocence wasn’t destined to prosper.
When the railroad tracks were laid, they had stretched far enough to the north and west to tease Innocence with those long, echoing whistles of pace and progress without bringing either home. The interstate, dug through the delta nearly a century after the tracks, veered away, linking Memphis to Jackson, and leaving Innocence in the dust.
It had no battlefields, no natural wonders to draw in tourists with cameras and cash. No hotel to pamper them, only a small, painfully neat rooming house run by the Koonses. Sweetwater, its single antebellum plantation, was privately owned by the Longstreets, as it had been for two hundred years. It wasn’t open to the public, had the public been interested.
Sweetwater had been written up once in Southern Homes. But that had been in the eighties, when Madeline Longstreet was alive. Now that she and her tosspot, skinflint of a husband were both gone, the house was owned and inhabited by their three children. Together, they pretty nearly owned the town, but they didn’t do much about it.
It could be said—and was—that the three Long-street heirs had inherited all of their family’s wild good looks and none of their ambition. It was hard to resent them, if the people in that sleepy delta town had churned up the energy for resentment. Along with dark hair, golden eyes, and good bones, the Longstreets could charm a coon out of a tree quicker than you could spit.
Nobody blamed Dwayne overmuch for following in his daddy’s alcoholic footsteps. And if he crashed up his car from time to time, or wrecked a few tables in McGreedy’s Tavern, he always made smooth amends when he was sober. Through as years went on, he was sober less and less. Everyone said it might have been different if he hadn’t flunked out of the fancy prep school he’d been shipped off to. Or if he’d inherited his father’s touch with the land, along with the old man’s taste for sour mash.
Others, less kind, claimed that money could keep him in his fancy house and in his fancy cars, but it couldn’t buy him a backbone.
When Dwayne had gotten Sissy Koons in trouble back in ’84, he’d married her without a grumble. And when, two kids and numerous bottles of sour mash later, Sissy had demanded a divorce, he’d ended the marriage just as amiably. No hard feelings—no feel
ings at all—and Sissy had run off to Nashville with the kids to live with a shoe salesman who wanted to be the next Waylon Jennings.
Josie Longstreet, the only daughter and youngest child, had been married twice in her thirty-one years. Both unions had been short-lived but had provided the people of Innocence with endless grist for the gossip mill. She regretted both experiences in the same way a woman might regret finding her first gray hairs. There was some anger, some bitterness, some fear. Then it was all covered over. Out of sight, out of mind.
A woman didn’t intend to go gray any more than a woman intended to divorce once she’d said “till death do us part.” But things happened. As Josie was fond of saying philosophically to Crystal, her bosom friend and owner of the Style Rite Beauty Emporium, she liked to make up for these two errors in judgment by testing out all the men from Innocence to the Tennessee border.
Josie knew there were some tight-lipped old biddies who liked to whisper behind their hands that Josie Longstreet was no better than she had to be. But there were men who smiled into the dark and knew she was a hell of a lot better than that.
Tucker Longstreet enjoyed women, perhaps not with the abandon his baby sister enjoyed men, but he’d had his share. He was known to tip back a glass, too—though not with the unquenchable thirst of his older brother.
For Tucker, life was a long, lazy road. He didn’t mind walking it as long as he could do so at his own pace. He was affable about detours, providing he could negotiate back to his chosen destination. So far he’d avoided a trip to the altar—his siblings’ experiences having given him a mild distaste for it. He much preferred walking his road unencumbered.
He was easygoing and well-liked by most. The fact that he’d been born rich might have stuck in a few craws, but he didn’t flaunt it much. And he had a boundless generosity that endeared him to people. A man knew if he needed a loan, he could call on old Tuck. The money would be there, without any of the sticky smugness that made it hard to take. Of course, there would always be some who muttered that it was easy for a man to lend money when he had more than enough. But that didn’t change the color of the bills.
