by Ruth Wind
“I’m sorry,” he said to his sister. “I guess I’m just a little restless tonight.”
“Why don’t you play something for us?” she suggested. “That’s usually what you need—to play some music. I haven’t heard you play guitar for a long time. I miss it.”
Celia bit her lip at the charged silence that met Laura’s suggestion. For a moment, she was confused—didn’t Laura know about Eric’s inability to play? Why would she be so cruel?
Then she caught the flame in Laura’s starry blue eyes, a hard flicker of challenge.
“Laura, I don’t play guitar anymore. And you know it.” A wash of dusky red stained his cheekbones.
Reminded of the day that he’d stumbled on the stairs at the high school, Celia spoke up. “I’ll have to let you two settle this between yourselves,” she said, dusting her lips with a napkin. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to get home.”
Eric’s expression of gratitude was ample payment. She gave him a small smile in acknowledgement.
“Oh, do you have to run off?” Laura protested. “We were just getting comfortable.”
“I’m afraid I do,” Celia said. “It was wonderful. Maybe I can return the favor sometime soon.”
Laura nodded, and in her eyes, Celia saw the intelligence and steadiness that lay behind the fluttery, gypsy externals. There was also an entreaty in those eyes, one Celia didn’t quite understand.
“Eric, drive her home,” Laura said as Celia stood up.
“That’s not necessary,” Celia protested. “It’s a beautiful night. I like walking.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
A well of panic rose in her chest at the thought of him sitting in a close space with her, his scent and voice washing over her in the dark. “No,” she said, and looked at him, suddenly angry. “I’ll walk.”
A muscle tightened along his jaw, and he fiddled with a fork idly as he absorbed and deflected her fury. It was as if he knew he deserved it, as if he welcomed it. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, finally.
Celia lifted her chin. “Thank you again,” she said to Laura. “Feel free to drop by. It’s still a mess from the flood, but I’d love to see you anytime.”
Laura smiled, a curl of pretty lips matched by a secretive, triumphant expression in her eyes. She winked. “I’ll see you soon.”
Had she missed something? Celia sighed and headed for the door. After coping with one new society after another as a child, she would have imagined the social structure of her own country and people would be a breeze. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Tonight she felt subtly manipulated, seduced, placed in position in line with someone else’s plan. When would she learn the codes around here?
Eric followed her silently out to the porch. “Sure you won’t let me drive you?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Well, let’s go then. It’s a long walk.”
Celia froze. “I’ll be fine, Eric.”
“I know.” He took her hand with gentleness. “I just want to talk to you in private for a few minutes.”
“Will you stop this, Eric?” Mindful of the open screen door and Laura with her secretive smile sitting just beyond, Celia stepped off the porch. “Oh, just drive me.” At least it would be over more quickly that way.
She waited while he fetched his keys, then led her around the side of the house to a gray Volvo. “It still smells like river water,” he commented as they settled inside. “But at least she’s runnin’ again.”
It was a new car—maybe not brand-new, but no more than a year or two old, and no expense had been spared on the extras. It wasn’t the kind of car she would have expected him to drive.
What had she expected, then? She frowned, sneaking a glance at his profile, and had to choke back a chuckle at the picture that presented itself. Maybe a truck, old and lovingly maintained, or a Cadillac with fins. She shook her head at the stereotypical offerings.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s a nice car,” she said, unable to control the puzzled smile curling her lips.
“I love her.” He patted the dashboard fondly. “Never has given me a minute of trouble. I looked at some others, but one just stole my heart.”
Celia couldn’t help it. She giggled.
He glanced at her. “What did you expect? A broken-down Buick with a V8 and worn paint, the vinyl roof peeling?”
“Something like that,” Celia admitted.
“Well,” he drawled comfortably, “you’re not alone. I get more ribbing over this car than anything else.” He made an adjustment on the dashboard. “Truth is, though, I drove a 1969 Buick Skylark for a lot of years and spent more days broken down in little bitty towns than I can count. When I started getting real money, a good car was the first thing I bought.”
“I guess having to be on the road all the time it makes sense.”
“Not bad for an old country boy without a high school diploma, eh?”
Celia rolled her eyes. “You’re so terribly disadvantaged,” she said wryly, and realized with a little shock that she meant it. He may not have had the benefit of a formal education, but he was a literate, thinking man. Self-taught, as so many of her own ancestors had been.
In acknowledgment of her point, he chuckled. The sound was rich and hot in the small space. “Don’t tell anybody, all right?”
The car purred into the drive toward the farmhouse, and with a pang of dismay, Celia realized she’d done it again—grown comfortable with her prickly, moody drifter, allowed herself to lose her anger and feel pleased to be listening to him. Loving him.
She fell silent as he pulled up in front of the house. A lamp burned in the living room, and another upstairs in the attic, so that she wouldn’t have to stumble up the stairs in the dark.
“This is how it looked the night of the storm,” Eric said quietly, viewing the house through the windshield. “Warm and safe.”
Celia swallowed.
He looked at her. “And it was—just like the woman who took me in.”
She saw him leaning closer, his broad shoulders blocking her view as he inclined his head. Don’t, her mind cried, but her heart was already in her throat.
It might be her last chance.
The thought gave extraordinary clarity to the moment. She noted in acute detail the slope of his cheekbone in the soft moonlight, the cut of his lips thrown into silhouette against the night. He smelled of himself, something hot and male and irresistible. She remembered when he had stood in her kitchen the night of the storm, gulping down popcorn, his lip bleeding—and it seemed impossible that so much had gone between them, that now that same beautiful, rough-edged man was bending his head over hers, that she could feel his moist, warm breath whisper over her lips.
So when his mouth touched hers, seductive and hungry and gentle all at once, she nearly shivered at the shock of pleasure it gave her. Her hands flew up to land in the mass of his long, wavy hair, silky and cool and heavy against her fingers. A sound of hunger escaped her throat.
He moved closer, ignoring the limits of bucket seats, tugging her against his chest. His fingers dug into her back with fierce pressure. Celia felt herself spinning away as he kissed her mouth and her chin, her forehead and eyes, talking in between in his dark, raw voice. “I can’t help myself, Celia,” he whispered as his mouth moved over her cheek. “I can’t stop thinking about you, can’t stop wanting you.”
His mouth touched her temple, her ear, her neck. “I keep telling myself to leave you alone, and I keep breaking that promise and I’m sorry.”
The tip of his nose trailed the length of her neck until he nuzzled into the curve of her shoulder. The car’s engine still purred. “I wish…”
“Never mind.” Celia hugged him, releasing all of her anger, all of her wishes and silly fantasies into the night. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.” Then, when she could find the courage, she slowly released him. “You’d better get back to your sister,” she said.
For an instant, it seemed as if he would not let her go. Then he straightened, nodding.
Celia opened the door, put one foot on the ground, then turned back to him. “Don’t leave without telling me goodbye. Please?”
With one finger, he touched her cheek. “I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “Go on, now, before the mosquitoes eat us both alive.”
Chapter 13
Eric dreamed of his hands, whole and strong, flying over the strings of his guitar. He dreamed of his mother, pretty and soft and smelling of L’Origan, holding him in her lap.
And he dreamed of Celia—Celia laughing, Celia singing, Celia kissing him in her open, undemanding way.
He awakened to darkness. For a long time, he lay there, staring at the shadows cast by a tree beyond his window. Then, he rose and dressed, took his guitar case from beside the couch and walked out into the damp, near dawn. A path led from behind the house down the bluff that protected it from the river. Jezebel, singing the blues, beckoned him.
Overhead, the sky was indigo, washed clean of stars with the approach of morning. Eric settled on the banks of the river and breathed deeply the coppery scent mixed with pine needles and rich silt and fish. Home.
As a child, he’d not understood that Jezebel had taken his mother. He’d been afraid of storms for a long time, but never of this river. As a boy, he’d spent long, long hours at her side, listening to the musical sound of her stories, imagining she was a benevolent angel sent to keep him safe. He’d run here to escape his uncle’s drunken ramblings, to escape the disapproval of the small minority of the town that held him in contempt for his bastard status. He’d come here to practice guitar when Wild Willie had begun to teach him, and it seemed that Jezebel had been as much a teacher as Willie. Steadily she held a beat. Unconditionally, she listened.
So tonight—or rather this morning—he took his guitar from its case with his broken hands. And to Jezebel he played his blues, knowing she would not mind the imperfect sound of his clumsy fingers, that she forgave his ragged transitions and the harsh grate of the wrong pressure of his steel slide.
To Jezebel, he made his offering as dawn filled the sky. To Jezebel he sang his blues, his loss, his sorrow. When he had finished, morning had dawned.
And Eric knew it was time to go.
* * *
Celia stood on the back porch, her hands on her hips. The steps were still missing, but she’d found a milk crate to stand in for them until they could be replaced. Beyond, stretching in dark, rich promise, lay her newly planted garden, the rows neatly furrowed as Lynn had instructed, each row sturdily labeled with hand-lettered stakes: popcorn, butterbeans, squash, even watermelon, which Celia had never thought to grow, but Lynn insisted would do very well.
As she surveyed the plot in the lowering late-afternoon light, Celia felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The turning of the ground and the planting itself had been a hard job. Her muscles were weary. A shower had eased most of the soreness, and she was left with a distinct, powerful sense of accomplishment and pride.
In memory, she saw the orderly rows of her grandmother’s garden—the popcorn, waving green fronds in a summer wind; the hills of squash; the red flowers of scarlet runners. She smiled. Oh, yes. This was what she’d been made for.
Now that the garden was in, she could begin to repaint the interior of the house. From a catalogue, she’d ordered new furniture out of Dallas, and they had promised delivery at the first of next month. Soon, very soon, her life would be back to normal.
The doorbell rang, echoing faintly into the back through the house. Smoothing a wisp of hair from her face, Celia went to answer it.
Her footfalls echoed in the now-empty rooms. With Lynn’s help, she had torn up the soggy, smelly carpets and hauled the ruined furniture out to one side of the house for collection by a clean-up crew—whenever they could get to her. The bare windows gleamed with the washing of vinegar and water she’d given them.
Odd how different everything looked now, Celia thought. She would never have thought she’d want to change anything—but all kinds of ideas were cropping up. A few of the wood pieces were salvageable, and in combination with some of the new things she’d ordered, the rooms would contain the best of old and new. She’d like to leave the big front window bare. It was arched, framed with good mahogany—
Her heart lurched. Standing in that very frame of mahogany, with the graceful branches of the pecan tree giving him a picturesque background, was Eric.
Eric. She touched her hair, feeling suddenly self-conscious, wishing she had bothered to put her makeup on, that she was wearing something other than baggy shorts and an old tank top.
She wished she were wearing something sinful, something that would tempt him to stay.
At the door, she paused, looking up at him through the time-darkened screen. “I guess you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving,” she said.
He swallowed, his eyes lost and lonely, and nodded.
She took a breath and pushed the door open, coming outside to stand with him on the warped boards of the porch. “I wish I could convince you to stay,” she said honestly—and to her horror, tears thickened her throat.
“I know,” he said. His voice was rough and low, as if there were something in his throat, as well.
She looked up at him, and as she had once before, she impressed the details of him into her mind for later reminiscing—the deep hue of his irises, the way he towered over her, the tenderness of his mouth in the hard lines of his face. With a crooked smile, she said, “You’re as pretty as a movie star.”
He grinned wistfully. “You’re one bold woman, you know it?”
Celia nodded, smiling ruefully.
His gaze shifted, lighting on something over her head for a moment before flitting back to her face. “Ah, hell,” he said with an air of defeat, and opened his arms. “Come here, will you?”
Celia felt as if she floated toward him, had no conscious memory of telling her feet to step closer. One instant she was standing in her bare feet looking up at him; the next she was crushed in his arms, enveloped in the scent and feel of him. He held her hard, his heart thudding against her ear. And once again she felt the odd, passionate trembling of his arms and legs as he held her, as if he were fighting some great and terrible battle within himself.
She lifted her head to kiss him. He resisted, not actively, but passively, allowing her to touch him, but not returning it. The infinitesimal trembling increased.
“You have to go,” she said. “And I have to stay.” She let her hands rove over his broad, muscled chest. “Leave me something to remember you by.”
“Don’t, Celia,” he whispered as her hands slid over his sides and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants. She kissed him again, a wild hunger building within her. This time, he was not quite so passive. A small groan escaped his throat as her hands found his bare flesh below his shirt—silky, supple skin, hot to the touch.
“I can’t sleep sometimes,” she whispered, pride gone. His hands slipped downward, almost reluctantly, to cup her bottom and pull her close against his arousal. She opened her mouth against the triangle of skin his shirt exposed. “I think of you touching me and I can’t sleep.”
“Celia, God help me.” Eric grasped her head hard and kissed her, his tongue plunging into her mouth, his teeth bruising her lips. He steered her toward the door and Celia broke away.
“Let’s climb the stairs like civilized people this time.”
His nostrils flared. “Like hell.” He scooped her into his arms. “I’m not feeling civilized,” he growled, and lifted his chin in the direction of the door. “Reach down there and open that.”
A swelter of arousal made her hands shake as she reached for the handle, and a wild, giddy terror descended as they passed over the threshold.
Eric kicked the door shut behind him, then settled Celia against it and pressed he
r back against the wood, his hands trapping her wrists at either side of her head.
Deliberately, he pressed into her. “I’m not a real civilized man,” he said, and kissed her as if to illustrate, his tongue thrusting deep, his teeth plucking at her lips.
And Celia didn’t care. His savage loss of control pleased her, thrilled her—for at last she’d broken through his barriers, every single one of them. In return, she arched against him and moved in invitation, letting go of the inhibitions of a lifetime. Since he held her hands, she shifted and wrapped one leg around him, pulling him closer still, and heard the groan of his pleasure.
This was not the man who remembered to please his woman first, who took pride in his knowledge of ‘doing it right.’ Instinctively, she knew his prowess as a lover had been one way of earning approval, of trying to connect his lonely heart with that of another.
Deliberately, she pulled back to look at him square in the eye. Sunlight flashed across the vibrant sapphire irises. “I love you,” she said.
He made a sound of pain and kissed her, letting go of her hands. With clumsy haste, he pushed up her blouse as Celia unbuttoned his shirt.
He shuddered at the press of their chests together, and as if he could not help himself, he slipped his hands between them to spread his fingers over her breasts. His broad, scarred palms cradled her. Celia struggled against her need to tumble into the exquisite sensation and concentrated on freeing the stubborn buttons of his jeans. He didn’t help her, seemingly lost in the feel of her flesh in his hands, in the taste of her tongue and lips. But when she managed the last button and pushed his jeans from his lean hips, he growled and grabbed her tight.
They tumbled onto the bare floor, covered with only thin scatter rugs. There, in front of the closed door, in a patch of bright yellow sunlight, half-dressed and bruising each other with the violence of their hunger, they joined. His jeans scraped her thighs as he thrust into her, and his shirt fluttered around her sides, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. They were joined, body and soul. Hands and hearts tangled; lips and minds danced to the bittersweet blues of their parting. And as if to emphasize the perfection, Celia felt her body gathering for its explosion just as Eric made a dark, ragged sound in his throat. Wildly, he kissed her.
