Yell, scream, stomp around, throw stuff, break something. Jesus! The look was worse than any of those things; it was worse than all of those things.
“Natalie, do you think it matters to me, the name I write on the check, if it’s the reason you tolerated me at all?”
“No, Blake. Now that I know you better, I don’t think that. I’m sorry.” Sorry sorry cripes they’re just words they don’t help anything they don’t solve anything shut up shut up shut up.
“Open your present.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, then remembered the long brown tube from Amazon. She went to fetch it (she’d left it on the counter in the tack room), grabbed a twine cutter, and started slitting it open. She realized almost right away that it was a poster and, puzzled, she unrolled it.
She looked at it for a long time.
“I hear you talking about Degas all the time, you and Gary, Harry, and Larry. Garrett and a couple of other people in town, too. You must like his work. I thought— I wanted to show my gratitude. For being so patient with me. And as you know, I didn’t have a lot of money; I couldn’t show gratitude the way I usually do. So…” He gestured at the poster. “This.”
Horror and a species of dull shame was creeping through her. She couldn’t look at him. Blake must have mistaken that for confusion, or surprised pleasure, because he leaned forward and seemed really engaged for the first time in over twenty-four hours.
“It’s called Two Laundresses and a Horse. As you know, Edgar Degas is known primarily for his paintings of dancers, but he did several outdoor scenes with horses as well. And I saw that one and thought of us and Margaret of Anjou and I thought— I thought you might like it.”
“Blake. You didn’t have to—it’s too much.”
He frowned. “It’s not the actual painting. It’s only a print. Are you all right? Forgive me for being blunt, but you look awful. All the color’s fallen out of your face.”
Her mouth worked. Nothing came out. Don’t lie. You can’t lie to him. Not this time, not even if it’s the last time he speaks to you, which it probably is. “Not Edgar Degas. That’s not what you heard. That’s not what they’ve
(chickenshit!)—
I mean, that’s not what we’ve been saying. You overheard people saying ‘Vegas Douche.’” Miserable, she finished her sad-ass explanation with, “It’s, uh, it’s just a dumb nickname. I don’t call you that anymore.”
“Ah.”
Dear God, could you maybe strike me down with a heart attack or an aneurysm or just jab me with a lightning bolt, anything to get me the hell out of here, thanks, your friend, Natalie Lane.
“You’re right,” he said after a long long long while.
“I am?”
“You’re not kind.”
She nodded. Then she burst into tears, and for a minute she didn’t know who was more shocked, her or Blake.
“Er. Natalie. Please don’t. Natalie?” He put down the piglet, who’d almost been dozing on his lap, and then raised his hands until they sort of hovered over Natalie, like he had no idea 1) if he was allowed to touch and 2) if so, where he was allowed to touch. “I take it back.”
“Don’t you dare take it back!” she nearly screamed, sobs tearing from her throat like they were trying to escape. “You’re right: I’m not kind; it was shitty; I’m shitty—”
“That is enough.” She was shocked out of crying and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, smearing dirt and sweat around like a kid after a fight on the playground. She hadn’t known his voice could go so deep and dark. “There are many words I would use to describe you, Natalie Lane, and ‘shitty’ is nowhere on the list.”
“Then you’re an idiot.”
“I haven’t discounted that,” he replied, so mildly she almost laughed. He reached out and patted her shoulder, almost as if he was afraid she’d slap his hand away. She couldn’t help it; she leaned into his touch, and, bolder, he rubbed circles on her back. “A few instances of bad judgment does not translate to shitty. I know you.”
This was all very nice, but she couldn’t let it stand. Bad enough to cry like a sorry-ass fraud; she wouldn’t take advantage of him being flummoxed to let herself off the hook.
“Blake, you’re great and you’ve certainly proved yourself the bigger person, but give me a break. We’ve known each other a month. You don’t know me. At best, I’m just the thing you wanted to do while you were stuck on Heartbreak.”
“My God, Natalie!” The rubbing had stopped and he sounded as appalled as he looked, so pretty appalled. “First, you are emphatically not a thing. Second, I won’t deny my attraction to you, but it was to all of you, not just your delightful petite—”
“Stubby.”
“—body and striking—”
“Fat.”
“—features and stop that! Every day here I couldn’t wait to see you. Why do you think I bought the toaster and the bread? There were days I’d skip breakfast in the kitchen in order to get out to Main One faster, and it’s not because I wanted to ‘jump’ you and it sure as hell wasn’t because I was eager to let that demon pony have another crack at me. Though I did think about it,” he admitted. “About you. And me. Um. Quite a lot. But sexual fantasies about someone you just met are quite normal for a sexually active male—which might be a misnomer, as I haven’t achieved intercourse for several weeks, so really it could have been anyone in my fantasies, it’s a physiological reaction that doesn’t necessarily translate to emotion—”
“Stop now.”
“Yes. Excellent idea.”
She paused, flattered and irked. It took her brain a second to untangle. Classic Blake, saying something wonderful and then wrecking it with science. “But if you didn’t do that, you wouldn’t be you, would you, Blake?”
“Do what?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“There is nothing wrong with sharing knowledge,” he huffed, piqued.
“I agree. I wasn’t making fun of you; I guess I was—how can I describe this—enjoying that aspect of you.”
“Oh.” Mollified, he went on. “I’ve spent more time with you than anyone else since I turned eighteen. Rake turned eighteen the same day—”
“Because Rake is terrible?” she guessed.
“Yes! See, you know me, too.”
“No, you just say that a lot. Half the town knows Rake is terrible.”
“The entire town should know.” She couldn’t tell if Blake was serious or not. “They need to be warned that Venice Douche is at loose in the world.”
“Trust me, it’s common knowledge all over Sweetheart that Rake is terrible.”
Blake clutched her hands in his and she giggled to see her paws swallowed up in his big hammy mitts. “That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said in the history of spoken language. And I do know you, Natalie Lane. I know you love chocolate but hate fudge. I know you left all of Gary’s shoes outside in the rain when you found out he’d hidden all the bread from me. I know you’re fiercely and equally proud of your Native American and Irish heritage, and that you tell people the reason you’re not an alcoholic is because they cancel each other out.”
“It’s simple math.”
“I also know you don’t actually think that, not really. I know you admire your mother’s ancestors and your father’s forebears.”
“Don’t those mean the same—”
“I know you have a reservoir of deep kindness and you don’t like it when people notice. I know you’re endlessly patient, and loyal, and fierce, and proud. I know your hair smells like cherry blossoms and I have pondered that mystery for a month.”
“It’s my cherry blossom shampoo.”
“Mystery solved. Most of all, Natalie, I know I will miss you when I’ve gone. I’ll think of you every day for a long, long time. Perhaps until the end of my life.”
When I’ve gone. Of course. And that made sense. She’d always known he was leaving. And certainly nothing had happened in the la
st forty-eight hours that would have caused Blake to consider changing those plans, for which she did not blame him at all. Still, the news—not that she should have been thinking of it as news—hit her like a jab to the gut.
“Yes. Okay. I— Yes.” She began to extricate herself from his warm, comforting grip. “Thank you. For those nice things you said. I’m glad— I’m glad you don’t hate me.”
“Impossible,” he murmured, releasing her.
Yeah? Give me another month, pal.
“I’ll just take that—”
“No!” He had reached for the poster and she whipped it behind her back. “No, you can’t. It’s mine; you said you bought it for me. You said it was my present.”
“As you wish.” He seemed taken aback by her ferocious defense—if she’d been a crow she would have been flying at him and cawing in his face until he ran away. “I only meant—”
“It’s mine,” she said again, calming herself. “Whatever the reason, it was a thoughtful gift, and I want to keep it. I didn’t know he did horses. I only saw the ballet dancers.” She could hear herself and was amazed; she hadn’t felt—or sounded—so shy in ten years. “Thank you again.” Enough mush. Back to business—it’s what he wants; he wouldn’t have touched you at all if you hadn’t sobbed like a teething toddler. “I still say you need to take a break.”
“It’s my prerogative to disagree,” he replied gently. “And your concern is appreciated, but I am fine. And I need to get back to work. Margaret of Anjou will not feed herself. Though I imagine she wishes she could.” That last in a dark mutter.
“You’re not fine,” Natalie replied sharply, and was that still more guilt? Yep. She’d thrown everything at him and he wasn’t leaving. He knew the truth about everything—Vegas Douche, the reasons behind Gary’s treachery, her job at the bank, Margaret of Anjou’s sociopathy, that the nuclear option hadn’t worked—and he still wasn’t leaving. Natalie knew he would—he’d told her he would, and unlike her, Blake didn’t lie—but it would be on his terms.
And he’d been that kind of man long before setting foot in Sweetheart. Shoveling shit didn’t change a man in a month. She’d been so stupid, so smug and certain she knew better than a city guy, that she hadn’t let herself see his strength. She’d pay for that, because she, too, would think of him every day after he went back to his life.
“Dammit, Blake, don’t argue! Your hands are shaking, for God’s sake. Come on with me now.” She stood and tried to pull him up with her, and after a few seconds he let her. Good thing, too, because it had been like trying to yank a redwood out of the ground.
Blake sighed, so long and loud it sounded like it came from the very bottom of his lungs, and emptied them. Their moment of whatever-it-was was over. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.”
Biggest lie ever. It was too dusty in here; it was making her eyes water. Oh. No. Wasn’t the dust. Do not start crying again, idiot!
“And you’re laboring under a misapprehension,” he continued. “My hands aren’t shaking because I’m tired. They always do that when you touch me. I— I’ve been hoping you wouldn’t notice. Too late now. Isn’t that right?”
He looked around, saw the White Rose of York had settled down in clean straw to finish her nap, and stood. Natalie had the sense he wouldn’t be talking like this—that they would never have spoken about any of this—if he was in his right mind, or at least well rested. He’d said some nice things when he was drunk, and then out of pity when she blubbered all over him, but she wasn’t dumb enough to assume he meant them. Her concern was sharpening into major unease. Cripes, Heartbreak broke Blake! Which she had wanted to happen until it did! “Listen—”
Slowly, so slowly it was almost like watching the minute hand on a clock, his hand came up and, eventually, he had a finger under her chin and was coaxing her head up so she could look at him. Slowly, giving her every chance to punch or kick or spit or just step back, he leaned in and his mouth brushed over her lips once, twice. And once again. He’d been filching toast again. She should be grossed out, being able to taste his breakfast.
(I am not grossed out.)
She blinked at him, realized she’d grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and things at once seemed quite bright and loud. She could hear everything—Margaret of Anjou’s soft snorts from her stall, the White Rose of York’s contented grunting, the chorus from the meadowlarks outside and the barn swallows inside. The wind humming through the grass and tree line. Her breathing. His. And she could smell everything, too, which could have been horrifying but wasn’t. Clean hay. Dust. Manure. Newly cut grass. Even the sunshine slanting through the barn seemed to have a smell, yellow and bright and lemony.
Then she was clutching air because he’d stepped back out of her grip, and his face was red for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.” He paused like he was going to say something more, then seemed to change his mind. “Forgive me.”
She reached out, not slowly, and grabbed his shirt, not gently, and hauled him back again, not carefully, and then she was discovering that in addition to toast, he’d had orange juice. She was discovering that if she did that with her tongue right there she could get his breathing to hitch. The power in that moment was heady, almost as staggering as the relief.
(oh God he’s letting me he’s letting me do this and you said your hands shake when I’m near and you taste like sunshine and toast and your breathing goes funny when we do this, which is good because maybe you won’t notice my breathing goes funny, too)
Margaret of Anjou’s hiss (before that pony came to Heartbreak, Natalie hadn’t known ponies could hiss like pissed-off rattlers) broke the spell. She relaxed her grip, then tried (in vain) to straighten the dust-smeared wrinkles in his shirt. He looked down and watched for a second, then took her hands in his.
“You’re lovely.” He said it with utter seriousness, the way people said, “It’s snowing,” or, “Splinters are painful.” “And your mouth is glorious.”
“I don’t—” Ten minutes ago he’d been swaying with fatigue and she’d felt guilt and sorrow in equal measure. Yesterday she was sick over what could only be called her betrayal. Now she knew how his mouth felt against hers, knew she made his hands shake, knew he fantasized about her, and her brain couldn’t reconcile the new information with the old. “Thank you. I don’t do this stuff normally. Make a habit of it, I mean.” God, when had she last gone on a date? Between trying to save the bank and, thus, the town (or vice versa), her social life had gone right down the shitter.
“How fortunate for me.” This in a low voice, almost a rumble, and she had to actively resist the urge to haul him back in and mack on him some more.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he replied, and kissed her again.
Twenty-nine
Blake Tarbell (Secret Service code name: Vegas Douche) sulked in his mighty Supertruck. He had promised Natalie he would rest, had let her bully him into two glasses of lemonade to assuage her guilt, but the attic was too hot and the lemonade sloshed in his belly, leaving him feeling vaguely ill.
After an hour of rising heat and ever-louder stomach sloshing he couldn’t bear it any longer, found his keys, checked on Margaret of Anjou and the White Rose of York, and drove toward town. It was, as always, a peaceful drive. He drove past field after abandoned field, picturing them lush with golden summer wheat, the drone of insects getting drowsy in the sun, the snap of plastic streamers in the field scaring off the birds (easier and more effective, Natalie-the-banker had explained, than scarecrows).
The fields weren’t entirely abandoned; it wasn’t all desolate, empty landscape. The Darrel twins (each widowed twelve years ago, he had learned, and just two days apart) had their stand up and running, and they waved as he got closer. He returned the wave and pulled over, spotting carton after carton of fresh-picked spring strawberries. He considered purchasing some for Natalie, who would consume
strawberry shortcake three times a day if it were socially acceptable. Then he remembered he was sick with hurt at her betrayal(s)
(as she was by yours, you self-righteous ass, and have you forgotten all those sad abandoned fields were partially your doing?)
and decided to punish her by only getting half a pound. When I could have easily purchased two pounds! That will teach her! He answered Alice Darrel’s questions about Margaret of Anjou
(“Are you any closer to killing her? Or her you? There’s a pool! So any hints you could give me … it’s up to four hundred bucks. Seventy/thirty, whaddya think?”),
politely returned Andy Darrel’s mild flirtation
(“A man like you stuck in Heartbreak with just Harry, Gary, and Larry for company, a damned shame, and a crime against nature”),
and was pleased to accept the small jar of clover honey they saved for him. His second week he discovered Natalie had mentioned his stash of bread and his toaster to the twins, so when they could they pulled a jar and held it for him. Fresh clover honey, he had discovered with deep delight, tasted like springtime. He may have fantasized about using Natalie as a canvas on which he would paint and devour said honey.
He got his bag of berries, wished the twins a pleasant afternoon, and climbed back in the Supertruck. The Darrel twins are so nice, he thought, I wonder if they want Sweetheart to die so they can leave? Or are they like Natalie, they don’t ever want to leave? And did Andy’s wife really dance herself to death, or is that just a local urban legend? Maybe dance herself to death is a euphemism. But for what? And why do I want to know? This question will consume me.
He passed a school bus, obediently stopping when it flipped out its stop sign. The Opitz kids piled out, saw him, and one of them mimed yanking a pull cord. Children loved the Supertruck’s droning horn, which was not unlike the sound of a runaway train bearing down on you. Blake obligingly honked. A grin, waves, and off they went.
Once in Sweetheart proper, he had no idea where he wanted to go, just that he was restless and thirsty and his head ached. He parked and considered. The library? Closed on Sundays. The diner? Not hungry—he hadn’t been hungry for over a day. Perhaps his body was finally adjusting to the Heartbreak schedule? Incorrect, as he had not been so tired since his first week on the farm.
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