by Webb, Peggy
“Do you know how easy it would be for me?” His face became fierce as he leaned toward her and put one hand on her throat. The feather-light touch made her shiver. His hand moved down and popped open the top button on her cotton robe.
Janet and Bea would be mortified. Even Cat would tell her she was playing with fire. Still, she had to prove to him that she was no babe in the woods. Maybe she had to prove it to herself, too.
He opened the second button. “Have you any idea how many women I’ve undressed, Clemmie? How many women I’ve had?” His hands worked the third button open then drew the robe apart. She felt the cool rush of night air on her chest. It made her shiver. Or was it the look in Michael’s eyes that made her shiver? They were glowing as if candles had been lit in their center.
“Afraid, Clemmie?”
“No.”
“You should be.”
He placed one hand on her chest, pressing his palm warmly over the spot where her heart beat, spreading his fingers wide so he could cover the entire expanse of flesh left bare by the top of her gown.
Clemmie was treading into dangerous territory, here, and she savored every minute of it.
“I could take you right now, in this gazebo.” His hand began to make small circles on her bare chest. “I could peel away all those innocent layers of white cotton until I had you naked in my arms.”
Clemmie wet her dry lips. “I know that,” she whispered.
“Then why in the hell aren’t you running?” Michael jerked his hand off her chest and pulled her robe back together. “Don’t give yourself to me, Clemmie. You deserve better.” His hands fumbled as he fastened the buttons.
“Michael.” She put her hands over his. “I like you. I don’t mind a little flirtation.” She hesitated. What was it she could say to this man to wipe away that fierce scowl? What could she do to bring back the laughter and the songs? Never mind the kiss.
“I don’t even mind a little heavy petting.” Ignoring her, he continued to work angrily at the buttons. Clemmie’s frustration boiled over. “Stop that.”
He pulled back, one eyebrow quirked upward.
“I know what I want, Michael.” She stood up and stepped back so she could have the advantage of looking down at him. “I’m a grown woman, and if I want to throw myself at your feet, I will. And I don’t need you or anybody else to tell me what I should do.”
“Bravo, Clemmie.” He clapped his hands, and the sound was hollow in the night stillness of the gazebo. “And what is it you want?” Standing up, he pulled her against his chest. “This?” He pressed his hands over her hips, molding them intimately against his own. “And this?” His hands abruptly left her hips and moved up to cradle her breasts.
He covered her mouth once more. When he finally pulled back, she thought her knees would buckle. Putting her hand over her lips, she stared at him.
“Go to the house, Clemmie.” Michael stepped back and leaned against the side of the gazebo. His face was hidden in the darkness, but his voice was cold and harsh. “You’re out of your league with me.”
Clemmie wanted to deny his words. But her lips felt bruised and her knees felt shaky. She decided to leave while she still could.
“Good night, Michael.”
She left the gazebo and trotted back into the house, her cheeks burning and her Virginia on fire. When she was safe inside her room, she leaned shut the door and leaned against her. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she could hear it.
She’d gone beyond playing with fire. She’d almost broken Rule Four – and without a single thought in her head except experiencing every decadent thing Michael Forrest wanted to give her.
Her first instinct was to email the Dixie Virgins for advice. Her second, and the one she followed, was to burrow under her covers, shut her eyes, and relive the whole thing.
o0o
The next morning Clemmie sat at the head of the dining room table, serving a plantation breakfast to Miss Josephine and Harvey and trying not to look disappointed that Michael was nowhere in sight.
“Pass me another biscuit, Clementine,” Miss Josephine shouted. “You look a mite peaked today.”
Clemmie picked up the basket of hot biscuits and handed it to her. “It must be the weather.”
Josephine tore off a piece of biscuit and popped it into her mouth. “No,” she yelled, “they’re not light as a feather, but they are mighty tasty.”
At the other end of the table, Harvey snickered. Clementine was too tired to whisper be nice to her as she usually did. On the pretext of refilling the coffee server, she left the dining room and went into the kitchen. As she passed the stairs, she stopped, listening for sounds of Michael Forrest. There was nothing except silence.
He was probably in his bed right this very minute, she told herself, sleeping as if nothing had happened in the gazebo last night. And here she was, standing in the hallway like an idiot, still mooning over the way his lips had felt on hers, the way his hands had made her feel hot all over. She even felt hot now, just thinking about it.
She heard a creak on the staircase that made her jump, but it was only the old house shifting on its tired foundation. Relieved that the sound hadn’t been Michael, that he hadn’t caught her spying up the stairs, she hurried to the kitchen; then she forgot why she had come. Turning around in a helpless circle, she spotted a jar of blackberry jelly. She picked it up and carried it back to the dining room.
“Look what I’ve found to go with the biscuits,” she announced with forced cheer as she put the jelly on the table. “I made it last year when the berries were ripe.”
“I thought you went for coffee.” Harvey adjusted his glasses that were always sliding down his nose, and smiled at her.
Clemmie wanted to scream. Never had the burden of being an innkeeper been so great. On a day when she wanted to bury herself under the covers, she had to play the hostess to a man whose smile made him look like a horse and an old woman wearing a dead corsage.
“I guess I forgot,” she snapped, then she was immediately ashamed of herself. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d never had unkind thoughts about Harvey and Miss Josephine. She loved them.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I guess I’m peevish.”
“No problem,” Harvey said as he helped himself to the jelly. “Who needs coffee when they can have fresh jelly?”
“Did you say Shelly’s back?” Josephine turned to Clemmie, a smear of butter clinging to her chin. “I thought she was still in St. Louis.”
Clemmie left her chair and bent over the old lady, gently wiping away the butter. “No, dear, Shelly’s not back. But she will be soon.”
“Went to the moon, you say? I did think it was St. Louis.”
“St. Louis,” Harvey shouted. “They’re still in St. Louis.”
“Good.” Josephine smiled. “I hope they stay there so I can eat their biscuits.”
“Thanks, Harvey.” Clemmie gave him a grateful smile. He could be very nice when he wanted to be, she thought. And he really didn’t look so much like a horse. More like a rabbit, with his big front teeth. A nice rabbit, she amended.
“You’re welcome, Clemmie.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Will you be at the church social tonight?”
“Why... yes.”
“Good.” He stood uncertainly, as if he wanted to say more, then he started toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
Clemmie watched him leave, dependable Harvey with his loose-jointed scarecrow walk and his flyaway baby bird hair. A sudden vision of Michael in the moonlight came to her. She could see him as clearly as if he were sitting in one of her dining room chairs. Unconsciously she put her hand over her heart, right on the spot he’d touched last night. Michael Forrest was the man she wanted to see at the church social. He was the man she wanted to bid on her box, the man she wanted to share her meal with. Instead she had Harvey.
Clemmie sighed. At least Harvey
wouldn’t try to seduce her in the gazebo.
“Are you going with me to the church social tonight?” she shouted in Josephine’s ear.
“Tonight?”
“That’s right.” Clemmie was relieved that for once Miss Josephine had heard what she’d said. As she helped the old lady from the chair she thought of the gazebo. The strange thing was that she’d wanted to be seduced in the gazebo.
“Oh, my no.” Miss Josephine put a thin hand on Clemmie’s arm. “Don’t you know? Junior always pays me a visit on Saturday night.” She smiled archly up at the young woman who was more like a daughter to her than a landlady. “It’s our night to howl.”
Clemmie patted Josephine’s hand. “Then you’ll want to put on your Sunday best. This evening before I leave for the church I’ll help you change your dress.”
“My sentiments exactly. That Harvey does make a mess. And just listen to that racket.” Josephine pressed one hand over her ear to shut out the noise of Harvey’s practice. “I wish he’d play something nice like the piccolo.”
The deep brassy notes of the tuba drifted up the stairs as Clemmie helped Miss Josephine to her room. Another typical Saturday at the boarding house. When she passed Michael’s closed door, she amended that last thought. The day wasn’t typical at all, for Michael Forrest was behind that closed door, sleeping in the big brass bed.
Clemmie wondered what it would be like to be in that bed with him. She guessed she’d never know. After last night it was perfectly obvious that he preferred women who were sophisticated and experienced.
It was just as well. She’d didn’t know a thing about him, and she’d never really believed there could be anything between them except a few torrid kisses in the gazebo. And he’d certainly given her that. It was a memory that would last a lifetime.
When she left Miss Josephine and went back downstairs, she was smiling.
o0o
The sound of the tuba awakened Michael.
He rolled over and glimpsed the sunlight shining on the brass footboard of the bed. For a moment he was disoriented, then it all came back to him—last night in the gazebo, Clemmie in her innocent white cotton gown.
“Damn.” He jerked the covers back and sat up. The clock on the bedside table said eight. He’d missed his morning jog; he’d missed breakfast; he’d gotten behind with all the work he’d planned. And all because he’d let a woman with exotic eyes and a vamp’s mouth get under his skin.
He wouldn’t let that happen today, he vowed as he padded naked across the hardwood floor to the bathroom. He’d keep out of her way. He’d even get out of Peppertown, and the sooner the better. It might be cowardly, but there was only so much sweetness a man could stand.
Michael showered and dressed quickly, then hurried down the stairs, intent on getting out of the house and completing his business so he could get back to Hollywood. The sound of Clemmie’s singing hit him like high-voltage electricity. The music drifted from the kitchen, settling around him like a benediction and stirring ancient memories—Grandmother Forrest, bending over a bit of needlework, singing one of her favorite hymns, “Rock of Ages,” the song Clemmie was singing now.
He couldn’t have been more than three or four years old when Grandmother Forrest had first come to visit with them. His mother had been on location in Greece, and his father had had a once-in-a-lifetime attack of conscience and decided that he’d be a family man. And so Grandmother Forrest, who had seen Michael only once, the day he was born, had come from Ohio for a visit.
Michael remembered that she’d smelled like gingerbread and violets. And she was always singing. The week she’d stayed with them had been the happiest of his life. She’d read bedtime stories and baked gingerbread boys and had even taught him how to throw a curve ball. Granny, as she’d insisted on being called, had gotten the map and pointed out Ohio. She’d promised that when he was old enough, he could come and spend summers with her on her farm.
It was a promise she never kept. Two years after her visit, she’d died.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Michael descended the stairs and headed for the front door. In the hallway, he stopped. The unmistakable aroma of gingerbread drifted from the kitchen.
Michael was overcome with a sense of déjà vu. He could no more have passed by that kitchen than he could have denied his own name.
Retracing his steps, he walked to the kitchen and leaned against the door frame. Clemmie was standing at the kitchen cabinet, a smudge of flour on her cheek, cutting out gingerbread boys and still singing. The sight of her made Michael feel warm all over.
“Is that gingerbread I smell?”
Clemmie’s song came to an abrupt halt. One hand came up to her face, spreading another streak of flour on her cheek. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s all right. Boarders come and go. I shouldn’t have been startled.” She smiled, a beautiful shy curving of her berry red lips. “I guess my mind was somewhere else.” In the gazebo, she added to herself.
“Mine was, too.” In the moonlight with you in my arms, he thought.
“It was?”
“Yes. Your singing reminded me of my grandmother. She used to make gingerbread.”
“This is for my brothers. They love gingerbread. I’m going to package it up and mail it to them at college.”
“I wish I had a sister like you.” He lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave and yet daring not stay. “About last night, Clemmie...”
“Oh.” Clemmie put her hand to her throat, dappling it with flour.
Michael fought the urge to cross the room and kiss those smudges away. “Damn!”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just remembered that I’m late for an appointment.”
Michael whirled around and strode down the hallway. Clemmie heard the front door bang shut behind him.
“Oh.” She reached blindly for a kitchen chair and sat down. She could never seem to handle these meetings with Michael. What she should have said was, “Hello, there, Michael. Do you want some gingerbread?” And he would have said, “Of course.” Then he’d have sat at the kitchen table and they could have chatted like friends. Finally, at just the right moment, she could have said, “The church social is tonight. I know it’s old fashioned and small-town and nothing like the social events you’re used to, but I’d love for you to be my guest?” And he would have said, “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Why couldn’t things come out the way she planned them?
Clemmie sat a moment longer in her kitchen chair, listening to the tick of the clock on the wall and smelling the pungent aroma of cinnamon. Time was marching steadily on, and she had nothing for company except gingerbread boys. Of course, she reasoned, Michael would be going back home soon, and she’d still have her brothers and her boarders and her friends and her lovely old house in a wonderful old town. How silly of her to sit brooding.
Picking up the song where she’d left off, Clemmie went back to her baking.
Chapter Five
Michael spent all of Saturday scouting locations and getting permission from landowners to bring in his movie crew. He pushed himself to the limit, squeezing at least three days’ work into one. Only when it was too dark to see did he allow himself to return to Brady’s Boarding House.
The Victorian house looked peaceful in the early evening, as if it welcomed the respite from a day’s activities. Set back among the fall-dressed trees, it looked warm and inviting. As Michael parked his rental car he thought about the place he called home. It was an adobe mansion filled with tile and marble, and it had about as much warmth as his mother’s cold heart.
Before Michael had met Clemmie, a house had been merely a house to him, a place to sleep and sometimes eat. Now he found himself loitering in the front yard, reflecting on the qualities that made a house a home—the smell of gingerbread baking, the sound of laughter in the halls, the presence of a woman with a gift for tenderness.
Giving a snort of disgust, he mounted the front porch steps and went into the house.
“Is that you, Junior?” Miss Josephine’s voice quavered, stopping him in the hallway.
“No. I’m not Junior.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, Junior.” Miss Josephine appeared in a doorway to his right. Dressed in lavender chiffon and wearing a rhinestone tiara, she looked like an aging silent screen actress. Michael had glimpsed her as he’d passed her room upstairs, and he knew from last night when she’d leaned out the window that she was hard of hearing. But he’d never seen her close up. She had a magnetism, that quality called charisma, that drew him to her.
“Come on in the parlor so we can have a drink together.”
Intrigued, he followed her into the room she called the parlor. It looked like a set from the movie Arsenic and Old Lace. Marble-topped tables, silk brocade chairs, and a Duncan Phyfe sofa were arranged in a cozy grouping in front of the fireplace. There were lace curtains at the window and real roses in a vase on an ancient spinet.
Miss Josephine sat on the sofa and patted a spot beside her. “Sit here, Junior. I want to feast my eyes on you.”
“Miss Josephine...” He’d started to tell her that he wasn’t Junior when she put her hand over his lips. It felt like a piece of old parchment.
“Shush, young man. I know you’re not Junior. You’re that scandalous Hollywood man who’s come to seduce us all.” Reaching for the decanter of wine, she chuckled. “Being old has its advantages, you know. I can get by with most anything.” She poured two glasses and handed one to him.
“Thank you.” He took a sip and was shocked at the potency of the drink.
“Knocked your pants off, didn’t it?” Miss Josephine laughed. “Blackberry wine. I talked Clemmie into making it last summer.”
