by Webb, Peggy
He leaned close and shouted so she could hear him. “It’s potent. But good.”
“The same way I like my men, potent and good.” Miss Josephine tilted her head and arched one eyebrow at him. “Do I shock you, young man?”
“No. You enchant me.”
He couldn’t tell whether or not she’d understood. Instead of replying, she leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes. If it weren’t for the smile on her face, he’d have been alarmed. Finally she opened her eyes and winked at him.
“You say mighty pretty words in a mighty pretty voice.”
Lifting her free hand, he bent over and kissed it. “Pretty words for a charming lady.”
“They’re wasted on me. There’s somebody else in this house you should be saying them to.” She chuckled at the shocked expression on his face. “I saw you and Clemmie in the gazebo last night. I was spying.”
“She’s merely a passing fancy.”
“I’d get antsy, too, about what she’s doing at that box social tonight.”
“It’s no concern of mine.” He drank his wine, trying to look totally bored with the subject of Clemmie.
“She’s down yonder at the church. Probably got some pious bore bidding on her supper box right now. He’ll take her out under the trees and tell her how great her fried chicken is before he tries to get under her skirts.”
Michael put his glass on the marble-topped table with such force it threatened to shatter. The thought of Clemmie in the clutches of some bumbling maniac made his blood boil.
“Miss Josephine, I hope you can hear me, because a man doesn’t like to make a fool of himself more than once. Where is that church?”
Miss Josephine clapped her hands with glee. “I do love to meddle.” Getting a paper and pencil from the piano bench, she drew a map.
“Her box is pink with a bright blue ribbon,” she said as she handed him the map and waved him goodbye. Then she sat back on the sofa, waiting for her dear departed Junior Wade.
o0o
Michael swore all the way to the church. He cursed the balky rental car, blackened the reputations of all the local jocks, and spared a few scathing words for himself. By the time he got to the church he was as nervous as a bridegroom. What in the heck was a box social, anyhow? He sat in the car, glaring at the massive front doors and thinking of a million reasons why he shouldn’t go inside. In the end, there was one reason why he did—Clemmie.
Sneaking around had never been his style, so when he made his entrance it was a grand one. He strode boldly down the center aisle of the small white-framed church toward the front pew. Heads turned and a flutter of whisperings accompanied his march down the aisle.
Clemmie was directly in front of him, sitting in the choir loft, dressed in a blue dress that made her look like a sixteen-year-old school girl. All she needed was a ponytail to make the image complete. When she saw him, her eyes widened and her cheeks got pink.
Michael winked. Her cheeks got even brighter. He stared at her for so long he began to feel self-conscious and a bit foolish. But then, he supposed that’s how someone on a fool’s errand should feel—foolish.
At the pulpit, the minister cleared his throat. “As I was saying...here’s a lovely box.” He held a red gingham box aloft. “It’s heavy, too. Just waiting for some hungry man to put in his bid.”
The bidding was lively and good-natured, but Michael paid scant attention. He was too busy trying to see if he could spot Clemmie’s box among those stacked beside the minister. Unfortunately the altar rail got in the way.
Finally a young man with a cowlick paid ten dollars for the gingham box.
The minister gave his congregation a smile, glistening with sweat and earnestness. “That’s a wonderful start. Remember now, it’s all for a good cause. Every penny we raise will go to support the orphanage over in Fulton. Let’s see if we can’t keep that pace up with our second box.”
That meant that Clemmie’s box was still waiting to be sold. Michael felt a sense of relief that was out of proportion to the situation. He settled back on the hard pew and gazed at Clemmie as the minister auctioned off the gold-wrapped box. The contrast between the exotic appeal of her face and the prim message of her white-collared dress twisted Michael’s gut. It had been a long time since he’d been inside a church, but he knew his thoughts were not appropriate. Definitely not religious and lofty.
He dragged his gaze away from Clemmie as the minister held high a pink box tied with a blue ribbon.
From the back pew, a voice piped up, “I bid two dollars.”
Oblivious of the whispers around him, Michael turned to locate the bidder. It was Harvey, the downstairs boarder, the one who had awakened him with that tuba this morning. He’d met him briefly in the hallway when Harvey had stuck his head around the doorway as Michael stomped away from Clemmie and her gingerbread.
“Twenty,” Michael said, pinning Harvey to his seat with a fierce scowl.
“Twenty-one.” The voice came from Michael’s right. He had to swivel all the way around in order to find the man who was bidding—a slicked-up character who looked as if he couldn’t be trusted with the Mafia let alone with Clemmie.
“Fifty,” Michael roared.
The congregation gave a collective gasp that seemed to hang in the air like pollution before it drifted back down on a sigh.
The minister got so excited he pounded on the pulpit. “Going once, going twice...”
“Fifty-five.” The voice almost squeaked with excitement. Harvey, again.
Michael quickly upped the ante. “One hundred.”
A hush came over the crowd. Nobody had ever bid more than twenty-five dollars at one of these box socials, even if the money did go to a good cause. People in the back craned their necks to get a better view of the stranger in their midst.
Even the minister was too surprised to say anything.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by another bid. “One twenty-five.”
It was the shifty maniac on Michael’s right again. Michael shot him a murderous glance.
Up front, the minister, recovering from the shock and happily anticipating the large amount of money that would go into the orphanage fund, sang out, “Going once, going twice, sol—”
Michael’s voice cut in as cold and hard as a steel blade. “One thousand.”
Bedlam broke loose. A woman in the back of the church fainted; the teenagers broke into a cheer; an old codger in overalls pounded the pew and yelled, “Well, hallelujah and glory be.”
In the midst of the uproar, Michael looked at Clemmie. Her face was as pink as the sugar roses on her birthday cake, but she was smiling. He winked at her, then slouched back into his seat as if what he had done was no big deal, certainly not to him. The bidding was over; he knew that. He could relax now for no man would get his clutches on Clemmie tonight. He could even pay his one thousand dollars and leave if he wanted to.
He glanced at Clemmie again. The tip of her tongue came out and wet her lips. Michael decided he’d stay, after all. He had to eat, didn’t he? He reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook, but it wasn’t a contribution to orphanages he was thinking about: it was Clemmie’s sweet smile.
The last boxes were bid off, but they were anticlimactic. The best show was over.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your generous support of the orphanage,” the minister said. “Without further ado, let the fun begin. The fellowship hall is open for those who want to eat there. There are picnic tables out back for those who can stand the cool night air. And now—” he paused dramatically, then held up the red gingham box “—claim your boxes and claim your date for the evening.”
Michael was the last to claim his box. In a great show of nonchalance, he picked it up and looked across the heads of the crowd at Clemmie as she made her way slowly toward him. When she arrived, she was breathless. His nonchalance vanished.
“Clemmie.”
“Michael.”
For a mom
ent they looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the room. Finally, Clemmie broke the spell.
“What you did tonight was very generous.”
“No, Clemmie. Merely selfish.”
“How could paying one thousand dollars for charity be selfish?”
“I didn’t pay it for charity. I paid it so no other man could get his hands on you.”
Behind them, a couple of matrons with plastic-like hairdos and too much makeup gasped.
Clemmie pressed her hands together and tried to act as if her heart weren’t climbing out of her chest. “Michael, I do believe you’re a tease—like my brothers.”
“My thoughts right now are hardly brotherly.” He took her elbow and steered her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here before I make a complete fool of myself.”
“You could never do that.”
“I already have.”
They were silent, each lost in thought as they stepped into the cool evening air. Down the sidewalk, the lights of the fellowship hall shot beacons into the darkness.
“Do you want to eat inside, Michael?”
“No. I want you as far away from that conniving maniac as I can get.”
“Who?”
“That slick number who kept bidding on your box. Who is he?”
“Harvey?”
“Not Harvey. That man with the greedy eyes and sleazy grin who couldn’t wait to get you alone in the dark.”
“Why, that was only Mr. Clark.”
“Mister? You call a man who was willing to pay over a hundred dollars for an evening in your company mister!”
“Everybody does. He’s the postman.”
“I don’t care if he’s Santa Claus. He had no business trying to take advantage of an innocent woman.”
The amusement that had been bubbling up in Clemmie spilled over. Leaning against a pine tree, she gave vent to the hearty laughter.
Michael didn’t see a thing funny about the situation, except perhaps that he had set out to rescue Clemmie in the first place. A battle-scarred knight in tarnished armor had gone charging up the church steps to deliver her from the clutches of the postman. He had no business being there. If it hadn’t been for that silvery patch of moonlight on Clemmie’s throat he would have turned tail and run. As it was, all he could do was ram his fists into his pants pocket and ache.
Suddenly the laughter stopped. Clemmie reached up and touched his cheek. “Don’t look so fierce, Michael.”
The caress was butterfly soft, but it branded him. “Don’t.” He jerked his head back. “Don’t play with fire, Clemmie.”
“Michael...”
“Why was the postman bidding on your box anyway? Why didn’t he pick on some other innocent woman?”
Clemmie was stunned by Michael’s strange behavior. And she was beginning to lose patience. It was something she didn’t do very often because she couldn’t afford not to be in control, but Michael Forrest had an uncanny knack for getting under her skin.
“What difference does it make to you, Michael? What do you care?”
“Call it a latent streak of nobility. Call it anything you want to. I don’t want to see any man take advantage of you.”
“Mr. Clark would never try to take advantage of me. And he’s certainly never kissed me in the gazebo the way you did.”
“Good.”
“Don’t look so smug. Mr. Clark can be quite charming. In fact, the couple of times we’ve gone out he’s held my hand and... he has his ways.”
He grabbed her shoulders and hauled her close. “What do you mean, he has his ways?”
“Be quiet. They’ll hear you clear at the church.”
“I don’t care if they hear me in Hong Kong. I want to know what Mr. Clark did besides hold your hand.”
In spite of the way her heart was hammering, Clemmie gathered her courage. She thrust her face right into his and glowered. “You have no right to know.”
“I’m making it my right.” He released one of her shoulders and caught her face. “Tell me, Clemmie. Did he try to seduce you?”
“St. Peter’s britches!”
“Did he?”
She struggled, but it was no use. She was no match for Michael. “You’re the only one who has ever tried to seduce me. And the postman was a very long time ago.” Her face flamed and his expression softened. “Are you satisfied? Now will you let me go?”
He held her a moment longer, caressing her face with his hands, calling himself a million kinds of fool. At last he spoke. “I’m sorry, Clemmie.” Releasing her, he stepped back into the shadow of the pine. “I had no right to question you.”
“It’s okay, Michael.” She placed her hand on his arm.
But it was not okay, he told himself. What he’d done was rude and overbearing, and her quick forgiveness made matters worse. Nothing about this evening was the way it should be. The pleasant warmth that seeped through him at her touch was not all right. The strange urge to pull Clemmie into his arms and hold her, merely hold her, was dangerous.
Ah, but her touch felt so good that he almost gave in. Then the voice of reason spoke to him. Hadn’t he known enough heartache in his lifetime? Hadn’t he learned from the lessons of the past? No matter how women were packaged—sweet and innocent like Clemmie or stunningly erotic like Hubbard—they always spelled trouble.
He brushed her hands away and stepped back. Clemmie looked so vulnerable in her prim little dress. So confused. So heart-breakingly innocent. He’d already broken all the rules with her, but no more, he vowed.
He’d not embarrass her further by leaving her alone with her dinner box, but neither would he act like some demented suitor.
“I paid a thousand dollars to see what’s in that box. Let’s eat.” He pulled off his coat.
“Here?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind I’d rather not socialize with the church crowd tonight.” He spread his coat on the pine needles covering the ground. “You can sit here.”
A wave of tenderness washed over Clemmie. Michael’s afraid, she thought. And in his own way, vulnerable. He didn’t want anyone to discover he wasn’t the tough guy he pretended to be.
She sat down on his coat and watched him squat beside the dinner box. When he lifted the lid, the smell of fresh gingerbread wafted up to them. The grin of delight on his face made her feel good. A man’s smile hadn’t made her feel that way in a long, long time.
“You brought gingerbread.”
“Yes. I hoped you would come.”
“Why, Clemmie?”
“Because I like you, Michael.”
“I’ve done nothing to deserve your regard.” He studied her in silence, taking secret delight in the way the moonlight kissed her skin, marveling at the tenderness he felt for this innocent, exotic woman. Finally he tore his gaze away from her, lifted the gingerbread boy out of the box and deliberately bit off its head. Next he ate the arms and legs. He had to prove there was no significance in the gingerbread boy. When only the body was left, he said, “And I don’t plan to do anything to deserve your regard. So beware, my darling Clementine.”
“When my brothers are troubled, they deliberately do something to make me believe they are bold and brash and carefree. What’s troubling you, Michael? Perhaps I can help.”
Since his grandmother, no one had cared what was troubling Michael. For a moment he was tempted to confide in Clemmie, then he regained his senses. Tender traps were the worst of all.
Laughing, he reached into the box and brought out a fried chicken leg. “I’m no longer that little boy who could be won over by his grandmother’s gingerbread.” He bit into the chicken almost savagely. “I suppose in your profession you are tempted to practice amateur psychology.”
“Sometimes I do listen to my boarder’s problems. But I don’t call it psychology: I call it friendship.”
He felt lower than a grub worm. Affecting a debonair smile, he tweaked her cheek. “Give me inches and I take miles, offer me your friend
ship and I take your body, too.”
“Well...” Hesitating, Clemmie looked deep into his eyes. Then, taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead, “...that might not be such a bad thing.”
Michael tossed the fried chicken into the box and grabbed her shoulders. “Listen to me. You can’t go around offering yourself to men, especially not men like me. What is the matter with you?”
“I’m twenty-five.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Romance is passing me by, Michael.”
“A tumble in bed with a stranger is not romance.”
“Well, it’s not canned pickles, either.”
“Canned pickles?”
“And canned tomatoes, and canned green beans and canned squash. Sometimes I feel as though I’m putting little bits of myself into jars to store on the pantry shelf. I don’t want to sit on the shelf forever.”
At that moment Michael wished he were a knight in shining armor instead of a tarnished, jaded Don Juan.
Leaning down, he tenderly kissed her cheek. “You won’t, Clemmie. Someday the right man is going to come along and discover what a treasure you are. Until then—” his eyes held hers for a moment, then he released her “—let’s eat our fried chicken.”
Michael ate his dinner as quickly as possible while deftly steering the conversation away from personal things. They talked of politics and music and theater. Clemmie accepted the situation with grace and wit and charm. When he bid her goodbye, patted her on the cheek and thanked her for the dinner, she was smiling.
Her smile haunted him all the way back to Brady’s Boarding House. After parking the car under the pines, he gripped the steering wheel and sat staring at the house. Clemmie would be back soon, and he knew he couldn’t spend another night in the same house with her. That was too much temptation for any man to bear.
With a muttered curse he started the car and headed west on Highway 78 toward Tupelo. There was certain to be a good piano bar where he could listen to the blues and forget. In a city that size he’d probably even have his choice of night spots. If he tried hard enough he could block Clemmie from his mind with a couple of glasses of wine and plenty of heartbreaking blues, then he’d check into a motel.
