Crooked Hearts

by Patricia Gaffney

  She was pretty sure he wasn’t joking. She took a taste, mulled it over, swallowed. “Yes, I see what you mean. And maybe a hint of misanthropy? Beneath the resourcefulness, I mean. And beyond that, a tendency to make snap judgments.”

  He stared down into his glass, arrested, actually thinking it over. His laugh when he got the joke was appreciative, but mostly surprised: it really had never occurred to him that his wine pronouncements might sound odd to a layman.

  Sliced chicken on biscuits was an underrated delicacy, Grace decided, hunting in the basket for a third one. Not having eaten anything since before noon might have something to do with her judgment, but even so, the meal was delicious. She and Reuben ate with gusto, silent and purposeful during the first two sandwiches, talkative during the third, recounting the evening’s highlights and dissecting poker hands. Reuben was almost as knowledgeable about seven-card stud as he was about wine, and had lots of hints and suggestions on how she could improve her play. She took them in good part, feeling mellow, and entirely too pleased with herself to take offense at the note of male superiority in his voice. “Tell me your life story,” she invited, dabbing at crumbs on her lips from the last bite, and refilling their glasses herself. “Where were you born?”

  He stuck his feet up on the table and stretched an arm out along the back of the love seat in her direction. He didn’t touch her, but she was aware of his hand behind her shoulder, just resting there. “In Virginia,” he answered readily, “on a plantation near Richmond. Sweetbriar, it was called.” His voice softened nostalgically.

  “Really? You’re from the South?” Somehow it didn’t fit.

  “Yep.”

  “Were you born before or after the war?”

  “During—1862, smack in the middle. My father had freed all his slaves years earlier, but when the war came he felt duty-bound to fight for his homeland. He rose to the rank of colonel—Colonel Beauregard Jones,” he said proudly “—but he was killed in ’62 at the battle of Malvern Hill.”

  Beauregard Jones? Hiding her skepticism, she asked in a level tone, “Then you never knew him?”

  “I was conceived on a one-day leave, as he was marching his troops north from Fredericksburg to Richmond. He died four days later.”

  “How terrible,” she hazarded, in case it was true.

  “A year later, the Union army burned Sweetbriar to the ground.”

  She shook her head pityingly. “Your poor mother.”

  “Yes. She … wasn’t a very strong person. When the war was over, rather than lose everything instead of almost everything, she married a Yankee carpetbagger named Cramer. I don’t blame her—at least, not anymore. We were starving; he was rich. Son of a bitch owned the town bank. He took over Sweetbriar and restored it—that was something.”

  “But?” she prodded when he hesitated. The strain of bitterness in his voice made her narrow her eyes and stare at him.

  “But …” He stopped again, and she found herself laying her hand lightly on his outstretched arm. “But I hated him. And I was scared of him. I saw him slap my mother once—I was four, maybe five years old. When I tried to stop it, he hit me, too. Broke my collarbone.”

  “Reuben!’”

  “She started staying in her room all the time. When I was about eight, I found out what she was doing in there.” He looked away. “To this day, I can’t stand the smell of bourbon whiskey.”

  She frowned, and removed her hand. “But you drink bourbon whiskey. You keep it in your sock drawer.”

  He heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes, as if he were weary. “What made you so cynical, Grace?” he asked sadly. “Tell me your life story.”

  “Finish yours first. What happened next?”

  “What happened? My mother lived for four more years in an alcoholic haze, then had a stroke and died. When I was thirteen, I ran away from home and never went back. I took odd jobs at first, moving west. At sixteen, I fell in with bad companions, and finally it dawned on me that hard physical labor wasn’t the only way to make a living.”

  If it was true, it was a very sad story. Grace pitied the little boy who had never known his father, whose stepfather had frightened and abused him, and whose mother might as well have abandoned him.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t help recalling that this was exactly the way he had made her feel—softhearted, anxious to comfort him—the night he’d told her how Edward Cordoba had lost his sight, rescuing passengers on the burning ocean liner.

  “You’re saying you walked away from a life of wealth and ease on the plantation so that you could take odd jobs and work your way west? No offense, but that doesn’t quite sound like you, Reuben. I think you’re leaving something out.”

  His smile was wistful. “You’re right, I am.” He took a deep breath. “My mother was hardly cold in her grave before Cramer moved a woman into the house. ‘Housekeeper,’ he called her. Her name was Clarice, and she had the biggest …” He trailed off, but his hands had already sketched the noun. Big, indeed. “She gave me a surprise present on my thirteenth birthday.”

  “Oh, what could it be,” Grace said sourly.

  “Yes, well. When my stepfather found out, he almost killed me.”

  “And that’s when you ran away?”

  He nodded. “He’d never adopted me, so no part of Sweetbriar would ever have come to me anyway, even if I’d stayed.”

  Now she believed him. “Poor Reuben,” she said softly, touching a fingertip to the warm inside of his wrist. “It must’ve been very hard.”

  He twisted around to face her. “It wasn’t so bad,” he denied bravely. “Thanks for listening, Grace. I don’t tell that story to many people.” When he reached for her hand, she didn’t pull it away; she let him hold it, and he stared down at her fingers as if they fascinated him, stroking his smooth thumb over her knuckles in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “You’re a very kind woman,” he murmured. His downcast lashes threw long shadows over his handsome cheekbones.

  “Not really,” she said, rather breathlessly.

  “I think you are. Gracious and lovely, and very, very kind.”

  Where his thumb was stroking had become the most sensitive spot on her body. She let him lift her hand to his mouth and press a soft kiss on her fingertips. His lips were warm, faintly damp from wine. The moment stretched to the far side of friendship and a few seconds beyond; if it had gone on any longer she’d have ended it herself—surely she would have.

  But if nothing else, Reuben Jones had timing. He let go of her hand and gave her a gentle smile that had a melting effect on her insides. “Tell me about you,” he said intimately. “Tell me everything.”

  Lord, it was tempting. He was tempting. The unaccustomed urge to tell the truth warned her that she was in danger. She stood up, needing the distance, and made a business of pouring more wine, even though she didn’t want it. “Well,” she began, one hand on her hip, face turned up to the sky. “I think I’ll start at the end instead of the beginning.”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “First of all, Henri is really my second husband.” She darted a glance at Reuben; he looked dumbfounded. “It wasn’t a love match—at least not at first. He’s quite a lot older than I am, and in recent years he’s become a semi-invalid. His heart, you know.”

  “Mm, yes, you mentioned that.”

  “Over the years I’ve grown extremely fond of him, but the real love of my life was my first husband, Giuseppe.”

  “Italian fellow?”

  “Mm, from Venice. He was a count—that’s like an earl,” she put in helpfully—”but he was practically penniless. He’d come to California to make his fortune.”

  “How did you meet? In a gondola?”

  “I was seventeen, living on my father’s big cattle ranch on the Mad River in Humboldt County.”

  He sat up straighter. “How big?”

  She sent him a look. “Not quite as big as the Cordobas’ ranchero. But big enough. My mother …” She hesitated a littl
e too long.

  “Your mother—?”

  “Died,” she said flatly. “When I was ten.” And that was as good as the truth. Her mother had dumped her with detestable strangers and vanished—wasn’t that the same as dying? No, it was worse. “So then it was just Daddy and me. I met Giuseppe at a fancy dress ball in San Francisco,” she fabricated, “at the Baldwin Hotel. We fell in love instantly. He exaggerated his fortune to my father, who was a wonderful, softhearted man—he spoiled me terribly—and after a lot of wheedling and persuasion, Daddy finally consented to the marriage.” She hid a small, ironic smile, thinking of all the times in her wretched childhood when she’d fantasized a loving father who spoiled her. She moved toward the love seat and sat down again.

  “And?” Reuben crossed his legs and turned toward her, chin propped on his palm.

  “And we were married. We were wildly happy for six months, It was the loveliest time of my life.” A tear welled in her eye. A genuine tear; it surprised her so much, she blinked it away before he could see it.

  But he did see it. He reached out and touched her cheekbone, just for a moment. The look in his eyes—amazed and moved—told her that until this second, he hadn’t believed a word she’d said.

  “Even before we married, Giuseppe had begun to invest in the stock market. After the wedding he began to invest more heavily, only now he was using my father’s money.”

  “So he was a crook?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. But he was determined to make good. He desperately wanted me, and my father as well, to be proud of him. Then …” She let a hand rise and fall in her lap. “Then it happened. The stock market crashed—this was in 1883—and Giuseppe lost everything. The ranch, the cattle, the house—he’d put them all up as collateral, and in one day everything was gone. He couldn’t face us.” Her voice faltered. “He killed himself. He stuck a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

  No, he hadn’t. But if she let herself think about how poor, sweet Joe had really died, she might start crying again. Which would add a nice touch of realism to this story she was spinning for Reuben’s benefit, but it wouldn’t do a thing for her peace of mind.

  His strong arm around her shoulders felt warm and natural. She kept her head bowed and didn’t encourage or discourage him, just took all the pleasure she could from his comfort until his light pats on her far shoulder softened to slow strokes, and then sensuous little circles. That felt much too good.

  “So,” she said, stiffening her spine.

  “So,” he echoed, removing his arm.

  “So my father and I moved to a tiny house on the edge of what used to be our land. Henri Rousselot was an old friend of Daddy’s; he owned a small vineyard in the Russian Valley.”

  His ears perked up. “Really? A vineyard? How many acres?”

  “Small,” she said shortly. “Anyway, when we lost everything, Henri was one of the few people who didn’t abandon us. After Daddy died—of a rattlesnake bite three years ago—Henri asked me to marry him. I’d always liked him. I said yes.”

  Reuben was rasping his fingers across the whisker stubble on his chin, thinking. “But I thought Henri was an entrepreneur,” he reminded her. “I thought Henri was the one who taught you how to cheat at cards, among other things.”

  “I never said that.” Had she?

  “Well, who did? Is Henri a confidence man or a vineyardist?”

  “Both,” she answered, pleased with the simplicity of the solution. Besides, it was almost true. “He’s both.”

  He blinked at her, assessing that. “What made you decide to become Sister Mary Augustine?”

  “Oh, that’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  She shrugged. “We need the money. Henri has to stay home because of his heart. He needs an operation, so it made sense for me to—”

  Reuben cut her off with a loud bark of laughter. “He needs an operation?”

  She scowled at him, pretending to be appalled by his insensitivity. But his laughter was too infectious; after half a minute, she gave in and joined him. “All right,” she admitted, grinning, “no operation. But business is bad. The vineyard’s small, and for the last two years the crop’s been very disappointing. We’re in danger of losing the land. We need a lot of money, and we need it soon.”

  He nodded, in sympathy with that. “But why a nun, Gus?”

  “Why not? I went to a convent school when I was a girl”—which was sort of the truth—”so it was a natural disguise. Don’t you think I was good at it?”

  “I think you were downright beatific.”

  His unabashed admiration disconcerted her again. She basked too much in his praise, she couldn’t think why, and she was going to have to watch it. “Why were you a blind man?” she countered. “It couldn’t have been so people would give you money—you weren’t poor enough. In fact, you made a point of letting us know how much of a gentleman you were.”

  “Truthfully, it was an impulse. Purely spontaneous. I didn’t have any plan in mind except to make the trip go faster and maybe have a little fun. Didn’t even know I was going to do the English accent until it came out of my mouth. I’ve done Spanish and Italian before, but never English. I thought it was a bit of all right, eh, what?” He gave her a nudge, laying the accent on thick.

  His cockiness was irritating, especially when she thought of how completely she’d swallowed the hook—and then flapped around on the bottom of the boat like a sunfish, as Henry would say. “Right,” she mumbled, and started to rise.

  He detained her by taking her wrist and draping it around his neck, at the same time he slipped his arm around her waist. Their knees bumped.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The last two words were muffled by the pressure of his lips on hers. She couldn’t claim total surprise; when men looked at her the way Reuben had been looking at her tonight, she knew what they had in mind, and kissing was usually the least of it. She closed her mouth and sat perfectly still, waiting for him to lose interest—her favorite method of discouraging ungentlemanly advances. It rarely failed, besides being so much more dignified than a vulgar physical struggle. Her eyes were open, so she knew when he opened his; she thought she saw amusement in the light brown depths—not at her but at the situation, possibly even at himself. She found herself begrudging him a tiny smile. His eyes softened even more. He said her name, then began pressing soft, slow kisses along the closed crease of her lips. At the moment she started to enjoy it, she turned her head aside.

  He rested his forehead against her temple; his slow, deep breaths on her cheek tickled her skin. “Why did you come back tonight, Grace?” he whispered. “You could’ve caught the late ferry and been halfway to Henri’s loving arms by now, sixteen hundred bucks richer.” His lips nipped at her cheekbone; she faced him again to put a stop to that.

  “Don’t you believe in honor among thieves?”

  “I’m starting to.” He tilted his head and kissed her full on the mouth.

  She countered this time by drawing her hands up between them, using her forearms for a shield. The taste of wine lingered on his lips, not sweet any longer, almost tart. He sampled her taste with his tongue, and pronounced it, “Mmm, sweet,” in a low, appreciative murmur that stirred her, made her breath catch. The hand he was stroking along her exposed throat dipped lower and lower until, for the space of one heart-stopping second, he caressed her breasts. Desire slammed into her with such suddenness, such violence, she caught at his wrist and dragged it away—and was instantly sorry. He had her head back against the top of the love seat, trying to coax her mouth open with his tongue. Feeling safe because she had both of his wrists now, one in each hand, she let him nibble her lips apart.

  A mistake. His kiss was long, thrilling, and intimate; the fact that she was allowing it proved, if she’d wanted proof, that he was even more dangerous than she’d thought. He was sucking on her tongue, which he’d somehow coaxed into his mouth; she felt like the main dish at a hung
ry man’s banquet. Then it switched, and it was his tongue in her mouth, soft and curious, slow and suggestive. She liked it much too much; she could feel her self-control slipping away, like water through her fingers … or like clothes, a petticoat, sliding down her hips and then down her thighs … A vision flickered behind her eyelids like the one that had kept her awake last night—of naked bodies, Reuben’s and hers. And of his strong, clever hands gliding so slowly over her skin. How long had it been since anyone had touched her like this? Years. “Reuben,” she said, amazed at how sweet his name sounded in a whisper, with their lips touching, their mouths tasting.

  “Grace,” he whispered back. He sounded similarly entranced. Then he made a mistake. He pulled one of his captured hands out of her laughably weak grip and slid it between her thighs.

  A kiss was one thing; an uninvited feel was another.

  Clamping her knees together, she pulled her mouth away and commanded, “Unhand me, Mr. Jones, I’m a married woman.” She didn’t say it with much ire; she was only just remembering it herself, after all. And if there was one thing Grace wasn’t, it was a hypocrite. “Unhand me, I said.” Hazily, she wondered why she was talking like a heroine out of Sir Walter Scott.

  “I would, Gus, if you’d let go of me.”

  She realized she’d trapped his hand between her legs. Releasing it hastily, she shot to her feet.

  She had no idea how the right shoulder of her gown had gotten pulled down halfway to her elbow. She tugged it up jerkily and swatted a loose coil of hair out of her face. “That wasn’t what I came out here for,” she assured him, despising the silly quaver in her voice.

  “Me either. Sometimes those spur of the moment impulses work out pretty damn well.” He was trying to look cocky. But he’d drawn one foot up and braced it against the edge of the seat, leaning forward, both arms wrapped around his knee. She suspected why, but averted her eyes rather than check to see for sure. It was a comfort to know that, for all his seeming negligence, his voice didn’t sound very steady either.