Honey and Smoke

by Deborah Smith

  “You really like to plan your moves, don’t you?”

  “I plan for every possibility and stay alert for any sign of vulnerability in the opposing force’s defenses.”

  “What if your operation fails?”

  “Then I resort to Plan B.”

  “What’s that?”

  He merely smiled, tipped his hand to his forehead in a salute to a valiant foe, then pivoted and left the bus. He didn’t know Plan B himself, but there had to be one.

  Betty ducked into the back of the parlor for just a minute after her preparations were finished in the next room. Irma Bryson, seventy-nine, and Lawrence Kent, seventy-five, were married in a quiet, pretty little ceremony that left Betty in more turmoil.

  The sight of wispy Irma clutching a bouquet of carnations against her purple dress and stalwart Lawrence clutching Irma’s hand against the jacket of his old blue suit filled her with poignant happiness. The sight of Max gently and solemnly marrying the elderly couple filled her with confused tenderness. How could this man, with his deep capacity for caring, reject the ultimate expression of it for himself?

  She left the parlor and went to the reception room, where her heated serving trays were lined up neatly on a long banquet table that paralleled one wall. Handsome straight-backed chairs lined the opposite Walls. The polished pine floor was dotted with beautiful old rugs. Opaque white wall sconces filtered light upward, and a chandelier of dewdrop crystals hung from the high ceiling.

  The room offered old-fashioned dignity. Max offered modern convenience. Was there a middle ground where they could meet? She went behind the serving table and poked aimlessly at a pan of chopped barbecue chicken.

  She studied the punch bowl that sat on a separate table near the end of the barbecue line. Next to the bowl was a magnificent two-tiered sheet cake covered in pink roses and inscribed “Irma and Lawrence—Much Happiness.”

  Betty admired Max’s taste in wedding cakes. He was both generous and kind.

  “Smells wonderful!” a portly gentleman called, tromping into the room. “Irma and Lawrence just finished their smooching. Now we can get everything set up.”

  “Set up? What?”

  Intrigued, Betty watched him carry a giant boom box to a claw-footed table in one corner. He plugged the tape player in, then inserted a cassette he took from a shoe box. When he punched a button, Big Band music filled the room.

  “Benny Goodman!” he shouted, grinning as he snapped his fingers to the swing beat. He rolled up the rugs and pushed them against the far wall.

  A lanky, handsome woman with blue-gray hair sailed into the room carrying a big grocery sack. “I’ve got the punch!” Lucille Clooney hefted milk jugs from her paper sack. From them she poured a light-purple punch into the bowl. “Grape Surprise,” Lucille told her, smiling. “I only make this about once a year, but I’m sure famous for it. I know you’ve heard about my good Grape Surprise punch already.”

  Betty hesitated, decided that a white lie was justified for making a nice old lady happy, and nodded. “People tell me there’s nothing else like it.”

  Lucille chortled and tucked the empty milk jugs under the table. A few seconds later people began crowding into the room, led by Norma. Max brought up the rear, with two delicate, bent little ladies holding his arms.

  Immediately he looked toward Betty. Streams of desire ran through her at the way his eyes sought her out and absorbed her greedily. As he escorted the ladies to chairs he patiently measured his long stride to their tiny ones, but after he helped them to their seats, he pivoted and strode through the crowd toward Betty’s serving table.

  She found herself clasping a long-handled spoon to keep her hands still. His black boots made heavy, commanding sounds on the wooden floor, and his big-shouldered body moved with mesmerizing grace under the dashing black suit. It dawned on her that he looked more like an elegant Old West gunfighter than a country judge.

  He stopped directly across the table from her and finally pulled his gaze away long enough to glance at the line of serving pans. “You did it,” he admitted. “I apologize for doubting you.”

  His admiration warmed her to a troublesome degree. She wanted him like the sun wants to shine, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, let herself have him. But she could smile at him and revel in his compliment. “Have something to eat,” she offered. “There are ribs, and chopped chicken for Sandwiches, and Brunswick stew; coffee, iced tea—”

  “I’ll save mine for later.”

  “This sample would be on the house.”

  He shook his head slightly, green eyes amused as they held her attention. Behind the amusement was something darker, a reckless promise he wanted her to share, a wildness that could be hers if she would only agree.

  Their strained, silent communication was broken by the sudden arrival of a dozen more people, who hadn’t attended the wedding. Irma and Lawrence posed in a corner, having their pictures taken by a friend with a camera. They waved to the new people and called for them to come over.

  Max turned slowly and stared at the newcomers in dismay. Betty hid her smile behind a hand. “Your plans went awry. We must have thirty people here. It’s a good thing I always bring extra food.”

  She knelt and began checking covered pans filled with cole slaw and baked beans. “They’re going to clean me out.” Already people were lined up at the table’s end, and the first had begun piling sliced pickles on his plastic plate.

  Some of the elderly people were frail; none were wealthy, judging by their clean but worn-looking finery. But all seemed to be anticipating a wonderful evening, and their eyes gleamed as they looked at dinner.

  Max grumbled under his breath but leaned over the table and whispered to her. “I want this bunch to have a great dinner and a great time.” He sounded regretful, but determined. “So use all the food you brought. Don’t put anything aside for our dinner. You’ve escaped a skirmish, at least for tonight. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  Betty’s mouth popped open in surprise. Disappointment cut into her teasing mood. It made her realize that she’d been looking forward to their dinner despite her resentment. “I … well … how do you like steaks?” she blurted.

  He was clearly astonished. Then he arched a brow. “Cooked.”

  “Good choice. I have two or three T-bones in the bus’s refrigerator.”

  “I have some gnarled baking potatoes that aren’t too far gone.”

  “I’ll provide the beef, and you provide the spuds. How about that?”

  “Fantastic.” He looked at her with so much pleasure that she sat back on her heels and smiled at him foolishly. Puzzlement crept into his expression. “Why the change of heart?”

  She quickly brought her smile into a neutral range. With a shrug she said, “You’re a nice man. I don’t want you to miss dinner.”

  He was silent. Then, “You’re a nice lady. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me anymore. I really would like to be your friend.”

  He spoke without any hint of teasing. Betty was so touched that affection poured into her like water filling an empty vessel. I’ve been looking for you all my life, she told him silently.

  She dropped her gaze to a pan of biscuits under the table and pretended to scrutinize them. “Then I’ll be comfortable.”

  “Good.”

  People began coming down the line, serving themselves from the trays and pans. Already they were murmuring about the barbecue’s delicious aroma, and when several taste-tested bits of it, they exclaimed with appreciation.

  Betty stood. “I have to go to work now,” she told Max softly, hating to end their conversation.

  “You work. I’ll watch.”

  He reached for a piece of barbecue, but a wizened, grinning lady interrupted him. She thumped one of his thick shoulders. “Care to dance, boy?” Someone had turned up the volume on the boom box. The matron winked at Betty. “Can I swipe him from you?”

  “I give you permission,” she said quaintly.

 
; The woman peered at Max. “Can you shake a leg to this old music?”

  Max drew himself up and looked at her with mock amazement. “I’m Bartram Templeton’s son. I can dance your shoes off.”

  She giggled and wagged a bony finger at him. “You’re just as smooth as your daddy was. But you behave, now. I’m too old to do anything but dance. Come on.”

  Max laughed and led her away. Betty turned toward the line of people and busied herself checking the food. He’s his father’s son. Don’t forget that, she reminded herself.

  The food was gobbled up within an hour, and only the birdlike appetites of some of the guests let Betty’s supplies stretch to accommodate everyone. She had a ball talking to the people and listening to their excited compliments, but she was exhausted by the time they finished eating.

  She hadn’t worked hard enough to be so tired. No, she was drained from the tension that always simmered inside her when she was around Max. Before she began cleaning up, she took some time to feast on the sight of him dancing. He moved with a grace that belied his brawn; he laughed often, the sound distinct and luxurious above the music.

  And after he removed his long coat, she glanced around the room and noticed that age made no difference when it came to ogling a handsome man. Many bifocals were adjusted so that Max’s physique could be studied discreetly.

  “Sugar, you look so pooped, you deserve a reward,” the punch lady said.

  Betty tore her gaze away from Max and smiled at Lucille, who held out a glass cup filled with Grape Surprise. “Why, thank you.” She took the cup, hiding her reluctance. After having suffered through a pudgy adolescence that extended well into college, she’d vowed to stay slender. These southern-style punch drinks were little more than sugar and water. She loved them.

  Betty took a swallow. The mixture had a pleasant sharpness to it that was different from any punch she’d tasted before. She looked at Lucille curiously. “Lemon juice?”

  Lucille hooted. “That’s it. Lemon juice.” She winked, then wandered away, her own cup of punch swaying in her hand.

  Betty took another swallow. This stuff was great. Barely sweet. She could indulge without too much guilt. She tipped the cup back and downed the contents.

  Suddenly she decided that she was too warm. Drinking more punch would cool her off. She sauntered over to the bowl, filled the cup again, and sat down in a chair by the punch table. She took several hearty swallows from her cup while she watched the dancers. She began to grin and tap one foot to the beat. Big Band music was marvelous. Lord, she’d never enjoyed herself so much. She decided to buy a whole collection of Benny Goodman music.

  Rats. Her cup was empty again. The prissy things were so small. She reached over and dipped it into the punch bowl, then tilted her head back and gulped the punch in one long swallow. Immediately she refilled the cup.

  Four cups of punch in five minutes. Lord, she was being a pig! Betty thumped the empty cup on the table and stared at Max, who was bebopping with a woman who could have doubled for Grandma Moses. Betty let her gaze wander over him. She sighed in appreciation.

  Suddenly all the blood in her body rushed to one area, throbbing, aching inside her veins. Why was she resisting him? She couldn’t remember. She wanted to ask Max to please, please dance with her. A slow dance. She wanted to rub against him and slide her hands down his long, tapering back to the tight mounds of his rump.

  She chuckled hoarsely. She’d grab him! But then she’d apologize by gently rubbing circles on those hard, flexing muscles, while she nuzzled his neck. It was so warm in this place!

  She fanned herself and continued indulging her fantasy. She’d stroke her hands over those big, lean thighs, too, holding him close to her, so close. She shut her eyes and imagined exactly how hard he’d feel and how good. Wouldn’t it be fun to turn this fantasy into reality? She’d get up right now and go to him.…

  Betty jerked her eyes open in alarm. These thoughts were getting out of control. What was wrong with her? She had to start stacking her pans and trays. Yes. Whew! Her stomach felt a little strange.

  No excuse, she told herself sternly. Work. Up and at ’em. Nobody was ever going to call her a pampered little fat girl again. Betty rubbed her forehead, confused. No one had called her that in years.

  She planted her hands on the table and bounced to her feet. A strange thing happened. Her knees tried to kiss each other. Someone had stolen all of her bones.

  Staring down into the bowl of purple punch, she dimly recalled feeling this way once or twice during college. At sorority parties. Betty gasped. “I’m drunk,” she said aloud. The horror of her situation sobered her a little. Her heart beating wildly, she looked around to see if anyone had heard. But everyone was dancing. It hurt her eyes to watch them, so she quickly looked away, blinking rapidly.

  Reputation. Ruined. Not cool. Walk outside and hide in bus. Make straight line to door. Move slowly. Move … feet. Smile. Don’t stagger. Forget smile. Too much to coordinate.

  She managed to leave the reception room without bumping into anything or anyone. In the foyer she went to the front door and squinted at the door knob, then put one hand on it experimentally. Damned complicated thing.

  “Betty? You all right?”

  Norma had come down the hall beside the wedding parlor. Now she stopped. Betty swayed. “What’s in that punch?”

  Norma gasped softly. “Don’t you know?”

  “Uh oh. Bad news. Can you … can you turn this doorknob for me?”

  “Wait here. I’ll get Max.”

  “Okay.”

  Norma hurried away and Betty fumbled with the door knob until it turned. She found her way onto the veranda and down the steps to the lawn. The cool night air cleared her head a little. She wandered around the lawn, looking up at the night sky, enjoying the stars.

  She heard heavy footsteps on the veranda. Then they softened. She turned toward them unsteadily. Max crossed the lawn to her and grasped her under the elbows. He was a large, dark, comforting shape. “Earth to celestial navigator,” he said solemnly. “Are you off course?”

  She clutched his shirtfront. Abruptly she felt foolish and afraid. But it was all right to tell Max. She could tell Max anything. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “How many cups of punch did you have?”

  Slowly she held up one hand. “Pick some fingers. Four, I think.” She grabbed his shoulders and tried to shake him. “I didn’t know, Maximilian! I didn’t know. It all happened so quick. Zoom! Boom!”

  “You drank four cups of punch one right after the other?”

  “It was good punch!”

  “Oh, babe,” he said sympathetically, and drew her into a deep embrace. She burrowed her face against his chest and made snuffling sounds. He stroked her hair. “That punch is a local tradition. Everybody knows about it.”

  “ ’Cept me.”

  “I thought someone had told you. It’s made with moonshine. A lot of moonshine, carefully disguised.”

  “Agggh.”

  “Be happy. I think you’ve set a record. I can’t recall anyone drinking that much that quick and still being able to walk. You’re one tough lady.”

  As he finished, her knees buckled. “Bye-bye,” she said solemnly as she began sliding down his torso.

  Chuckling, he bent quickly and picked her up. “Relax. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Okay.” She patted his chest. “Good ol’ marine.” She tilted her head back, dug her fingers into his string tie, and gave it several jerks. “Don’t let anybody see me like this. Don’t. I’m so afraid. What would they think? My work. My reputation.” She emphasized each word by tugging at his string tie.

  He coughed and said in a strangled voice, “Let go of my tie. Put your hand in your lap. Yes, like that. Thank you.”

  “Hide me.”

  Max chuckled. “Mind if I carry you up to my house and have my way with you?”

  She flopped an arm over his shoulders. “Go ahead. No problem.” He was only te
asing. But she could hope, couldn’t she?

  Six

  Having a code of honor was hell. Max reflected on all the times in his life when he’d refused to take advantage of women who had imbibed a little too much for their dignity’s good.

  His motives hadn’t been entirely selfless—when he took a woman to bed, he wanted her to remember him in glorious, crystal-clear detail the next morning. Rejecting what was recklessly offered hadn’t always been easy, but he’d never regretted doing so, and he’d earned a lot of morning-after gratitude from embarrassed women with hangovers.

  None of those women, however, had been Betty Quint. Right now, with Betty’s taut, round hips snuggled against his outer thigh and her back curled against his side, he wondered if his honor could stand the challenge. Max rubbed his cheek on her rose-scented hair and shifted his arm on the back of the couch to curve the hollow of his shoulder closer to her.

  His arousal became a torment. He propped his sock-clad feet on a black coffee table of oriental design and stretched a little, wishing that he had traded his black marrying suit for the accommodating comfort of sweatpants and a long-tailed football jersey.

  Obviously unaware of the sublime pain she was causing, Betty munched potato chips loudly, then sighed, “Hmmmm.”

  The sensual sound made Max shut his eyes in dismay. He nuzzled her hair. “You’re enjoying your dinner, I take it?”

  She wiggled her bare feet against a pillow on the sleek black couch and hiccuped softly. “Love the food. Love this place. What a surprise you are, Maximilian. You’ve turned this sweet old country house into a lovely samurai warrior’s den.” She leaned her head back on his shoulder and chuckled. “You need a geisha.”

  “Oh, I’d rather have you, instead. A female samurai.”

  She growled fiercely. “I’m tough. Gimme a sharp charge card, and I’ll leave a trail of destruction through Neiman-Marcus that you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I can’t picture you as the type who cut her teeth on a silver spoon. That kind of woman usually wants to be pampered. You seem to thrive on hard work.”

  She crunched another potato ship and nodded fervently. “When I turned eighteen, my parents kicked me out of the nest and told me to fly or fall.”