When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

  He wanted her as he’d never wanted another person in his life. She was child-woman, provocative innocence, chaste seductress, virginal wanton.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  “Go screw yourself, Max.”

  “Ruth! Must you be so sharp-tongued?” Margaret Anne opened the top button of her blouse and patted at the perspiration on the front of her chest with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Yes. And my claws are even sharper than my tongue. Perhaps you should warn Uncle Max.”

  Max laughed. “You’re still as feisty as you were when I first saw you on the beach thirteen years ago, Ruth. I’m glad to see that some things never change.”

  “Oh, I’ve changed, all right. You saw to that.”

  “Pay her no attention, Max. She doesn’t understand gratitude.”

  “It’s not gratitude he wants from me, Margaret Anne.” Spots of anger rouged Ruth’s cheeks, and her eyes shot fire as she swung toward him. “Is it, Max?”

  “No. I’ve come to claim what’s mine.”

  He opened a box and spread its contents on the coffee table—an exquisite silk dress. White, befitting a virgin. A shaft of sunlight gleamed on the string of pearls he arranged at the neckline.

  “You’ll wear it in Paris.” His eyes raked Ruth from head to toe. “And when we return, these will be yours.”

  He took a set of car keys from his pocket and dangled them from his fingers. He didn’t have to say more. She’d seen the Thunderbird in the driveway.

  In spite of her anger, Ruth could not hide her excitement. He saw it in the widening of her eyes, in the way her tongue flicked out and licked her bottom lip.

  Victory was within his grasp. He could see it, feel it, smell it, taste it.

  “Three months, Ruth,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking. Your summer vacation. And when you return, the Thunderbird convertible will be yours.”

  He swung the keys back and forth, watching her. Without warning Ruth shut down. One minute she was a teenager drooling over a new sports car, and the next she was the child-woman he’d seen in New Orleans, the one whose face told nothing and whose iron control belied her tender years.

  With great deliberation she set her cat on the floor and her books on the sofa. Then she picked up the box and left the room, Miranda tagging after her.

  Max jiggled the keys in his hands. Nervous. All because of a fifteen-year-old.

  “Ruth!” Margaret Anne called after her. “Come back here.”

  A door somewhere in the back of the house slammed. Margaret Anne shrugged her shoulders.

  “She’s impossible.”

  “No. She’s just high-spirited.” He glanced in the direction Ruth had disappeared. “I wonder what she’s doing?”

  “Thinking over your offer, I would imagine. What teenager could resist that car?”

  He remembered how she’d been at the age of two. Stubborn. Independent. Determined.

  “Ruth ,” he said.

  “I have to admire her spunk. Even if she does drive me crazy. Tea, Max?”

  “Yes. I might as well do something while I wait.” He would have gone after any other woman and enforced his will on her. But with Ruth he was different, had always been different. He wanted more than her body: He wanted her soul.

  Silently, Margaret Anne prepared his tea. He diverted himself watching her small ritual, the way she crooked her little finger outward while she poured, the way she pursed her lips while she measured the sugar. She was still an extremely attractive woman.

  Her perfume wafted over him as she set his teacup on the coffee table. Her scent, the gardenias that bloomed outside her cottage in the summertime, would always remind him of the Deep South. Something akin to regret passed over him.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Max.”

  “Just remembering.”

  Her smile was knowing. “I’ll go to Paris with you, and it won’t cost you a car.”

  “You used to drive a harder bargain than that, Margaret Anne. What’s happened to your spirit?”

  “Adversity has a way of wearing the spirit down.”

  “Don’t let it wear you down. I need you to be strong.”

  “Why? You don’t require my presence in your bed anymore.”

  “To take care of Ruth.”

  To her credit Margaret Anne didn’t show any anger. Max had always admired her ability to handle herself like a lady. He felt a stirring of feelings bordering on respect.

  Lifting his teacup, he studied her in silence. Suddenly he stiffened.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Smoke drifted under the door. In the hallway the fire alarm blared.

  “Good grief.” Margaret Anne started from her chair, covering her heart with her free hand.

  “What the hell ...”

  Max’s cup clattered against the saucer as Ruth walked through the door carrying a large copper pot. Trails of smoke and the stench of something burning filled the room. Without fanfare she set the pot on the coffee table in front of him.

  Her eyes mesmerized him. They were black as the pits of hell and just as full of fire.

  This slip of a girl, this mere child, was challenging him. Maxwell Jones.

  In Hollywood dozens of grown men all but bowed to him when he walked into a room. Scores hung on his every word. A few hated him and plotted his downfall. But nobody defied him the way Ruth Bellafontaine did.

  She made him feel alive in a way that no other person could.

  Smoke curled between them. If he hadn’t been a civilized man, he’d have ripped aside her clothes and taken her on the floor.

  “Ruth ... what in the world?” Margaret Anne approached the pot cautiously. Standing on tiptoe, she peered inside. The silk dress lay on the bottom of the pot, charred beyond repair, and the cultured pearls had been reduced to their beginnings, tiny glass beads scattered among the folds of the ruined dress.

  “Your dress ... and the pearls. Oh, my God, the pearls.” Spots of color burned in Margaret Anne’s cheeks. “Those beautiful gifts. How could you? Any woman in the world would be proud to wear them ... and you burned them.”

  “Why don’t you wear them, Mother? Sackcloth and ashes might be a nice change of pace for you.”

  Max had always been partial to drama. He couldn’t have enjoyed a spectacle more if he’d planned it himself.

  It almost made up for his disappointment.

  He leaned back on the sofa, picked up his cup, and took a sip of cold tea.

  “I take it this means you’ve declined my offer.”

  “You take it right, Max. I’ve already fulfilled my bargain with the devil.”

  Ruth turned on her heel and marched from the room, her head high and her hips swaying in the unconsciously provocative manner of a woman born to love.

  Max smiled. He had patience and power, an unbeatable combination. It might be years before Ruth would be his, but she was worth the wait.

  Chapter 11

  She knew the names they called her. Miss High-and-Mighty. Stuck-up. Ice Princess.

  The last thing Ruth wanted was to be talked about. All she wanted to do was blend in with the crowd, pass through the rest of her school years unnoticed so that she could get out of her mother’s house, get out of Oxford, and start a new life.

  In the meantime she had the present to deal with. And Wanda was no help at all.

  “Charles is nice. So are Bill and Fred. And Jimmy’s asked you twice. You’ve got to go to the dance with somebody, Ruth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ... if you don’t go, you’ll miss all the fun.”

  “Going with one of those clowns would be about as much fun as going to the dentist.”

  “So suffer. But you’ve got to go.”

  “You keep saying that, Wanda.”

  “Everybody’s talking about you, Ruth.”

  Ruth retreated into silence. Wanda shifted her books from one hip to the other, then kicked a soda can lying on the sidewalk. She ha
d reached her full height at fourteen, while Ruth continued to shoot up like a weed. Now, at fifteen, Ruth was a good head taller than Wanda, with every indication that she would be even more so.

  What Wanda lacked in stature, she made up for in grit.

  “If you don’t go, I won’t go.”

  “Okay.”

  Wanda heaved a big sigh and tried again.

  “You’re the prettiest girl in school. You could have any boy you want.”

  “I don’t want any of them.”

  “You’re just being stubborn.”

  For a moment Ruth considered telling Wanda why she didn’t want to go to the dance, why she didn’t want to go anywhere with any boy. “Do you remember the week I stayed at your house?” That’s how she would start the conversation, and then the rest would come tumbling out and Ruth wouldn’t have to carry the guilty secret all by herself anymore.

  A robin hopped off the sidewalk and began tugging at a worm in Mrs. Bingham’s yard. Spring had come again. The season of promise.

  Suddenly Ruth felt lighthearted.

  “Do you remember ...”

  “Did you hear ...”

  Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, they looked at each other and giggled.

  “You first,” Wanda said.

  “No. You.”

  “Okay, but you’re going to just die when you hear this. Absolutely die.”

  “Wanda!”

  “Promise you won’t tell a soul.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Wanda leaned close and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Mary Love Struthers is doing it with a married man. Meeting him twice a week at a motel in Tupelo. Doesn’t that just gross you out? Everybody’s calling her a slut.”

  A weight descended on Ruth’s chest, and the sun faded. One moment she’d been standing on a sidewalk in the midst of a row of charming antebellum homes, and the next she was plunged into the dark, secret world of Maxwell Jones.

  “Ruth ...” Wanda caught her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just a little dizzy. It’s my ... my period coming on.”

  “Here.” Wanda shoved her books into Ruth’s hand. “I’ll run in and ask Mrs. Bingham for a glass of water.”

  “No!” Ruth hadn’t meant to scream, but there it was, hanging between them, a scream of guilt and rage and shame, the scream she’d held in for two years.

  Max should have been the one she’d screamed at. And Margaret Anne. Not her best friend.

  There was only one thing Ruth could do to make up for it.

  “I’m sorry, Wanda. Forget about the water. Let’s just go to your house so we can plan what we’ll wear to the dance.”

  Chapter 12

  The school gymnasium had been converted into a dance hall. Colored balloons and crepe-paper streamers hung from the rafters, and a red carpet sprinkled with glitter led from the doorway to the refreshment table.

  Margaret Anne had wanted Ruth to wear white, but Ruth had insisted on red. Now, standing at the edge of the dance floor in the midst of all the pastel gowns, she was glad she had.

  “Gosh, Ruth. You’re the best-looking girl here.”

  Her date, Fred Gruber, had a long, earnest face, big ears, and a cowlick that wouldn’t stay down. She’d chosen him because he was shy and had seemed the safest pick of the bunch.

  “Thanks.”

  “You look ... uh ... exotic.” Stretching his long neck, Fred tugged at his tie.

  “Thanks.” What did boys and girls say to each other?

  “You must ... uh ... have some ... uh ... Cherokee blood.”

  “Yes.” Ruth had no idea whose blood ran through her veins. Silently, she damned her mother.

  “Do you want to ... uh ... dance?”

  No. Standing close together. Bodies touching.

  Ruth wiped sweat from her face with the back of her hand.

  “Ladies don’t sweat, Ruth.”

  Her mother. The lady. The slut.

  Fred was staring at her. Had she said something aloud? Oh, help. Just let her dance one dance and get it over with. Then she’d say she had a terrible stomach virus and had to go home.

  “Let’s dance,” she said.

  Ruth braced herself, but she wasn’t fully prepared when he slid his arm around her waist. Shivers ran through her, and she stiffened.

  Fortunately, Fred didn’t notice. He pulled her into the middle of the crowd, then stepped back and began to move with a loose-jointed grace that surprised her.

  Fast music. No touching. The beat slid under Ruth’s skin and thrummed along her veins.

  “Hey ... Ruth ... you’re great.”

  She could do this. She could survive. Relief made her feel generous.

  “Thanks, Fred. So are you.”

  All the numbers in the first set were fast. Somebody up there must be watching over her, she thought. While they were cooling off with a glass of punch, she promised herself that she’d show her gratitude by saying her prayers every day and going to church even on the Sundays the choir didn’t sing.

  Now that the dancing was over, she and Fred were back to the awkward stage of not knowing what to say to each other. Wanda and her date rescued Ruth by stopping by to chat.

  One by one the muscles along the back of her neck began to relax. Gradually, she found that she could laugh without trying and even put together a witty statement or two that had everybody else laughing.

  Wanda dragged her off to the bathroom for girl talk.

  “Isn’t it great?”

  “It’s kind of fun,” Ruth said, and really meant it. Maybe she was normal, after all. Grinning, she laced her arm through her friend’s. “Let’s go back out there and dazzle them.”

  Fred was waiting for her by the punch bowl. He had ditched his tie and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt. The grin on his face made him look like a friendly puppy.

  “Let’s go outside a minute and cool off, Ruth,” he said.

  Alone with Fred in the dark. She couldn’t do it.

  The band had started playing again, something slow and bluesy. On the dance floor bodies merged, clung, swayed.

  Going outside seemed the lesser of two evils.

  “Okay.”

  Fred offered his hand, but she didn’t take it. Outside, the stars were so bright, they looked as if they’d been polished by a host of angels, then spilled across the sky. The beauty caught in Ruth’s throat, and she gazed upward, speechless. A stout spring wind stirred the swings nearby, setting the wooden seats asway and causing the chains to creak.

  “Hey, you want to swing, Ruth? I’ll push.”

  In the swing she felt like a child again. The wind ruffled her hair and carried her laughter upward while Fred pushed her so high, she could almost touch the stars.

  A sense of tranquility filled her. She could live under the stars forever, a child of nature, innocent and free of the dark chains that bound her. The wind stung her cheeks and blew her tears back into her hair.

  Higher and higher the swing carried her. Dreams she’d thought were dead came to life again, dreams of music and beauty and harmony. Someday, somewhere, she’d find the place of her dreams. She’d take Miranda, then get lots and lots more pets, and there would be nothing but joy and kindness and love in her life—real love.

  When Fred stopped the swing and came to stand in front of her, Ruth looked up at him, exhilarated, laughing.

  He moved so fast, she didn’t see it coming. Suddenly he was on her, pressing her back against the hard wooden seat, trapping her between the heavy chains.

  “Stop it, Fred.”

  His breathing was heavy against her ear, and his hands were everywhere.

  Who would hear her if she screamed? Where would she go if she ran?

  She clenched her hands so tight, the chains bit into her flesh. Flinging her head back, she saw the stars watching her shame.

  “Man, I just knew under all that Ice Princess stuff you’d be li
ke this.”

  Ruth let go of the chains. A cloud passed over the moon, and Fred closed in on her, panting, his mouth open and his eyes watery.

  Aiming for his eyes, she raked with both hands, fingers stiff, nails bared. His howl of outrage was muffled by the fist she slammed into his mouth.

  Shoving as hard as she could, she came out of the swing. Freedom was only a few steps away.

  He caught her skirt as she raced toward the gym. “Ruth, what the hell’s got into you?”

  She heard her skirt tear as she jerked out of Fred’s grasp. Then she was off and running. Not toward the gym. Not toward the crowd. With her skirt in tatters, she couldn’t face them.

  Her house was two miles away in the dark. Using all her reserves of energy, she sprinted toward home.

  “Ruth ... come back here.”

  Footsteps behind her. Fred was following. She was a fast sprinter, but what would happen if he caught her?

  She stopped and faced him, fists doubled, chin thrust out.

  “If you come one step closer, I’m going to scream as loud as I can.”

  Fred stared at her, hesitant. There was blood on his cheek where she’d scratched him.

  “Run away, cock teaser. See if I care.”

  She bent over and scooped up the biggest rock she could find. “If you take one more step, I’m going to hit you right between the eyes.”

  His steps slowed and his grin faded. She drew back her arm and wound up. Anybody who had seen her pitch on the baseball team in elementary school knew her aim was deadly.

  “Now, Ruth ... don’t get your panties in a wad.”

  She’d won. The trembling started in her legs, but she bit down hard on her lip.

  “And if you ever tell, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you.”

  “Okay ... okay.” He held up his hands if he were already warding off her blows.

  She didn’t wait to see whether he changed his mind. Filling her lungs with oxygen, she ran as hard as she could. The familiar landscape was a blur to her. She counted on instincts and habit to guide her in the right direction.

  The smell of flowers almost overwhelmed her—wisteria cascading down the hillsides, azaleas massed along white-columned front porches, dogwood dripping delicate white blossoms onto newly greening lawns.