The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel Book 3)

by Alison Kent

  He started to smile, held back, and asked, “That’s it?”

  Wasn’t it everything? Oh, wait! The best part!

  She jumped to her feet, spun in a circle until dizzy from the stars, then stopped and climbed into his lap. With her knees straddling his thighs, she cupped his face in both hands and lowered her mouth to his, whispering against his lips, “I love you, Oliver Gatlin. I love you with all of my heart.”

  INDIANA

  The night Robby Hunt decided I hadn’t been serious the times I told him no, I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. The incident on the side of the garage had been only one of my several aborted seductions. The most intimate. The most confusing because of how I wanted to pretend it had never happened, and how I wanted more.

  I can’t imagine I was the only girl to ever face that conundrum. Because here was the thing. Boys would be boys. But girls? We had to deny becoming sexual beings.

  We couldn’t explore or discover our own changing bodies without labels or censure. God forbid we be allowed to misbehave, or be studs instead of sluts, or earn extra heartthrob points as word of our conquests hit the streets. No one wanted a girl with experience, one adept at what she was doing, yet everyone wanted a boy who knew his way around.

  Robby didn’t know his way around any more than I did. We’d both received our sexual instruction from movies and books, from exaggerated locker room tales, and learned our moves from the same. Those lessons had been dosed, of course, with hormones and imagination, and liberally so. That’s why my heart skipped several beats when it was Robby who came into the kitchen that night, who pulled the pizza from the oven with a dish towel.

  Who then moved to stand behind my chair, his fingers brushing my shoulders as he gripped the frame. “Homework?”

  “Algebra.” I closed my eyes and tried to slow my dead-giveaway breathing, but it was hard to do with how crazy-fast my heart was beating. We’d been here before, in this place where he wanted to touch me, and I wanted him to touch me, but never with my brothers so close.

  He trailed his fingers along the chair back to my neck, through my hair, then leaned down and rubbed his mouth to my ear. It was wet, his breath hot. I wanted to like it, and in a way I did, but all I could think about was Dakota or Tennessee coming down and catching us.

  It was when Robby slid his hands down my arms, his thumbs skating along the edges of my breasts, that I decided to move. And he decided not to let me. To wrap an arm around me and hold me to the chair. To dip his free hand into my shirt, then beneath my bra. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there before. It just hadn’t happened in a brightly lit kitchen.

  And it wasn’t going to happen in this one. I was not going to risk being discovered. Before I could make that clear, however, he used the barrier of his one arm to scoot me and my chair from beneath the table. I didn’t even get a chance to stand. He flung his leg across my lap and straddled me, his weight, though slight, enough to keep me in my place.

  I think he liked that, me being trapped, helpless—though I wasn’t really; I was the only thing stopping me from calling out—my chest rising and falling, my eyes, I’m sure, quite wide. I figured he was testing some sort of limits, and any second would let me go. I doubted he’d want to be busted holding me down should either of my brothers come to check on the food.

  I was wrong on all counts. And he was stronger than I’d realized.

  He reached behind me and pulled open the kitchen door. Then he grabbed hold of both of my wrists and stood, kicking the chair away and dragging me outside. The only thing I could think to say was, “The pizza’s getting cold.”

  “The pizza will keep. This won’t.” Then he stuffed the dish towel into my mouth, and brought my hands shackled by his to the front of his jeans.

  I didn’t know what he was thinking. That I was going to willingly have sex with him outside? With both of my brothers upstairs? But it became clear pretty quickly that my being willing didn’t play into his plans.

  No matter how hard I fought, he held tight, and my wrists felt as if he were crushing them. The bones grinding. The skin burning as he twisted this way and that. I stumbled backward, hoping to fall, to bring him with me.

  Surely he’d have to let me go to catch himself if I tripped him. But I was wrong about that, too. He landed on top of me, and he pinned my wrists over my head with one hand. With his other, he worked open his jeans. And when I finally wanted to scream for real, I couldn’t.

  But I struggled. Oh, I struggled. Sliding around beneath him, kicking with my feet, pummeling him with my knees, bucking with my hips, though since I was still wearing the track pants I’d put on after volleyball practice, fighting back wasn’t such a good idea.

  The fabric stuck to the grass as I squirmed, and I nearly wiggled myself out of them. My heart pounded so hard I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t grab for my waistband because he’d made certain I couldn’t use my hands.

  He liked that, too. His grin was twisted. His eyes wicked with glee. And he laughed when he rubbed against me, his penis thick and full and sweaty. This was not the Robby I’d crushed on. The Robby who’d been my girlfriend.

  I didn’t know who this was, or why he was hurting me, and I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs: Stop! Get off me! What’s wrong with you? If my brothers don’t kill you, I will! But wasn’t this all my fault for leading him on?

  And that’s when I heard Dakota call Robby’s name. And I heard the word pizza. Thank goodness Robby had left the back door open when he’d dragged me outside. I couldn’t decide whether to warn him or wait. It didn’t matter. He heard, releasing me and jumping up, then backing away as he jerked up his pants and ran.

  I couldn’t even move. I listened until I heard his car start, his tires screech on the pavement; then I finally managed to get rid of the dish towel, to fix my pants and sit up.

  I swiped at my hair; it was a tangled mess of grass and dead leaves. My nose was running, and I could feel the smear of snot I left when I wiped it with my sleeve. I didn’t think I was crying—it didn’t feel like I was crying—but my eyes were watering, and my face was wet. It was too much to hide, so I didn’t.

  Dakota was standing in the doorway when I came back in. Tennessee was cutting the pizza. “Indy, what the hell?” Dakota asked, stepping back as I pushed inside. But then he grabbed me by the arm and looked me over, as if making sure I wasn’t broken or bleeding, before looking at Tennessee and saying, “Robby.”

  “I’m fine. I’m okay.” I wasn’t either, but I would be. I just wanted to get back to my algebra, but Dakota was pacing the kitchen, his hands fisted, his face taut with rage. “I knew it. I knew it. That piece of—” He cut himself off, but under his breath cursed Robby, words I couldn’t make out. Words I didn’t need to. I understood.

  Then he stopped and walked to the door where a baseball bat leaned in the corner. He picked it up. He popped it against his palm. He looked from me to Tennessee. My heart was racing when Tennessee nodded, and when Dakota nodded, too, my stomach tightened. I thought I was going to throw up. But I didn’t say anything. I stood there while he made the decision. And then, along with Tennessee, I watched him go, too shocked to consider the consequences of what he had planned, too numb to stop him, and somewhere deep inside, rooting him on.

  I wanted Robby to pay, to hurt. He’d betrayed our friendship. He’d broken our trust. Yet a part of me was convinced that I’d brought this on myself. Encouraging him, teasing him, tempting him. Yes meaning yes, and sometimes no meaning yes, too? How could he be blamed when I was sending mixed signals?

  Tennessee and I were still sitting at the kitchen table when an hour later Dakota came home. I hadn’t touched my algebra. Tennessee hadn’t touched his pizza, or asked me what had happened. He hadn’t needed to; wasn’t it obvious? But he’d stayed with me the entire time, and I’d never been so happy not to be alone.

  Da
kota didn’t say a word when he walked through the door. He set the bloodied bat back in its place and headed upstairs, cranking the volume on his stereo to full blast. The cops arrived at our house close to midnight. Our parents had returned earlier from the function they’d been tied up with. And that was the end of life as we’d lived it in the Keller household. The end of everything normal I’d known.

  How many girls, how many sisters, could say without a doubt that their brother would go to prison for them? I’m not even sure I knew Dakota would until he did. Look out for me, sure. Tell me what to do, most definitely. Give me a hard time about my taste in movies, and music, and clothes, oh yeah. Brotherly things. He was good at brotherly things. But to literally put his life on the line in my defense? Without hesitation? No second thoughts? Because he loved me and as wrong as it was, it was the right thing to do?

  I hope I would’ve made the same sacrifice for him.

  A maiden in her glory,

  Upon her wedding-day,

  Must tell her Bees the story,

  Or else they’ll fly away.

  —RUDYARD KIPLING, “THE BEE BOY’S SONG”

  INDIANA AND OLIVER

  —ALONG WITH THEIR FAMILIES—

  INVITE YOU TO WITNESS THEIR EXCHANGE OF VOWS AND TO ENJOY A BUZZING CELEBRATION OF LIFE AND OF LOVE.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2014

  3:00 P.M.

  THE GARDENS ON THREE WISHES ROAD

  GENEROUS FOOD, DRINK, AND LAUGHTER TO FOLLOW

  EPILOGUE

  Indiana got married in her cowboy boots, though she doubted anyone noticed. Her dress had come from the same tony Austin boutique that sold Luna’s Patchwork Moon scarves. It was the yellow of whipped butter, barely yellow at all, and the softest Indian cotton she’d ever encountered, with a fitted bodice, snug cap sleeves, a scooped neckline, and a lacy handkerchief hem that reached just below her knees.

  Apple’s Flowers & Gifts had been given free rein to decorate the lot on Three Wishes Road. Butters Bakery, in concert with Two Owls Café, catered the event, with next to no instructions from Indiana. All she wanted out of the day was Oliver.

  Kaylie was the one who’d insisted Indiana would later regret not having a public ceremony. Kaylie and Merrilee Gatlin, though Merrilee made it clear she would’ve preferred the couple use Second Baptist Church where she and Orville attended worship.

  Indiana mused with a bit of melancholia that it would’ve been nice to have her parents there, but getting back into rural China after getting out would’ve cost them a fortune emotionally, physically, and monetarily. They’d wired her cash instead.

  How Kaylie managed anything with a five-month-old demanding her attention, Indiana didn’t know, though she imagined Mitch and Dolly helped as much with the food as they did with babysitting Georgia May.

  Indiana had her brothers and the Gardens on Three Wishes Road and the cottage demanding her attention. And Oliver. So much time with Oliver. She didn’t care about invitations or registries, so she gladly let Merrilee—who had unexpectedly volunteered, an olive branch Indiana assumed and gladly accepted—handle those.

  Neither did she care about cake flavors, but learned through Kaylie that Oliver had insisted Peggy Butters and Gail Apple use a citrus-flavored and citrus-colored theme. She couldn’t imagine how he’d known of her love for grapefruits and limes, until she thought back to that first breakfast they’d shared at Malina’s, those two cups of Earl Grey tea, her chattering on about Ruby Reds and bergamot. The fact that he’d listened. And not only listened, but paid attention. And remembered.

  She’d been unaccountably nervous that morning, a dirt-digging Keller breakfasting with the silver-spooned Gatlin heir. Then he’d ordered biscuits and gravy to go with his upper-crust tea. She’d probably fallen a little bit in love with him then. But she was completely in love with him now.

  Standing beneath a cloudless blue sky, and an arch festooned with ribbons of orange and yellow and green and grapefruit pink—not summer pastels but the vibrant shades of zest and ripe fruit that brought her mouth to water—her hands in Oliver’s as he held her gaze, she thought it truly possible that one could die from happiness. No part of her body was working as it should; all she knew was Oliver’s voice.

  “I saw you for the first time one year ago today. I think I said ‘Excuse me’ as I walked by, but the rest of the things I wanted to say I held back. Instead, I watched you. I wondered about you. And when a few days later I looked out the window and saw you standing across the road from here, I knew my life would never be the same.”

  His hands on hers tightened, and as he brought them to his lips to kiss, his expression grew more solemn, and the world around them narrowed and faded away until nothing else, no one else, remained.

  “I didn’t know what I was looking for until I found you. I didn’t know I was looking for anyone at all. I didn’t know what it meant to be in love. To want more for another person than I want for myself. To feel that need so deeply I can’t separate it from the rest of who I am.

  “You make me who I am because of who you are. I love you, Indiana, and with you I’ll always be my best.”

  Behind her, Indiana heard Kaylie, her maid of honor, catch back a sob, and had no doubt that if she glanced to where her brothers, having both walked her down the aisle, were seated side by side in the row of chairs designated for family, their eyes would be as red as Oliver’s, and filled with the same joyous tears as her own. Even Orville Gatlin, serving as his son’s best man, was not unmoved, his head bowed, his fist to his mouth as he struggled for composure.

  And then it was Indiana’s turn. She knew by heart the words she was here to recite. She’d practiced them when harvesting green beans and summer squash, when pruning away sunbaked vines and leaves gone as brown as dirt. She’d refined them when celebrating seeds taking root, when transferring starter plants to their permanent homes, when unable to resist biting into a tomato fresh from the vine.

  “One year ago today, you brushed by me in a crowded room. The feel of your arm against mine lingered for hours. I wished I’d introduced myself, that I had a reason to look you up, to call you. And when a few days later I sensed you at my side, I was certain that every dream I’d ever had for my future was about to come true.”

  A tear slipped past her lashes, over her cheekbone, and down to her jaw. Oliver’s hold on her fingers kept her from reaching up to wipe it away, and she brushed her lips to his knuckles before going on.

  “Finding you was like having the final piece of my life’s puzzle click into place. I’d given up on that happening. Like giving up on a missing sock, or a lost earring. Or never knowing what happened to a note you wrote yourself, one guaranteed to make the rest of your days the best they could possibly be.

  “I can’t imagine them being any better than this. I didn’t know being this happy was possible. But that’s because I didn’t know you, Oliver. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of knowing you like no one else.”

  After that, rings were slipped onto fingers, the words husband and wife spoken, a kiss to put all other kisses to shame shared while loved ones cheered and whistled. Indiana could barely keep her feet on the ground as she and her husband—her husband!—hurried down the grassy aisle, where Oliver finally tugged her to him, and lifted her, and twirled her around and around and around . . .

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur of well wishes, and congratulations, and large bills slipped into her hand, which she then slipped into Oliver’s pocket with the ones he’d been gifted. Ten seconds after accepting a peck on the cheek or a hug, she couldn’t have said for certain who had offered one, who the other. She wanted to leave, to find out the surprise of where Oliver was taking her, to know where they’d be spending their first two weeks as husband and wife.

  Husband and wife. The two of them. Alone. Together.

  She could not wait.

 
; But there was dancing to be had, very little of it, sadly, with Oliver, and conversations to engage in, again sans her man. He was always there, however, catching her gaze, walking by and brushing against her, touching his fingers or his lips to her bare neck, sending shivers to coil like a spring at the base of her spine, in the pit of her belly, deep between her legs. She wanted to strip out of her clothes and crawl into bed, onto cool sheets, onto him.

  She could not wait.

  Husband and wife. The two of them. Alone. Together.

  “Can we go?” she asked him scant moments later, having tugged him away from a circle of faceless men. Oh, she supposed she knew them all, had spoken to them all, would recognize them all given time to care, but she didn’t. Not now when only Oliver existed.

  He nuzzled his cheek to hers, the ends of his hair and the shadow of his beard tickling, and whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you to say the word.”

  Her chest swelled. Her stomach clenched. “I would’ve said it hours ago if I’d known.”

  “Then we’ll have to work on you reading my mind.”

  “I have a few other things I’d like to work on first.”

  “Ah, see? You’re catching on already.” And then he kissed her, bringing his mouth hard to hers, his lips, his teeth, his tongue sliding deep, toying and playing and mating with hers, tempting hers, his hands on the swell of her bottom urging her close when she didn’t need any urging at all.

  In her lifetime she could never get as close to him as she wanted to. Skin to skin, limbs entwined, impaled . . . None of it would be enough. How had she ever lived without knowing this fullness, this completeness, this sense of being more than she could ever be on her own?

  True love, this love, was of poets and musicians and artists who didn’t need words.

  “You ready for this?” her husband asked, and she nodded, not caring at all what he meant by this. She was ready for anything, for everything. She was ready for life to be an utterly brilliant adventure, perfect and blissful and wild because Oliver would make it so.