It wasn’t as though I didn’t get a fair share of odd, tasteless, and altogether unanswerable mail dropped on my desk, but these particular letters shared a cryptic disposition that was just as impossible to ignore as they were to respond to in print. And I tucked this latest into my desk drawer with all the others I’d saved for no particular reason, knowing I really should just throw them away.
The house felt like a sealed vault–dark and eerily quiet. I opened the Frigidaire, at once annoyed and disappointed Mom hadn’t gotten around to making another pitcher of iced tea. I’d been thinking of it with copious anticipation all the way home–a dozen ice cubes swimming in a tall glass topped with my favorite brew. Breathing out an exaggerated sigh, I leaned my hip against the sink and filled my glass with tepid water from the tap.
On most afternoons it was my mother’s accustomed habit to pop into the kitchen when I came in from work, reporting tidbits of her day, asking about mine, but today she apparently was still outside doing something, or maybe hadn’t heard me come in.
Leaving my unfinished glass on the counter, I thumped up the stairs to my bedroom–ancient wood creaking in complaint of my unkind tread–deciding I would change my clothes before going out to help my mother with whatever it was keeping her from brewing our tea
Halfway up the wooden flight I collided head-on with a wall of stifling hot air caught within the upstairs rooms like a heavy vapor; suffocating heat that left me momentarily breathless. I paused in the second floor hallway, surprised to see the near closed position of my mother’s bedroom door. She didn’t like closed doors anymore then she did drawn shades, her opinion being that such behaviors were marks of a criminal–persons whose shameful habits required sequestering from the rest of the world.
I eased the door open with slow caution, daring a peek into the room. She was sleeping. I stood for a full minute watching the steady rise and fall of her chest with her breathing before slipping back out into the hallway, admonishing myself for being so ridiculously paranoid even as a rush of relief came sweeping over me. Not altogether certain of what I’d been so afraid of finding, just relieved that whatever it was, it hadn’t been there.
In my bedroom, I pulled on my shorts, leaving my skirt in a heap on the floor where I’d slipped it from my hips. I crept back toward the stairs, moving now with studied caution, no longer thundering over the treads, but instead, careful to keep my steps close to the wall in order to minimize the squeaks. If my mother woke before I got away, custom would require I stay and chat with her, but right now there was this other thing in dire need of maintenance. Something I’d carried enough of a distance to know I could no longer support its weight; having come to the conclusion somewhere between climbing the stairs and changing my clothes that I needed to confront Ash, now, before my resolve once again stumbled over its own clay feet and broke away into a million worthless pieces.
Even then, despite the intent tightly clutched in both hands like a buoy keeping my resolution afloat, I felt my decisiveness waiver as I slowly crossed the lawn, finding it necessary to hold my mind squarely focused on my purpose. Ash, we’ve known each other for some time now ... Ash … you and I have been friend–acquaintances ... Ash, it’s time we became friends ...
The barn door stood open as if anticipating my arrival, and I hesitated, unsure now if I was truly prepared to leave the protective warmth of bright sunlight in exchange for the cool deep shadows of uncertainty within.
I felt my heart quicken at the sound of footsteps shuffling across the wide floorboards inside, followed by the scratching swish of the corn broom sweeping up bits of hay and dropped feed; accustomed sounds all at once convincing me my coming here was a huge blundering mistake. If I just turned around – made a dash back to the house right now–there was a good chance I would get away unobserved. And he’d never know–he’d never even know I’d been here.
And yet some essential component betrayed me–one step after the other moving me into the dimness within.
Chapter Thirty-one
Ash stood watching me, his left shoulder resting on the doorframe leading into the cow stall.
“I think this has gotten out of hand,” I began coldly, correctly, nothing like I’d intended. “There’s no need to keep on avoiding each other just because–because of what happened …”
He stood as he had since I’d entered, showing nothing, giving nothing, taking everything in.
“I think … I feel that …” I struggled to finish, at once overwhelmed by an erratic collusion of undefined emotion, my voice sliding off toward near paralysis.
“Stevie,” he said, quietly, precisely, “Do you care for me?”
The stark nakedness of his question landed like a blow between my eyes–startling, impossible. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe, only watched as he stepped closer, his face closed to any particular expression.
“Yes,” I whispered.
And he reached for me then, wrapping strong arms around my quivering shoulders, pressing his face against my hair.
“Ash, I ...” I said in a voice so fragile as to almost not be there. An instant passing, though maybe a lifetime, before he silenced my words; the stark truth and honesty of his kiss crumbling the mountain of heartache I’d built up within myself over all those weeks–all the years–I’d kept him away.
“I’ve waited for you a long time, Stevie.”
I was afraid to speak then, afraid of saying something inane. Instead, I cupped my hands behind his neck, pulling his mouth against mine, kissing him back with a needful hunger to match his own. Kissing him until the sense of urgency that had raged through my system at our initial communion gave way to a feeling of necessary yearning; the essential desire to feel the strength of his back and shoulders under my hands, his breath against my hair, the tender softness of his lips.
“Stephanie,” he said, lifting his head to look at me, lips parting into a slow smile. “I’m not letting you play your games with me anymore.”
I nodded, making no attempt to deny his statement. “Maybe I’m a little tired of playing them,” I said, feeling lightheaded and giddy, fully aware that I was no longer the same person. Every flawed component of my old self changed in the span of an instant.
In the days that followed, as I sat at my desk, elbows deep in problems and assorted discontentments not my own, my mind’s only focus were thoughts of Ash–reviving every cell, every molecule, until it felt as if he were right there beside me. And at night, lying in my narrow bed tucked beneath the eaves, I relived every touch, every kiss, over and over until sleep at last came to carry him into my dreams.
It was nothing less than torturous to amble into the house after I’d returned home from work and pretend that my mind wasn’t filled to overflowing with cravings for Ash.
And while Mom asked about things at the newspaper, waxed poetic over her flower garden, mentioned something a neighbor had said over the phone, I was plotting over the various ways I might successfully slip away unnoticed to find him.
There were moments, quite frequent instants, when it was nearly impossible to believe this tender relationship truly belonged to me, that I wasn’t simply staring longingly through a lens at the doings of a stranger.
I purposely avoided dwelling over what my mother’s reaction would’ve been had she known about the two of us. Because as highly as she regarded Ash, this was something altogether different. Ash was our hired hand. As far as either of us knew, he owned a car and little else. And yet none of that actually troubled me–at least, not then. Our romance was too new, too fragile, to toss into the unsettled waters constituting real life. For now I saw no reason to announce our liaison or present our actions for scrutiny. Surely there would always be time enough for that. The future, I decided, could very well take care of itself.
I’d felt starved all day, just as I did every Monday after a long lonely weekend of separation from Ash. Sometimes I warned myself it was all happening too fast. That a wiser person would’ve steppe
d back and slackened the pace. But somehow I always managed to convince myself that, no, I’d already spent far too many years dragging my heels in trepidation, leaving no room for leisurely caution now.
The sky was an ominous stretch of gray as I sped home that afternoon; the closer I came to the farm, the further the darkness seemed to reach. Ash would be happy for the storm. There hadn’t been rain in weeks and the corn was in desperate need of a good soaking.
Pulling up alongside the house, I was surprised to see my mother’s friend Sylvia waiting in her car, the engine humming at a fast idle.
“Hello, Sylvia,” I called out, walking around to her open window.
“Hi, honey. How’s work?” she smiled, her painted coral lips parting to reveal a remarkably large set of teeth.
“Fine. Taking Mom out somewhere?” My pulse quickened with the immediate prospect of being left at home alone.
“Come on, Libby. We’ll be late,” she called past me, ignoring my question as Mom came out on the porch.
“You can start supper around five-thirty, Stevie,” my mother said, getting into the car. “Everything’s made–you just need to pop it in the oven.”
“Alright, Mom. Are you going shopping?”
She usually went on Friday’s, but I couldn’t think of where else she’d be headed at this time of day, especially with a storm threatening to break at any moment.
“No. I told Sylvia I’d go with her to her doctor’s appointment and keep her company. We shouldn’t be gone long.”
I waved good-bye; thunder rumbling overhead as Sylvia awkwardly swung around her ocean liner of a car in the driveway and headed out toward the highway.
“Peculiar,” I said out loud. Since when did Sylvia need hand-holding from Mom at a doctor’s appointment?
But no matter, my prayers had been answered and I forced myself to slacken my stride as I headed toward the barn, not wanting to appear overanxious if Ash should be watching. I pulled open the heavy plank door, standing on the threshold for an instant, allowing my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness inside.
“Ash?” There was no reply. I took a step forward. “Ash? Are you in here?”
He was nearly always here in the barn at this time of day putting away tools or scooping grain for the livestock. But on this afternoon there was no reply, leading me to guess he was outside finishing up some chore before the rain came.
I turned to leave, immediate disappointment landing like a boulder against my chest.
“Looking for me?” A familiar voice said, moving up behind me; a solid arm wrapping around my waist even before I had the chance to release a startled scream.
“I … no. I was looking for the garden tools.”
“Liar. It’s raining,” he laughed, without loosening his hold.
“It wasn’t when I came in here.”
“Admit it, you were looking for me, weren’t you?” he grinned confidently, effortlessly lifting and depositing me on a spilling loaf of hay.
“Ash–”
He straddled me quickly where I lay on my back in the sweet smelling stack, pinning my hands over my head like a victorious wrestler.
“Let me go.”
“Only if you promise to stay right here.”
“I promise.”
“And–”
“And what?” My blood coursed a lava path beneath my skin as I waited for him to finish.
“Admit you were thinking about me all day,” he demanded, with a smile that was more in his eyes than on his lips.
“Well, I wasn’t. I have a job, you know. There’s other things I have to think about,” I snapped, my old cantankerous self rearing-up without warning.
His grip loosened, allowing me to pull my hands away, and the remorse I felt at my callous reply was immediate and deep. What was I doing? Did I expect him to look anything other than the way he did now, so disappointed–so hurt? I reached out and grasped his arm before he was able to draw away.
“I am a liar,” I said softly, drifting off at once into his blue eyes. “I did think about you all day today ... maybe even the day before … and the day before–”
He bent forward, his mouth putting an end to my confession.
I loved how he never just kissed my mouth, but always he touched his lips against my eyelids, along my jaw, my earlobes, and neck, as though every inch was important and not to be overlooked. And when finally he rolled onto his back to lie beside me, I turned onto my side, gently lulled by the steady patter of rain marching across the barn’s tin roof, cradled by the warmth within.
Studying his profile, I reached out a timid hand to touch his face, my fingers tracing lightly over the skin stretched taut across his cheekbones–his complexion deeply tanned from hours of working in the sun–smoothing back the burnished gold shock of hair that habitually fell against his forehead.
“Ash–”
“Shh,” he interrupted softly. “I’m listening.”
“To the rain?”
“No, you ... I’m listening to you breathe.”
“What do I sound like?”
“Nice.”
“Just nice?”
“Very nice.”
“Ash–” I shifted my gaze away from his eyes, more fearful of his potential answer to my impending question than I was at finally voicing the thing that had plagued me for so many months. “Are you thinking of leaving here?”
“Leave? You mean the farm?”
I nodded.
“No, not really. What makes you ask that?”
“The pamphlets in your car.”
An expression of bewilderment passed over his face, requiring me to elaborate.
“In your glove box–all that stuff about Alaskan pipelines and Brazilian jungles.”
“Oh, yeah, those ... well, I guess I did think about it for awhile. But there were things of greater importance which made it impossible to leave,” he said, and I felt him watching me. “You must’ve seen them the day we went for ice cream, when you were looking for something to tie up your hair. I thought I’d thrown them away,” he said absently, twisting a strand of my hair around his hand.
“No. It was before that.”
“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow.
“That day when it was raining–when I was trapped in your car,” I elaborated, even as I felt a wide swath of heat burning the admission across my face like a newly laid highway of shame.
“You rifled through my personal possessions?” His expression one of amusement rather than annoyance.
“I was curious to know something about you.”
“Then I’m flattered.”
My hair still twisted around his palm, he tugged it gently, drawing me toward him.
“Well then, in the spirit of confession, I’ll admit something, too.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “My car runs fine in cold weather.”
“Your car runs fine in cold weather?” I repeated, searching for the confessional disclosure in his words.
“The night your mother was out of town …”
“When you were forced to sleep overnight,” I finished, feigning shock. “What a dirty trick.”
“That’s nothing, Miss Stephanie. I have a vault full of them.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I know something’s bothering you, so why won’t you just come out and say it?” I pressed, grabbing Ash at the elbow when he attempted to turn away, compelling him to face me. He dropped his eyes, closing his expression without answering.
“I need to finish mending this section.” He wrenched a rotting plank from the fence post and dropped it to the ground. “We can talk about it some other time.”
“You can’t just swat me away like some pesky insect, Ash.”
He hammered the new board into place, pretending as though he hadn’t heard me.
I moved to stand in front of him.
“All right, fine,” he said, straightening, at last turning his attention on me. “Why haven’t you told your mother about us? Is it b
ecause you’re ashamed?”
“No, of course not,” was my immediate vehement reply. Then lowering my eyes, “I can’t yet. It’s not the right time.”
He laid his stare on me directly, his face hidden behind an expression of knowing disappointment. “The right time? And what constitutes the right time?”
“She hasn’t been well lately,” I said, grasping an excuse from the limited selection residing in thin air.
“Oh, I see.” He looked away and began gathering the collection of tools scattered on the ground. “News like this could throw her right over the edge, is that it?” He straightened. “If there’s one thing I expect from you, Stevie, it’s honesty. Don’t try and jerk me around like some empty-headed hayseed,” he finished, offering his back as he turned, trudging through the tall grass as he headed toward the barn.
“Ash,” I called after him. “ASH!”
He continued down the hill.
“I’M AFRAID, DAMN IT. I’M JUST AFRAID,” I shouted, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes.
He stopped then, hesitating for a moment before turning back.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about my family. There’s a lot you don’t–”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about mine. I don’t want your family, Stevie. I want you.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Why must everything with you be a puzzle?”
“Because my whole life has been a puzzle.” I could feel the familiar slow burn of turmoil swelling up from the core of my stomach. He watched me patiently, waiting for me to give him more. “I’m afraid she’ll think I’m like Eleanor–sneaking around behind everyone’s back ... doing things …”
“Eleanor?”
Secret of Lies Page 25
