by Beverly Long
Once Melody was out of the car, the two women hugged and kissed. George took the opportunity to get out of the car. He saw the older woman pat Melody’s stomach gently. Then suddenly, the woman turned to him. “Michael, I presume?” She reached out her arm.
He circled around the front of the car and returned the shake. Her fingers were small like Melody’s and he made sure he didn’t squeeze too hard. “It’s my pleasure, ma’am. It’s Michael George,” he added, sticking to the story, “but I prefer George if you don’t mind.”
She looked him over. “Michael was the name of the first young man who dumped me, left me in the middle of a dance twiddling my thumbs. I think I prefer George myself. And please,” she said, waving her hand, “there’s no need for formality. Call me Grandmother or Pearl, either one is fine.” She smiled at him.
He wasn’t staying long enough to call her Grandmother. “Pearl it is, then.”
The house door slammed and the dogs started barking again. George looked up to see a woman walking toward them. She had hair as black as night and it fell past her shoulders, even longer than Melody’s. She wore a red shirt, red trousers, and a big gold belt pulled tight around her middle.
It made him think of a fifteen-pound pig stuffed inside a five-pound sack.
“So, you made it,” she said.
It had to be Aunt Tilly. He recognized her voice as the one that had come out of the little machine Melody carried in her purse. The woman’s red-painted mouth had a pinched look and he could see the puffiness under her eyes and the skinny blue lines, just under the surface of the skin, zigzagging across her cheeks.
She had the same look he’d seen on cowboys who had their noses too often in whiskey bottles. He supposed she’d been a pretty woman at one time, although her face probably had never had any of the softness that her niece carried so naturally.
Melody stepped out from behind her grandmother. “Tilly,” she said, her voice cautious. “How are you?”
Tilly studied her niece, her gaze coming to rest on Melody’s slightly rounded stomach. “Are you pregnant?” she asked, her voice stiff.
George realized that Melody had been right. The woman was not happy.
“I. . .yes. Um. . .this is my husband, George Johnson.”
The woman folded her arms, pushing her abundant breasts up so high that George feared they might just pop out of her shirt. “Well, George,” she said. “You didn’t waste any time.”
George had learned to read people, everybody from troublemaking cowboys to lonesome saloon girls. This woman was mean-spirited, no doubt about it. “No, ma’am. Didn’t see the need.”
A nasty shade of purple-red crept up her neck. She turned back to Melody. “I thought Mother said you got married on New Year’s Eve.”
“We did,” Melody answered.
“When is your baby due?”
Melody didn’t flinch. “Early September.”
Tilly looked at her mother and smiled but there was no joy there. “Well, I guess it’s true what they say about babies—for most of them it takes nine months but the first one can come anytime.”
He heard the breath leave Melody’s body.
“Tilly,” Pearl said, her voice steady. “I’m going to have a great-grandchild and you’re going to have a great-niece. That’s what we need to be focused on.”
The purple-red crept another two inches higher. “Of course. Congratulations, Melody, George.” She turned, giving them her back. “Bessie said lunch is ready.”
He didn’t think she’d probably come late to too many meals. He looked toward Melody, but her attention was focused on a man coming from the wine shed. He favored his right leg when he walked and his hair was gray. George pegged him at about sixty, give or take a couple years.
Melody met him halfway and she threw her arms around the man. George looked at Pearl. “Uncle Louis?”
She snorted. Took him a bit by surprise, her being such a lady. “That’s Bernard. He’s our winemaker. He’s been here for almost thirty years. We owe much of our success to his efforts. Melody adores him and it’s mutual.”
She hooked her arm through his. “They’ll want to catch up and it’s been a good long time since a handsome young man walked me to my door. Come along. They’ll follow soon enough.”
He did as instructed, being careful to keep his stride short and his pace slow. The woman felt frail on his arm, as if a good, strong wind could blow her away.
When they got to the house, she opened the door of her home with a flourish. If he’d been surprised at the outside, the inside damn near stunned him. It was huge, with fancy wood flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows. There were hanging chandeliers and all kinds of pictures on the walls. She led him through the foyer into another room. The furniture was big and soft- looking and it seemed as if ten people could be in the room and not be crowded. A big black piano sat in front of the bay window and to the left of it were double doors, which led outside onto another porch.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll check on lunch.”
He was glad he’d put on the new, clean clothes. He’d have been afraid to sit if he’d had his old trousers on. He lowered himself down onto the edge of the sofa.
He’d been there less than a minute when an old woman, stick-thin with dark brown hair cut so short she could have been a man, entered the room. She wore a blue dress that dragged on the floor and she carried a black cat in her arms. “So you’re the husband?” she asked, her voice husky with age.
He stood up, feeling off-kilter. Her lips were painted bright orange, her eyes rimmed with black, and she had two yellow feathers stuck behind one ear. “I am.”
“My great-niece is a special woman,” she said. “I expect you know that.”
He nodded.
“Don’t disappoint her,” she said, her voice suddenly hard. “If you do, you’ll have me to answer to.” She bent down and placed the cat on the floor. It walked toward him, its tail high in the air. Two feet away, it stopped and let out a sharp hiss.
“Oh for goodness sakes, Genevieve. Call off your cat.” Pearl stood in the doorway. “The poor man needs a chance to catch his breath. He’s had a journey.” She turned toward him. “George, this is my sister, Genevieve. Melody’s great-aunt.”
Sort of odd. That’s how Melody had described her. It was nice to know that his new wife wasn’t prone to exaggeration. He extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”
She stared at his hand long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then she extended her own thin arm. Her hand was bony and spotted from the sun. It reminded him of. . .
He jerked his hand back. Christ, he’d seen a similar hand not so long ago. It had wrapped around his arm and pulled. She smiled at him and he felt the chill run up his spine. He swiveled toward Pearl. She had her own hand in the air, waving it toward the hallway. Her hand was thin like the rest of her, and it looked very much like her sister’s.
“This way,” Pearl said. “Lunch is ready.”
His stomach growled. Lunch would be the first food he’d had in a very long time.
Aunt Genevieve walked over to stand next to her sister. “Well, George?” she asked, her head tilted to the side, as if in challenge.
The absurdity of the situation didn’t pass him by. He’d faced down bank robbers, cattle rustlers, and more liquored-up cowboys waving their guns than he cared to remember. And he’d never run from any of it. But now, two old women, one sick, the other half-crazy, had him about to tuck his tail under and run for the hills. Or in his case, the damn beach.
He’d never thought of himself as a coward. It wasn’t an appealing picture. He looked them both in the eye. Neither woman flinched nor seemed overly aware of the panic that threatened to overtake him.
Of course not. They’d had nothing to do with getting him here. Any minute now he’d be seeing ghosts in the corners. He squared his shoulders. “I’m looking forward to the meal,” he said. “I appreciate your hospitality.”
�
��It’s our pleasure,” Pearl said, as she walked out of the room. He followed her and as he walked past Aunt Genevieve, she said, “Welcome to the family, George.”
CHAPTER FOUR
When they got to the dining room, there was already a man sitting at the table, a half-eaten piece of buttered bread in front of him. “What a surprise,” said Aunt Genevieve, her voice edgy with sarcasm. “George, this is Tilly’s husband, Louis.”
The man took his time chewing while he looked George up and down. Finally, he swallowed. “My wife tells me congratulations are in order.”
The man had said it nice enough. “Thank you, sir,” George replied. Uncle Louis looked like he could use the extra pounds that his wife was carrying. And with his bald head and fair skin, George bet the thin man took red in the sun. He turned to Pearl. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wash up before we eat.”
She nodded toward the side door. “Through there and then down the hall. It’s the second door on the right.”
George found the way easily enough and slipped quietly into the small room. He’d seen the flush toilets at the store so that didn’t surprise him but the gold handles on the sink took him back a peg. He pulled one forward, then the other, and when the water was warm, he squirted some fancy-smelling soap out of a bottle that sat on the edge of what had to be a marble sink.
Damn, these folks were rich.
He scrubbed his hands. Melody Song’s baby would want for nothing. That is, nothing except a father. He rinsed the soap off and then shut off the water.
He eyed the green towel hanging on the hook and almost hated to get such a fine thing wet. However, since the alternative was his trousers, he reached for the fancy cloth. Once his hands were dry, he reached out and flipped the switch on the wall, the way he’d seen Melody’s grandmother do when they’d entered the dining room.
The small room went completely dark.
He flipped it again. Light.
Back off, then on, and back off again. It was magic and it made him feel like a little child. For the hell of it, he flipped it twice more before he opened the door.
Melody, her arms crossed, her head cocked to the side, stood three feet away, her back against the wall. “Having trouble with the light?” she asked. She pointed to the quarter-inch of space between the floor and the heavy door. “From this angle, it looked like it was flickering.”
“It’s fine,” he said, feeling like a fool. “I wanted to wash up before the meal,” he added, praying that she’d let it go.
“Grandmother and Aunt Genevieve spirited you away before I could introduce you to Bernard.” She stepped a foot closer and lowered her voice. “He’s anxious to meet the man who stole my heart.” She didn’t look happy. “This is harder than I thought,” she whispered. “Are you sure we can pull this off?”
He wanted to tell her that he’d spent the last six months acting, that this was just one more performance, one more lie.
After all, he’d successfully posed as the town drunk while he’d searched for the three men who had raped and killed Hannah. He’d found the first one, already on his deathbed from consumption. That man had led him to Mitchell Dority, the second man, and ultimately to Sarah and John Beckett. Within weeks of arriving in Cedarbrook, he’d watched Dority get shot by an angry father, half-crazy with rage after Dority had raped his seventeen-year-old daughter. The bastard had bled to death before George could question him about the third man.
At least pretending to be Melody Song’s husband gave him something new to lie about.
“Your grandmother seems like a fine woman,” he said.
Tears filled her pretty dark blue eyes and it made his stomach lurch. He hadn’t meant to make her cry.
“I hate it that she’s sick,” Melody whispered.
“I suspect she hates it, too,” he said. “But she’s dealing with it. I think the rest of the family can only do the same.”
“Bernard said that she’s been like her old self these last couple days, every since she heard that we were coming.” She reached out and touched his arm and he felt the jolt clear to his toes. “We can’t let her know that this is a lie. We just can’t.”
She had nice hands. Her nails were painted with a lighter pink than had been on her toes. Even in her trousers, she was so feminine, so delicately built. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Go and dry your tears,” he said. “It won’t do for her to think that you’ve been talking to your husband and that he made you cry.”
She took a step toward the privy but then stopped, her face serious. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t volunteered to come with me.”
“You’d have figured something out,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. If I haven’t said it yet, thank you. I really appreciate everything that you’re doing.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he said and meant it. It was nice to think that she’d been the reason that he’d been pulled forward to this time. That maybe helping her was a chance to make up for the despair and hatred that had consumed him after Hannah’s death. “I’m glad I could—”
“What are you two doing back here?”
Melody jerked back so fast it was a wonder she didn’t knock her head against the wall. George turned and saw Tilly at the end of the hallway, her hands on her ample hips.
“I. . .uh. . .we. . .” Melody stammered.
He turned back toward Melody. Well, she was no good at pretending. No wonder she’d been worried.
She ran a hand through her hair. “I. . .mean, we were just—”
George did the only thing he could think of to shut her up. He kissed her.
It was a brief brush of his lips across hers. It should have meant nothing but when he heard the catch of her breath and felt the warmth of her skin, it made him think about things that he hadn’t thought about in many months. And when she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled him even closer yet, he felt his own skin heat up.
“How sweet.”
Melody jerked away from him.
He looked over his shoulder at Tilly. She didn’t look like she thought there was anything sweet about the situation. In fact, she looked like she’d eaten a sour pickle, and he realized that she didn’t take the trouble to guard her feelings so carefully when Pearl wasn’t around.
“I’m sorry to delay the meal,” he said, embarrassed that his own voice was a little shaky, “but I couldn’t miss the opportunity to spend a couple minutes with my wife.”
“Oh, please. Can we just get this meal over with?”
“We’ll be along shortly,” he said. He stared at the woman until she turned and walked away. Then he turned back toward Melody. She looked pale and she had her hands clasped so tight in front of her that her fingers were white.
“I apologize,” he said. He’d had no right to take such liberties.
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You saved me from myself. I never have been able to handle Tilly. She always seems to know how to push my buttons.”
Push her buttons? He didn’t understand the words but the meaning was clear enough. It made him want to shake the woman for giving Melody even one moment of grief. “Worry can’t be good for your child,” he said. “Just forget about your aunt. I’ll take care of handling her.”
She studied him. “Others have tried.”
“Trust me,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “Maybe more than I should. There’s something different about you, George. Something I can’t quite get my arms around.”
Her arms had felt just about right when they’d been wrapped around his neck. “Nothing much here, Melody. I’m just a man about to enjoy a meal with his wife and her family.”
She didn’t look convinced but nor did she press the issue. She put her hand on his arm and pulled him toward the dining room. “Well, then, we better hurry. It’d be a good idea to get to the chicken before Tilly does.”
***
She had been kissed b
efore. Melody tried to remember that as she passed first the chicken, then the potatoes and the green beans, and finally the fresh-baked bread. With her plate full to the edges, she focused on her food and tried to ignore that her heart was beating too fast and that the tips of her fingers tingled.
Thankfully Grandmother had put George directly to her left. If he’d have been across the table, if she’d had to for even one minute look up and see those eyes and that mouth, she might make a fool out of herself.
It had to be hormones. In the last few months, she’d read just about every book ever published on the topic of pregnancy. All of them said it. Pregnancy caused normally well-behaved hormones to pitch a fit. Well, when she finished eating, she was going to bring her stuff in, unpack her books, and find the one that explained exactly how to get the little renegades back in line.
She maybe could have understood her reaction if it had been a push-you-up-against-the-wall-and-stick-my-hand-under-your-shirt kind of kiss. But it had been sweet. Nice. Gentle.
“Melody!”
She dropped her fork. It clattered when it hit the thick edge of her plate. She looked across the table at Bernard. The man was frowning at her.
Oh, boy. Had he seen that she was practically squirming on her chair? “Yes,” she said.
“Honey, I said your name three times. Where were you?”
Half-way there. And with just a kiss. Amazing. “Just enjoying Bessie’s cooking,” she lied. “What did you say?”
“I was asking whether or not you might be able to help with some data entry—we’re way behind on our computer work. Gino had a girl from town helping but she broke her hand. He’s maybe too proud to ask for help but I know I could use it.”
“Where is Gino?” she asked. Generally, at mealtime, both Bernard and Gino joined the family.
Louis leaned forward in his chair, gave Bernard a deliberate look, and then focused his attention on Melody. “Hopefully making sure those field hands of his don’t wreck anything else.”
