One More Summer

by Liz Flaherty

  She grasped the sides of the ladder. “Be careful. Steven’s not here yet and he’d probably blame me if you tossed yourself off this thing.”

  “Nah. He’d suggest I was clumsy. Of course you and I would know better, but—come here, Rosie, or I swear we’ll have stewed cat for breakfast.”

  Louisa May meowed indignantly from her post at the foot of the ladder. Dillon grinned down at the cat then Grace. “Guess she told me, huh? Ah, here we go.”

  When he reached the floor, Rosamunde jumped from his arms without the slightest show of gratitude. Both cats ran to the shelter of the guesthouse porch, sitting under the table between the lawn chairs and busily grooming each other.

  Dillon folded the ladder and laid it on its side, propped against the wall of the gazebo. “Come on,” he said. “You’re soaking wet and probably half-frozen.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder and found her trembling all over. The zippered front of her sweatshirt flapped with the motion of it. Her face was chalk-white and her teeth chattered uncontrollably. “Gracie?”

  Lightning flashed through the sky. He flinched.

  She whimpered.

  He took her in his arms, folding her inside the coat he wore. “Let me hold you.” He lifted her arms so they would go around his waist and drew her even closer, pressing her against him full-length. “You’re all right,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”

  She shook her head, the wet point at the top of her sweatshirt hood whipping his chin. “N-not here,” she said through clattering teeth. “N-never s-safe here.”

  “You’re with me. Everything’s okay as long as you’re with me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  She stiffened. Dillon felt the tension climb her spine as if it were a rope. Her arms came around between them, and she pushed away with her hands spread and trembling on his chest. “That’s what Papa said.”

  Oh, sweet God, no.

  But he remembered her muttered comment from the night he’d told her about why he hadn’t shown up for the prom. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “Grace, tell me.”

  “No.”

  But she sagged in his arms. When he sought her gaze, what he saw chilled him. Her eyes were dull, glazed, almost drugged. As if she’d gone away, sought refuge in an attic he might not be able to reach this time. He shook her gently, making sure he kept his touch light. “Tell me,” he repeated.

  “No. If I don’t talk about it, I can pretend it didn’t happen. And he said…he said if I told, everyone would know I was bad and that was why Mama died.” Her voice was singsong, her eyes still dim and unfocused. “He said Steven and Faith and Promise wouldn’t love me anymore because besides being bad, I was dirty too.”

  “But you know better than that now.” Dillon tried to keep the fear out of his voice. Come back, Grace. He raised a hand to cup her cheek, rubbing the small glistening scar with his thumb. “You know you were never bad, never dirty. Steven and Faith and Promise will love you no matter what.” He touched his lips to her forehead, her eyelids, her mouth. “I will.”

  Thunder was sudden, loud and sustained, fading away to a rumble.

  “No! Don’t touch me! Don’t do that! Oh, it hurts!” Her voice was nearly a scream, and she struggled to free herself from his arms. “It hurts! It hurts!”

  “Grace, no.” He held her desperately, rocking back and forth. “It’s me. It’s Dillon.”

  She stared up at him. “Dillon?”

  He lowered himself to the floor of the gazebo, leaning his back against its wall, and drew her down to his lap, wrapping the flaps of his coat around her. He held her close, not saying anything. Waiting out the storm.

  “I was twelve.” Her voice penetrated the darkness.

  Although it seemed as though hours had passed, Dillon knew it had been only minutes. He shifted his position, still keeping her close. She didn’t pull away, but the tension in her body was palpable.

  “It was the week after Mama died,” Grace said. Her voice was high, like a guitar strung too tight. “Faith had already gone to Maxie’s and Steven was staying at your house. It was really hot out and Promise and I were going to sleep in the gazebo. But at the last minute, her mom wouldn’t let her come because she was afraid it was going to storm and she didn’t trust us to have the sense to go in the house. She asked me to stay over there, but Papa wouldn’t let me.”

  Grace’s fingers moved restlessly against Dillon’s chest and he laid his hand under hers, allowing but not forcing her to hold on.

  “I came out here to sleep anyway. Papa showed up in the middle of the night. To tuck me in, he said, even though he’d never done it before, and stay with me because the storm was starting. He stared at me for a long time, not moving or talking. Then he started hitting me, saying it was because I made Mama die. He hadn’t hit me in a long time— I think Steven told him to stop. But he did this time. He said since I’d made Mama die, I’d have to do what she wasn’t there to do. He said something about other women, but I don’t remember what it was. In retrospect, I suppose he meant he was tired of getting his goodies from strangers.”

  Dillon kissed the top of her head, weaving his fingers with hers. “Go on.”

  “Don’t make me say it,” she whispered.

  He didn’t want her to say it. He didn’t want to even think it had happened. But his voice betrayed him. “He raped you, didn’t he?”

  She nodded, her head moving up and down against his shoulder, and for a minute he had to concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out. May God damn your soul to eternal hell, Robert Elliot.

  “I had splinters from the floor all the way from my shoulders to my heels and there was blood all over me. The thunder was so loud I thought it was going to come through the roof.” A humorless little chuckle vibrated against him. “I thought I was dying. Wished I was, maybe.”

  “Did you tell anyone?” He rasped, then cleared his throat. God, he hadn’t known, hadn’t suspected even though he should have. He should have. What the hell kind of dragon slayer are you, Campbell?

  “Promise found me here in the morning and hauled me home to her mother. Mrs. Delaney wanted to take me to Doc Bridges but I went so crazy she took me to a clinic in Johnson City instead. They made sure I wasn’t pregnant or diseased or permanently damaged—physically, I mean.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the police?”

  “I begged her not to. Even then I knew it would be bad for Faith and Steven if I did, and I didn’t want that. Promise’s mother was raised in the hills, though, where they took care of justice in their own way. I never knew what she said to Papa, but when she visited him, she had Mr. Delaney’s twelve-gauge with her.” Grace touched the scar on her cheek. “He hit me sometimes after that, but he never came close to touching me sexually again.”

  Dillon was silent, holding her, forcing himself to hold lightly when he wanted to crush her to him to keep her safe. Only it was too late for that. Too late.

  “In retrospect, I know I could have left any time. I could have gotten away just by opening my mouth, but I thought it was all that I deserved.” She sat up straight in his lap. “Do you understand?”

  “I think so.” He held her face, bending his head to kiss her softly but lingeringly. “Let’s go inside and get warm and dry. What do you say?”

  They bathed together in the claw foot tub, steam rising around them and curling Grace’s hair into soft little tendrils around her face, then went to bed in her room. When he would not have touched her in any but the gentlest and most protective of ways, she turned to him in wordless passion. Their lovemaking had a new tenderness to it. Its urgency was more prolonged, sweeter. “It’s the first time,” Grace said before she slept, “I’ve ever been sure I wouldn’t wake up on the floor of the gazebo with splinters in my back and blood between my legs. I thought the nightmares would end when he died, but they didn’t.”

  He tucked her head beneath his chin. “They’re over now,” he said, and
hoped it was a promise he could keep.

  Chapter 26

  Dillon had only known rage like this one other time. Then, he’d given into it and spiraled downward into a depression from which he thought he’d never recover. It hadn’t mattered, he’d convinced himself then, because there was no one counting on him. Michelle and John were dead.

  But Grace was alive. Maybe she didn’t count on him—he thought she was pretty proud of never counting on anybody—but that didn’t cut him loose from the responsibility. He had to be there for her when she needed him again. Just as she was there whenever he needed her. He guessed that’s what being in love meant.

  Had it been only last night that he’d typed “The End” on the book and made up his mind it was time to go home? Time to leave Grace?

  He must have been out of his mind.

  Standing at the kitchen window staring out at the gazebo, he realized he had to channel the anger. Maybe he couldn’t make it constructive the way they did in movies, all neat and tidy and tied with a red bow, but he had to do something with it. He couldn’t go the way he had before.

  The gazebo mocked him, standing there like some eerie reincarnation of Robert Elliot. It mocked Grace, its shabby presence an insolent reminder of what could happen there. What had happened there. Oh, Gracie.

  What was it Maxie had said that night? Something about simple solutions to major problems.

  He took his coat from the back of the kitchen chair where he’d hung it to dry and strode to the garage. He lifted the door and stood in its gloomy interior, looking for…what? He found an ax, a sledge hammer and a hatchet and carried them outside. For a moment, he stood still, remembering the night before. The rage festered and grew.

  His coat was lying on the hammock by the time he saw Steven’s truck pull into the driveway. Promise waved and went into the house, but Steven walked across the yard. Dillon’s shirt was soaked with sweat and half-unbuttoned. His hair fell over his forehead in wet strands. But one portion of the gazebo lay in a tangle of boards and shattered lattice.

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” Steven asked mildly.

  Dillon leaned on the handle of the sledge hammer. It took a minute to catch his breath. “It’s for Grace,” he said. He met Steven’s eyes, keeping his expression as dispassionate as he could, giving away nothing that wasn’t his to give.

  Steven picked up the ax.

  They had another section down when Grant and Faith drove in. Grant, carrying an ax and a chain saw, came to the gazebo. He set the chain saw down and approached the third section.

  “Promise called,” he explained briefly, and swung the ax.

  Dillon looked down at the splintered wood that was a result of Grant’s first swing. “Not bad for a banker,” he muttered, picking up his sledge hammer.

  Grant swung again.

  “Damn,” Steven said, staring at the demolished boards in awe. “How do you do that?”

  “Well,” Grant drawled, lifting the ax to his shoulder, “playing tennis in those little white shorts gives you a whole bunch of upper body strength, you dumb son of a bitch.”

  Steven narrowed his eyes. “Did you bring any beer?”

  “Twelve-pack.”

  “Then I guess you can stay.”

  Dillon felt the laughter welling up inside, pushing at the rage, and was shocked by it. A person didn’t laugh when he was this pissed off. There was something inherently wrong with that.

  Grace came out of the house and approached where they stood. She was dressed in her signature overalls and her hair straggled into her eyes. The cats trotted at her side as she approached with long, barefoot strides. Weak morning sunlight threaded through her hair and reflected in her eyes. She was beautiful.

  She extended a hand.

  “What?” Dillon said.

  “Let me.”

  “Gracie, you’ll whack your toes off,” Steven objected.

  “Let me,” she repeated, her gaze locked with Dillon’s.

  “Be careful.” He handed her the ax and stood back. When Steven started to move around him, Dillon shoved an elbow into his ribs and shook his head. “Let her do it.”

  “Hold it easy,” Grant said, “but not loose enough to let it fly out of your hands.”

  She nodded, stepped toward the gazebo and swung the ax. The blow bounced off the wood, cracking a few lattice strips. By the time the ax landed again, tears streaked Grace’s cheeks, and Dillon was certain his heart cracked more than the dry wood. Her third swing was blind, the fourth and fifth ones solid, and by the sixth swing her hands were trembling.

  Promise and Faith came across the yard. Promise reached for the hatchet that lay on the ground and set to work with short, chopping blows. “Take that, you rotten bastard,” she said mildly. “Grace, are you better yet?”

  “Getting there.” Although the tears were drying on her face, rivulets of sweat had taken their place.

  Faith took the ax from her brother’s hand. “I’ll just use this.”

  It was Grant’s turn to step forward, Steven’s turn to elbow his ribs. “That’s not your wife there, it’s Grace’s sister. I don’t think you should get in the way. Remember that she has a tattoo.”

  The head of Grace’s ax finally came to rest near her feet. “Over easy or scrambled?” she asked. “And don’t get fancy on me. Those are the only ways I can cook eggs.”

  “Grace,” Steven remarked, reaching for the ax, “it’s the middle of November. Don’t you think it’s time you started wearing shoes outside, especially if you’re going to chop wood?”

  It started. Dillon saw her shoulder began to lift in a shrug, but the motion never materialized. She clasped her hands behind her. “It probably would be,” she said thoughtfully, “if I were as big a wuss as you guys are.”

  The men exchanged looks.

  “Yes,” Grant said somberly, “she said ‘wuss.’ Since we’ve already established that I am not one, that leaves it up to you two to prove your masculine superiority.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything,” Steven said. “I’m a doctor and I’m tall.”

  “Good point,” Dillon said. “That leaves it up to me, huh?” He returned his gaze to Grace, losing himself in the joy that filled her eyes. All my life I will know that in order to find sunlight, I only have to look at her.

  He dropped the handle of the ax and grabbed her, startling a shriek from her. He swung her into his arms and carried her to the hammock, dropping her on his coat. “Now,” he said, “how funny would it be if I dumped you on the ground?”

  “Oh, no.” She held onto his neck. “Please, no, I’ll be good.” She was laughing, trying to squirm away from where he held her but clutching his neck at the same time.

  “You don’t have to be good,” he said, bending to kiss her. “As long as you keep laughing, you never have to be good again. I’ll love you forever regardless.”

  “I love you, too, Campbell.” She smiled into his eyes.

  “I know.”

  And then he dumped her on the ground.

  “We got married.” Steven eyed the glass carafe in Grace’s hand, poised dangerously close to the area above his lap. “If you spill that, we probably won’t have a lot of children.”

  Grace put the pot on the table and looked down its length at Promise. “You married him because you’re afraid no one else will have you since you’re bald.”

  Promise considered that, chewing her cinnamon roll slowly. “Yeah, I guess that’s as good of reason as any. That and he likes the way I walk. I told you it was sexy. And,” she added, “he married me before he knew how well I could swing a hatchet, so I know it’s love.”

  “Actually—” Steven leaned back in his chair and did his best macho act, “—I had my way with her in Knoxville and she forced me to make an honest woman of her.”

  “It’ll be a terrible loss to the talk radio industry, taking you out of circulation,” Grant said.

  Grace sat between Promise and Faith. “What made you decide
this?” she asked softly. “You spent three months making everyone miserable by trying to end the relationship.”

  “I guess that was it. Steven said he didn’t think we were the relationship type anymore and I agreed with him, but then we decided we’d like being married better than we liked being apart.” Faith smiled at Grace. “You should try it.”

  “You should mind your own business,” Grace countered.

  “I told him no at first. I said I’d always think he’d proposed because he felt sorry for me. Then I said, what if I die?” Promise grinned at Grace. “He told me to get a life.”

  “Seems funny, doesn’t it?”

  Dillon was concentrating on getting Grace out of her dress without removing the silky stockings that had been driving him crazy ever since she came down the stairs dressed for the Deacon’s Bench dinner the family’d had for Promise and Steven.

  “What does?” There, he had the zipper down. He didn’t think she’d even noticed yet.

  “Steven and Promise being married.”

  “Nah, they’ve always been together, even when they were both swearing it was over forever.” God, he loved her slender shoulders, her tiny breasts, the way her nipples puckered and pointed whenever he approached them.

  “Yeah, but I mean…marriage. That’s really…together.”

  He paused, drawing back to look at her. “I think that was the idea, Grace.” How did one get a woman’s dress off without her noticing if she was sitting on the damn thing? It was never this difficult when he described it in books.

  She was half-naked, for God’s sake. Why wasn’t she noticing?

  “Dillon?”

  “Uh-huh.” Growing frustrated, he drew the green dress from under her, pulling it past the sexy stockings and dropping it into a silken pool on the floor beside his bed. Oh, God, she was wearing those elastic garters with little ribbons on them.

  “When are you going to let me read the rest of your book?”

  “Whenever you want to.” The Grace he knew didn’t wear garters and little bitty underwear that barely covered the nest of curls between her thighs. His Grace wore white cotton with the elastic shot to hell from too many washings.