“Thank you,” Jacqueline said readily. “Eric and I need to get home to his father.”
Without another word, the vision in yellow strode with soldierly purpose to her black Model T, started it with one strong hand-crank, and raced off down the red-dirt road.
If only she were riding beside her.
Chapter Eight
Eric limped over and climbed into the Model T. He slammed the door as Jaq took off. “Gee, thanks for almost leaving me. Did you forget you had a husband?” He was breathing hard.
“I wish I could,” she muttered. “And thanks for deserting me. Do you think I enjoyed talking to that horny preacher and the Russell clan?”
“At least Molly’s young and pretty.”
“Granted. And a lot more married than I am. She has a little boy, if you didn’t notice.”
“Oh yeah. Too bad. You could probably seduce her if she didn’t. I saw the way you stared at her during church. And the subtle way she looked you over.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What about you and all those beauties? I thought you wanted to see your old friends. Those girls were probably babies when you left New Hope.”
He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at her. “Not quite. Didn’t you notice how everybody looked at me when I hobbled into church? Years ago, before I left, they acted like I was Jesus at the Second Coming. Today they couldn’t keep their eyes off my eye patch and my cane.”
She gripped his arm a second, concerned. “They were surprised, that’s all. I’m sure they still consider you their best and brightest.”
“At least those girls do. To all the others I’m spoiled goods. The guy who had to leave the War. A dud, not a hero.”
She sped through a green tunnel of newly leafed trees. Unpainted shacks and a few white two-story houses dotted this dense forest, with cattle and new-plowed fields nearby. She needed to distract Eric, shake some sense into him. They had to take care of his father’s situation so they could head back to New Orleans. “Say, is this where some of those people at church live?”
He didn’t even glance at her or the buildings. “Yeah.”
Red-orange earth the color of clay flowerpots stretched out, just waiting to turn green. Eric’s father, Angus, had explained how farmers with their teams of mules plowed the weeds under when it dried up enough in the spring. That was better than tanks destroying anything that grew. It was quiet and beautiful here, and obviously fertile, like Molly.
Where had that thought come from? Why had Eric mentioned seducing her? Did he know something she didn’t? What kind of person did he think she was?
The huge trees—pines—along the edges of those fields had deep roots, Eric’s dad had said. She needed more of those but didn’t want to be immovable, like the people around here seemed to be. All except Molly, with her lilting voice.
Eric finished one cigarette and lit another. If he kept acting like this, she’d drive back to New Orleans by herself. But now Mother knew she was married and wouldn’t let her rest until she either got unmarried or lived with her so-called husband.
“Damn. This road’s rough.”
“Yeah, pretty bad.”
“These ruts and puddles remind me of all that mud near Passchendaele last summer.”
Eric finally showed some interest. “I remember. It rained for three months. I was stationed near there, and it grounded us for days. We sat around itching to fly. Every time it cleared for a few minutes, we took off.”
“Where we were, the tanks mired down, clay stuck to everything, and some of our men and animals drowned in the bombed-out craters filled with water. Driving an ambulance in that hellhole was a bitch, especially in the middle of the night.”
Eric looked at her with respect. “Luckily, I missed that. Being an ace has its advantages.” His eye took on a faraway expression.
“Yep.” She nodded, still mired in the past. After her patriotism had worn off, she’d stuck around France because she’d thought she might bump into Helen. God, she missed her—and the excitement of war. She missed Willie too.
Even though she’d just gotten here, it was so God-awful quiet she wanted to scream. She didn’t miss the whine of the shells before they exploded, or the wounded men screaming for relief. And she didn’t miss living each minute waiting for her next voice lesson with Sister Mary. She ought to relax and enjoy the silence.
She tried to rouse Eric. “That Mrs. Russell sure is a powerhouse,” she said. “Bet she’d give the kaiser or the president a run for his money. We should make her a general and put her in charge of all our armies. We’d lick the bloody Boches in a week.”
He just grunted, so she decided to ignore him.
Mr. James seemed nice enough, with good taste in women, but he was a mama’s boy. And why had he volunteered all that information about Molly’s love of music in such a condescending way? Wasn’t he proud of her talent?
Molly seemed fragile and sweet. Was she as straitlaced as Sister Mary? That long red curl escaping from her mound of hair, and those soft green eyes…Similar to yet so different from Willie’s. She’d probably be a great kisser. It’d be interesting to find out.
No doubt Mrs. Russell kept her on duty around the clock. How did Molly get trapped in that situation?
She glanced at Eric, who didn’t look like he’d be much fun while they were here. So Molly wanted to be friends? Hmm. Might be enjoyable.
By God, she could even endure Molly’s mother-in-law for the opportunity to spend some time with her—maybe.
*
After the pitiful dinner Jaq had scraped up for Eric and Angus, with their help, she sat in the front-porch swing and smoked. Slow footsteps sounded inside, and she stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it into an old Coke bottle. She was waving smoke away as Angus eased through the front door. He dropped into a rocker and just sat there awhile before he looked at her.
His thinning hair must have been the color of Eric’s once. And he was about Eric’s height, but he moved hesitantly.
“Eric’s taking a nap,” he said abruptly, as if his throat was rusty.
“Yes, I suspect he needs to take a lot of them.” She didn’t know what else to say.
After a long silence, he gazed at her as if just realizing she was there. “I surely do appreciate you looking after both of us.”
She murmured something polite, but he dismissed it with a wave.
“No, I really mean it. I’m in a tight spot right now, but I’ll get back on my feet. Eric will too. You’re a kind lady to help us out like this.”
She started to remind him that she was Eric’s wife but wasn’t sure what Eric had told him. And he was obviously no fool. They didn’t act anything like a happily married couple.
She and Angus sat there a while longer in silence until he said, “Well, I best go rest a mite too. Eric and I need to go see a man about some land later. You try to find something to occupy yourself, you hear? Don’t want you to be too lonesome while you’re here. Go visit somebody you met at church this morning. That Molly Russell is about the nicest one around.”
What a dear man, she thought as he went inside. Worrying about me being lonely, when he must be grieving his heart out for his wife and boys.
She tapped another cigarette from her pack. At this rate, she’d run out in a week, and then what would she do? As she sat there and smoked, Eric’s earlier remark about seducing Molly began to buzz around her head like a fly. Why were Eric and Angus both pointing her in Molly’s direction? Did they think she’d treat Molly the same way Sister Mary had treated her?
Suddenly an image of Sister Mary Therese pulled her into the past, though she’d rather not visit it again. Why keep torturing herself?
Sister Mary sat next to her on a concrete bench in the convent garden, spring flowers blooming yellow and blue. Eighteen, she’d noticed only how Sister Mary’s hair and eyes outshone the flowers. “I’m glad you decided to stop skipping school this year,” Sister Mary had said.
“Yeah. Mother is
too. You must be a good influence.” She had promised her mother not to miss any more classes in exchange for taking singing lessons from Sister Mary.
She recalled almost bloodying her fingers when she pressed them into the rough concrete to keep from edging them toward Sister Mary’s thigh. “But I do miss spending all day in the French Quarter and Storyville listening to music and taking pictures. Would you like to see my favorite of all the ones I’ve taken?”
Riffling through the photographs she’d pulled from between the pages of one of her textbooks, she selected one of a dark-haired prostitute wearing an almost-transparent black dress. “What do you think?”
Sister Mary had paled but had questioned her about it. She’d even called it a work of art, which thrilled her. She also remembered exactly how she’d sighed in relief. Any of the other nuns would have ripped the photo to shreds and reported her to the mother superior.
Her legs had burned when she’d looked at the shot. She’d given the woman five dollars to pose for her, and as she and Sister Mary sat side by side and gazed at it, Sister Mary seemed to have trouble catching her breath. The area between her own legs definitely began to throb.
Eventually, Sister Mary said, “You’re a fine student and have developed your voice quickly this year.” She must have been trying to resume her role as teacher rather than peer.
She had thanked her and said, “You’ve influenced me more than you can imagine.”
Then Sister Mary had beamed, and two of her blond curls slipped out from her wimple. And when Sister Mary patted her back and let her hand linger, she’d sat as still as possible, silently willing Sister Mary to never move it. It radiated heat and made the blood rush through her body so fast she could almost hear it. She began to sweat in spite of the cold concrete she sat on.
She had spent many precious minutes with Sister Mary that spring. Sister Mary’s gentle, soothing touch on her arm or head made her dream about that touch every night and crave it constantly. And once when Sister Mary ran her hand over Jaq’s cheek and whispered, “What a fine young woman you are. I’d love to have someone like you nearby all the time,” she’d almost fainted. She’d treasured that remark and repeated it to herself every night before she went to sleep and every morning when she woke up. And she’d vowed never to wash her cheek.
Sister Mary began to touch her more and more often that spring, and her fingers lingered longer. Jaq had walked around in a daze, marking time when they were apart. Sister Mary was the center of her universe.
One day that April, she and her mother had a huge fight. “Jacqueline,” she’d said, “this house is too small for you and me both. I hope you get married very soon and leave me in peace.”
She’d run to Sister Mary’s room at the academy and tapped on her door, wanting comfort.
“Jacqueline, what are you doing here? I can’t let a student visit me.” Then Sister Mary had seemed to reconsider. She’d glanced down the hall with a guilty expression, nodded at her to come in, and then closed the door quickly.
She sat in the only chair, and Sister Mary propped herself against her desk, fingering the cross that hung from her rosary. “What is it, ma petite? How can I help you?”
As she repeated Mother’s words, her voice shook. Then she stopped and gazed at Sister Mary’s strange expression.
As if in a trance, Sister Mary had slowly lifted her rosary over her head and laid it on the desk. She straightened the rosary, then restraightened it, looking far away, as if someone had taken possession of her body.
Jaq couldn’t speak.
Trembling, Sister Mary had uncovered her head, dropping pieces of white linen at her feet. Her blond hair escaped, and Jaq stared, her hand moving as if in a dream toward Sister Mary’s curls. Sister Mary caught it and held it tight. Oh, how thrilling her touch was as she slowly ran her other palm over Jaq’s hair. Her scalp prickled under every strand Sister Mary smoothed. Sparks ignited inside her head and shot through her.
Sister Mary hesitated and Jaq had thought she was praying. Jaq was—praying the moment would never end.
Gradually, Sister Mary lowered her hand to Jaq’s cheek and inched it around her neck. When she pulled, Jaq flowed toward her. Lost in that intense gaze, she almost liquefied. Sister Mary’s soft lips brushed hers and an electric current jolted her, so strong it sizzled.
She hardly felt Sister Mary unbutton her white shirtwaist. God. She could barely breathe as her white cotton stockings, then her long black skirt, fell in a pile at her feet. When Sister Mary slid Jaq’s underclothes off with trembling fingers, she grabbed the chair back to steady herself.
Dazed, she stood frozen while Sister Mary stripped off her own gartered stockings and slipped out of her black wool habit and rough underwear. Her white skin dazzled Jaq.
“Twin Eves before the Fall,” Sister Mary whispered, but she couldn’t process the words.
Suddenly, somehow, Sister Mary lay on the narrow bed in the small room under her, as if expecting something. What should she do? Sister Mary refused to kiss her lips, but when she eased down Sister Mary’s body and kissed her ample breasts, Sister Mary seemed to relax. Jaq took them in her hands, gently squeezing then sucking them, and Sister Mary moaned.
Running her hands down Sister Mary’s stomach and hips, she held a portion of perfect flesh, then showered it with kisses and moved to the next pleasurable expanse. She inched her way downward, growing ever more sure of her destination—Sister Mary’s blond triangle.
It was everything she had seen in her photo, and more. She blew on it, and Sister Mary’s hips twitched. She fingered her way through the silky thatch, and Sister Mary jerked. Finally, she thrust her tongue into the fragrant wilderness, and Sister Mary sighed and went still.
She tasted sweet-salty, and as Jaq licked, Sister Mary began to undulate, moving in rhythm with her tongue. She lapped up and down the sides of the hard knot beneath her tongue, then drew it into her mouth, sucking and biting it gently.
Sister Mary writhed and began to pant, and Jaq clung to her for a blissful eternity as Sister Mary wriggled beneath her. Suddenly, with one last upward thrust, Sister Mary shuddered and lay motionless.
Sister Mary’s salty essence coated her face, and she felt content. She had apparently pleased her favorite person in the world.
But Sister Mary had jumped up, almost tossing her to the floor. Without a word, she jerked her habit on. Her hands shook as she helped Jaq button her crumpled blouse then shoved her from the room.
The next day at her private voice lesson, Sister Mary Therese had made it clear Jaq would never visit her again. She’d refused to touch her, even when they were alone. And during their final lessons Sister Mary had never looked at her. Worst of all, she wouldn’t talk to Jaq except when necessary.
Fortunately, she graduated soon. All that summer, she’d dreamed about taking lessons from Sister Mary again. She walked by the school hoping to see her—even from across the campus. Most of all, she wanted to share Sister Mary’s bed.
That fall her older sister asked her to live with her in London, and she’d welcomed the chance to be away from Mother and Sister Mary.
While visiting her aunts in Washington and New York, and then abroad, she’d weaned herself from her total obsession with Sister Mary. She made herself forget her curls…her breasts…her taste, but the memories still intruded at the most unlikely times. They demanded her attention and drained her. Why couldn’t she erase the recollections, rip them from her mind?
Damn it. She’d thought Willie had finally sated her longing for Sister Mary, but here it was again, making her twinge.
Chapter Nine
The preacher had polished off most of the chicken and dressing, and Mrs. Russell was resting on the front porch with the men. She hoped he wouldn’t stay more than an hour or so because she needed to put on her old shoes and walk the place, like she did every Sunday. She had to decide what James needed to plow and plant this spring. If she didn’t write out the weekly schedule, he
’d fool around and forget to do something important. He never had got the hang of planning.
She spit off the side of the porch then wiped her mouth with a blue bandanna. Snuff calmed her down and gave her a lift at the same time.
Her front yard looked mighty fine. She swept it every day with a brush broom and pulled any sprig of grass or weed that dared stick its head up. She’d built her prized flower bed full of daffodils and jonquils out of an old wagon wheel. Had to keep the place looking good so the neighbors wouldn’t talk. Her kids and grandkids used to climb the fence and splinter the railings, so she’d whittled the sharp pickets herself. She could see for miles, but her fence kept stray dogs and strangers out. Everybody admired her big house up on this hill.
She pulled a tin canister from her pocket, pinched out another dip of snuff, and spread it under her lower lip with an elm twig. Then she chewed the stick to keep it nice and soft.
Staring up at the big lazy clouds, she sighed. It sure was good to be here, safe in her white wooden house that James built from the ground up eighteen years ago. When he’d finished, he hung his carpenter’s apron on a nail in the attic and wouldn’t even hammer together a chicken coop now. Musta been a heap of work.
Compared to the log cabin she and Calvin built when they got here from Georgia, this was a mansion. To think she’d lived in that cabin for nigh on thirty years. Yes, sir, she couldn’t imagine wanting a better place than this.
If only Calvin was here, rocking beside her. She could barely remember what his hand felt like on her cheek. Come to think of it, she’d trade her fine house for their log cabin quick as a wink if she could have him back.
The screen door squealed on its hinges, and Molly sashayed out. She belonged in the parlor, not on the porch. Always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
“Patrick, it’s time to do your schoolwork,” she said. “You’ve been out here long enough.”
“But, Mama, I want to stay. Please? I’m almost seven. The grownups always talk about interesting things. I won’t bother them. Can’t I just listen?”
The Storm Page 5
