A Kiss for Emily (Emily Stokes Series)

by J. P. Galuska

  I crossed my arms. “You know something that you’re not telling me.”

  “I know a lot of things. What do you want me to tell you?”

  I wanted the truth! This was the second open invitation to ask any question. I could ask him about having coffee. I could ask him about the hug that made me choke.

  I could ask who his parole officer was!

  “What happened to your family?” My question came off callous.

  Sam scratched his nose, like people do when they are nervous. Then he took a deep breath and blew it out through “o” shaped lips.

  “Ma died in a fire.” His words lacked feeling. “Pa fell apart afterwards, believing he was responsible for her death. Not long after that, he took my little sister and they moved away.”

  “God! That’s horrible!”

  He gave another heavy sigh, “I’m not finished yet. Pa took Amelia back to the Goldenrod steamboat and began singing. Although it probably wasn’t in Amelia’s best interest, I figure that’s where Pa had his best memories of him and Ma together.” Sam held a blank stare.

  “My sister had a voice just like Ma’s. She wanted to sing too, but Pa wouldn’t stand for it. Performing wasn’t like it used to be. It’d turned…almost cheap. They had heated arguments.” Sam’s head sunk a little lower. “Then one night, Amelia stormed off after a fight. They found her floating in the Mississippi the next morning.”

  I concealed a gasp beneath my hand.

  “Pa died, shortly thereafter.” Sam’s head dropped completely. Without a sound, he took his hands and combed them through his curly hair. He looked up with a half smile and tears in his eyes.

  I slid down the length of the couch to be beside him and held his hand. The sweet, smoky taste prickled my tongue. “I can’t imagine being the only one left in the family…”

  Sam looked deep into my eyes. Once again, searching. Searching for comfort, or understanding, or maybe rejection. “What if I told you I wasn’t the sole survivor?”

  His statement caught me off guard. His hand slipped through my fingers. “Who else is there?”

  Sam stood up. “Never mind.”

  “Please tell me,” I pressed.

  He took a seat in an adjacent chair facing me. His expression was torn and he fuddled with his lower lip.

  “Remember when I told you that things are not always as they seem?” he finally said.

  I searched through my memories and nodded.

  “Most of my life has not been what it seems.” Sam looked down at the floor and then returned his gaze. “Against my better judgment, I am growing quite fond of you, Miss Emily. You are kind, smart and very beautiful. But age is not our only barrier.”

  The words he spoke about me were sweet, but they did not come across as complimentary. It sounded more like the start of a confession. Oh man! This was it. I was going to hear—

  “BBRRRIIINNNGGGG!” Both Sam and I jumped. “Brrriiinnnngggg.” It rang again.

  What timing! “I should get it, in case it’s about my appointment,” I said apologetically.

  “Hello?” I watched Sam stand up and stretch. Casually, he walked about, appraising the interior of the house. It struck me as odd how soft his footsteps were on the hardwood floor compared to my own, especially in his heavy leather boots.

  I hung up the phone. “That was my mom, checking in on me.”

  “You have a great ma,” he said, sitting back down, but this time on the edge of the seat. He gestured for me to join him.

  Sam took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I could smell the sweet, musky smell in his breath. Did he drink his cologne?

  “Emily, what I’m trying to tell you is—”

  “Vvvvrrrrrr.” My cell phone vibrated loudly on the wooden table.

  I looked at him with disbelief, but didn’t budge. “I’m sorry.” What were the odds?

  “It must be the fate of the gods,” Sam said coolly, rising from his seat, again. “I can see now why you enjoy modern technology.”

  I looked at him uneasily. I looked at him like he was somebody who just told me that he never wanted to see me again.

  “Aren’t you even going to see who called?” he asked sourly.

  I picked up my cell, expecting it to be another lame text from Alex. It was a text from my dad. “Love you.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into everyone. First my mom calls, now it’s a text from my dad.”

  This time, Sam avoided my gaze. “The air feels like it could storm.”

  “I suppose you would know. You are the farmer.” I hoped for a smile, but his lips didn’t even twitch. He just stood there, looking large and uneasy.

  He moved over to a window and pulled the curtain aside. “I don’t like storms,” he said, peering out.

  “You look a little big to be afraid of the weather.” I tried to sound cheery.

  He just shrugged. “I should go before it hits.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  LIGHTNING STRIKES

  “DON’T GO,” I said, hoping not to sound too desperate. “I’ve got something that will take your mind off the weather.”

  The tension on Sam’s face broke, but his smile still appeared guarded. “What might that be?”

  Suddenly my invitation took on a perverted quality. I felt my temperature rise. “My guitar. Can I play my guitar for you?”

  Brown leather boots crossed the floor. “I’d like that very much.”

  “I keep it in the loft. That area is just for me.” I led him up the stairs to where my guitar waited.

  The loft was open to below, furnished with a couple of wooden chairs for playing instruments and two more that were suitable for listening and relaxing. A stereo sat against the wall, underneath a wide window. Two pieces of art hung on either side of the window. They were the most treasured paintings in the house, according to Mom.

  Sam took immediate notice of them and remarked on their creativeness. “Let me guess, fifth grade art class?”

  “This one is mine.” I pointed to a girl swinging on a tire swing. “And this one Kitty painted of herself, playing poker with Grandma and Grandpa.”

  He laughed out loud. “Stop pulling my leg.”

  “Really. They love playing cards. And she loves to catch Grandpa cheating.”

  Still curious, Sam peered down the opposing hallways. “What’s down that-a-way?”

  “The bedrooms.”

  Sam’s smile faded. “Is it all right that I am up here?”

  I was taken back by his question. “Oh, yes,” I answered, admiring his apparent reputable nature. “Thank you for asking.”

  “I suppose I should meet your parents, sometime,” he said, looking not all that happy.

  “They will like you.” I smiled, walking over to my guitar resting in its stand. “Please take a seat and get comfortable.” I eloquently gestured to one of the comfy chairs like I was a TV game show model.

  He took a sturdy chair instead and moved it next to mine so we’d be sitting face-to-face. Despite his anti-touch attitude, I liked the way he liked to be close, and wondered what he was afraid of.

  “I don’t know any jazz tunes,” I apologized. “Is there anything else you’d like to hear?” I picked up my guitar and strummed it just to make sure it was in tune. It was unlikely that I knew how to play any of his favorites, but it seemed polite just to ask.

  “Only your favorite,” he responded, pointing directly at me, personalizing the statement all the more.

  “That’s easy,” I stated, but shifted nervously on my chair. I felt a bit awkward, playing my music for the first time in front of Sam.

  Rhythmic sounds quickly filled the loft as I picked the notes of my musical lariat. My strumming became bold and crisp and any trace of apprehension vanished into thin air. I could tell that Sam liked my song too. He was leaning back against the chair with his eyelids closed, keeping time with gentle nods.

  When my song finally ended, a crooked smile came across his face. “Tha
t song moves my soul. Does it have a name?”

  “Naw, it’s something I wrote.”

  “Hmm,” Sam murmured. He continued to face me, for what seemed an entire minute. He looked to be puzzling over something, so I sat there, looking back at him, feeling rather uncomfortable.

  “Will you play me another?” he finally asked.

  But I didn’t stop at one more. I played through my entire list of songs.

  “How many years did you take lessons?” Sam asked, realizing the concert was over.

  “Just one. It comes naturally for me.” I offered my guitar to Sam. “Would you like to try?”

  “Oh, gosh, no.” He leaned back like I held the black plague. “How about your other instruments? Where are they?”

  “They’re in my room,” I said, taking note of the heavy, dark clouds appearing outside the window. I stood up, flicked on the light switch and returned to my seat.

  “Oh.” Sam sounded disappointed. “I was hoping you’d get them.”

  “Sorry, I only play those in school.”

  “That’s too bad. Are you familiar with Garvin Bushell?”

  I was not.

  “He was an incredible musician—the first to play the oboe in any jazz band. Then came Yusef Lateef who played both the oboe and the bassoon in his jazz performances.”

  “I’ve heard of Lateef before. He won some kind of musician’s award not too long ago.”

  “I’ll tell ya, if you ever heard either of these men play, you’d be hooked on jazz. The next time we’re in town, we need to find you a recording.”

  “A recording? That’d be great. I actually tried to find some jazz on the radio today. Maybe we could even take in a show aboard the Goldenrod. Er, or, not. I’m sure it wouldn’t make it as one of your top ten vacation destinations. I’m really sorry to have been so thoughtless.”

  Sam bowed his head for a moment. “What happened to my sister was really horrible, but I don’t blame the ship. I can understand why Pa went back there. It created its own kind of energy.” Sam’s expression slowly grew. “It had the best of everything, and for its time, it was huge. It could hold more than a thousand passengers.”

  “Sam, you just light up talking about it.”

  “As kids, we used to stand on the furniture, pretending we were the entertainers. Pa even took us there once. Ma made us plug our ears when we passed by the vaudeville stage, though.”

  “Risqué, huh?”

  “It wasn’t for kids. Pa made me promise not to tell Ma when he let me watch the first few minutes of the show.”

  “No way.” I was thinking he’d tell me something racy about the production, but Sam’s face dropped instead.

  “It’d be my pleasure to take you there, unfortunately, she’s not sailing anymore.” Then he stood up. A new smile formed as he took my hand, guiding me up from my chair. “You could have been a star on the Goldenrod.”

  Licking the taste between my lips, I asked, “What happened to it?”

  Sam peered out the window again, drawing my attention to the now black rain clouds, the kind that always produced the heaviest of rains. A worried look crossed his face, but he proceeded to lead me to one of the over-stuffed chairs and motioned for me to sit.

  “You’d be surprised by how quickly things can tarnish if not properly looked after. I heard she’s on the National Historic List, but in rough shape.” His smile faded and his eyes grew dim. “Like so many American highlights, even the Blackstone Theatre is no longer the diamond it used to be. It’s been turned into a school. Times change, and with it, so do ideas of entertainment. Motion pictures changed a lot of things.”

  Motion pictures?

  Sam’s strange habit of using out-of-date words reminded me of my grandfather who used to call the refrigerator an “ice box” even though he hadn’t used one since he was twelve. I cut my own smile short after noticing the lack of one on Sam’s face as he sat next to me.

  “I’ll tell you what, big boy,” I said, using a seductive May West tone. “If my new school has a drama department, I’ll arrange for you to have front row seating on opening night. That is, if I get a part.” I laughed at myself.

  He laughed too. “That is the finest invitation I’ve received in quite some time.”

  A lull in the conversation allowed for Sam’s eyes to wander. “This is a nice home you have.”

  I nodded.

  “It sure could use some paint, though.”

  “Are you offering? Do you like to paint?” I asked eagerly. “I’m trying to convince Dad to put that on the top of the ‘to do’ list.” I scanned the walls, envisioning splashes of life to offset its bleakness.

  Sam stretched back against the chair, putting his hands behind his head. “I suppose I could be bribed into helping.” A mischievous grin spread across his face.

  “What kind of bribe?” I batted my eyelashes.

  Sam’s hands came to rest against the edge of his chair and he pressed his weight toward me. “Miss Emily, you could definitely get me into a heap of trouble.”

  I focused on his lips. They looked irresistible. I imagined myself locked inside his steel arms for a passionate kiss. The kiss I’d been waiting for.

  I leaned forward so that our lips were just inches apart. “What kind of trouble might that be?”

  Sam pressed his lips together hard. With the devil in his eyes, he leaned back against the chair, stretched his arms out, and finally repositioned his hands back behind his head.

  I had to admit, flirting was fun; pretending you don’t get it when you very well do, watching boys squirm in their chairs trying to be all cool and collected when they really want to plant one on you, but don’t know if they should.

  “So, your daddy owns a gun shop, huh?” Sam grinned.

  I giggled.

  “What makes you so sure your mama would spring me from the tank?”

  “We were just talking about you being in jail,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

  “Me in jail?” Sam bolted upright. “You were talking? With who? I didn’t think anybody knew.”

  Oh crap! Maybe I am glad I said it. Did he just admit to being an ex-convict? Were my fears true after all? If not his family, who did he murder?

  Panic gripped my insides and twisted as I realized he was between me and the stairs.

  “Relax. I’m pulling your leg.” he said, easing back into his chair.

  “That’s not funny!” Well, maybe it is, but… Why I continued to ignore all the red flags I had about Sam, I had no idea. Besides the fact he was tall, dark, and handsome, and smart, and funny, and he liked me. And I really liked him.

  “I ran into my friends this morning and incidentally, your name came up.”

  “Incidentally, huh?” Sam gave me the eye.

  I tried to think of a way to get out of the hole I’d just thrown myself into.

  “Is that all I am to you, incidental?” He obviously enjoyed his turn at making me squirm. “Actually, I saw you this morning, at the coffee shop,” Sam admitted.

  “What?” I was horrified at the possibility he may have overheard my failed plan to find him. “When? I didn’t see you.”

  “I didn’t want to intrude. Plus, I know what city girls tend to think about us farmers.”

  Morbid embarrassment rushed to my face. He had overhead me. But where was he? I never saw him. Only when the man and woman came in through the front door…I… tasted him!

  “Emily, what’s wrong?”

  What was happening to me? And why did it always seem to revolve around Sam? The now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t experiences. Am I really going crazy? My cheeks went from hot to cold. I felt a little dizzy. Maybe I was still lying next to the stream where I fell and I’m in some coma? Oh God, let me wake up!

  “Emily?” Sam put his hand on my knee. “Are you okay?”

  The taste, Sam’s taste, settled on my tongue. I looked at his hand on my knee. My heartbeat quickened. I looked at Sam. I was afraid. Overwhelmed by circumsta
nces that just didn’t add up, tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to ask him if he was part of an elaborate dream I was having, but I knew that would only confirm that I was completely insane. I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep it shut before any sounds of panic could escape.

  “Miss Emily?” Sam’s expression became a mixture of emotion.

  Words rattled around in my head.

  Just then, a tremendous crack of lightning hit the house, shaking the structure violently. Brilliant light flashed through the many windows, illuminating the interior with a giant silver explosion. Instantly, all the color drained from Sam’s body and his large frame began to flicker. A deep hum turned shrill instantly and without warning, the albino white Sam exploded into a million pieces. Its blast punched the air from my lungs.

  Gulping in a fresh breath of oxygen, my hands became a barrier between reality and the horrifying world of visual hallucinations. Heavy rain began to beat down upon the roof while the sounds of thunder continued to rumble.

  “Emily, look at me,” Sam’s gentle voice commanded.

  I kept my hands across my eyes, quite certain that mental illness had taken me hostage.

  “The lightning—”

  “Don’t say a word!” I barked. I needed to think. I pushed my hands up through my hair and felt the cool dampness of a nervous sweat. Afraid to look at him, I kept my eyes low only to notice tiny beads of water glistening over my arms, legs…everywhere. I questioned if I’d ever changed out of my damp clothes at all. Over the next couple breaths, I forced my mind to focus on what I thought I saw happen to Sam. My eyes had always been my foundation to my belief system. People don’t blow up.

  Unable to trust my eyesight, I was at an extreme disadvantage as I desperately tried to conjure a psychological reason for what just happened. Was it possible for the lightning to enter the house through an open window, creating the appearance of Sam exploding?

  I slowly lifted my eyes to face Sam’s remorseful expression.

  He opened his mouth. “You’re not crazy.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  PSYCHOLOGICAL WAREFARE

  I SCREAMED IN TERROR as another strike of silver lightning flashed, throwing light in every direction. A second, more powerful wind shear ripped through the loft and made my eardrums pop. Thunder shook the house and vibrated beneath my feet.