Sweet Everlasting

by Patricia Gaffney

  But when he returned ten minutes later with a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits, and an ice bag for Carrie’s head, she was sound asleep. Curled up at the edge of the bed, her hands, invisible under the long sleeves of his nightshirt, folded under her cheek like a child’s in a storybook.

  “Carrie?” he murmured, cupping her shoulder.

  She said, “Mmm?” and blinked up at him sleepily.

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  She did, easily and naturally, and for the first time he relaxed. She’d wake up with a headache, but he could give her something to soothe it. The main thing was that she was sleeping normally, not reacting narcotically to trauma. She would be all right.

  Broom came back a few minutes later. It took time and patience to make him understand why he couldn’t see Carrie again, and firmness to make him go home, not sit outside by the door all night, keeping a vigil. His devotion was touching, even if his doggedness was exasperating. Tyler took the opportunity to ask him how long he’d had tics.

  “I ain’t got no ticks!” he denied, chin jerking, wrists twitching. “Once I got fleas, but they went away when winter come.”

  Tyler patted his shoulder and told him to come see him next week. They’d talk.

  It was a perfect summer night. He dragged a chair out onto his back porch and sat down to watch the sun set and wait for Carrie. Relief that she wasn’t seriously hurt was giving way to slow-burning anger and a deadly longing to make Artemis pay. It was convenient to direct his fury outward, and he did that for as long as he could. But honesty wouldn’t permit him to enjoy that escape indefinitely. The bitter truth was that if he’d troubled to trust his instincts, Carrie wouldn’t be hurt. Last night he’d known something was wrong, but he’d walked out and left her alone, ignoring the question in his mind because it was easier. Above all, he’d wanted to get away from her sadness. Not being responsible for her—that was the great thing, that’s what had been paramount in his mind. He’d wanted to cut the messy ties between them early and cleanly, to avoid unpleasantness. What he’d done was hand her over to a brute.

  He didn’t notice when the sun set, saw nothing of the rising moon. He sat on in the dark, brooding, reliving the scene in her cabin last night and imagining different endings—fighting Artemis to some bloody conclusion, or ignoring him and bearing Carrie off down the mountain to safety. But what happened after that victorious scene was harder to imagine because he couldn’t get past one inescapable barrier: in two weeks he’d be gone. The circumstances that had brought their two different and incompatible lives together would no longer exist. Walking hand in hand with Carrie into the golden future was a hypocritical dream, because they had no future. Not together.

  The screen door squeaked on its hinges. He turned and saw her silhouetted in the doorway by the yellow kitchen light. “There you are,” he said softly, going to her. “How do you feel?” His hands went out automatically and began to roll up the long sleeves of his shirt over her slim wrists. She looked frail and insubstantial, hair tousled, her expression a little lost.

  But he could see the provocative outline of her body, backlit through the linen shirt, and the view caused him to forsake any sentimental comparisons between her and a sleepy child.

  “I’m better,” she said rustily.

  He stroked her jaw with his thumb. “Head hurt?”

  She gave a faint nod. “Not too bad, though. The ice helped. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He’d thought to make her smile by mocking her odd formality, but he only succeeded in discomforting her. “Sit down, I’ll bring you something for your head. Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.” She sat on the chair he’d just vacated, back straight, hands clutching her knees. She started slightly when he smoothed her hair back and covered her forehead with his hand. Her skin was cool and dry; no fever. Frowning, he left her and went inside.

  He made a powder of phenacetin and quinine sulfate, and gave it to her in a paper with a cup of hot tea. She swallowed it down the way most of his patients took their medicine: trustingly, not even asking what it was. Afterward he leaned against the porch rail, alternately watching Carrie and the starlit sky, waiting for her to speak.

  She didn’t. Too much time passed; her silence was lifeless, not companionable.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said at last.

  She spoke to her knees. “You already know. He hit me.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached out to touch her—her hair or her shoulder, just to offer some kind of solace; her body didn’t move away so much as shrink. Diminish. The message was the same, though: she didn’t want his hands on her.

  A subtle chill prickled his skin. He whispered, “Talk to me, Carrie,” but she didn’t move. He didn’t know what to do; he couldn’t even see her face. The melancholy silence flooded back between them, much worse now because of the dreadful possibility taking shape in his mind. A rustle of leaves distracted him, followed by the familiar sound of toenails on wood—Louie, back from his nightly prowl, scrabbling up the porch steps. As usual, he went into a delirium of joy at the sight of Carrie. She slipped from the chair to the floor and embraced him, to his unbounded delight, while Ty sat on the railing, chin in his hand, and smiled with humorous resignation. “He never greets me like that,” he complained, “and I’m the one who feeds him. I guess he likes girls better. Pretty ones, though; he’s got no use at all for Mrs. Quick. Lucky I’m not the jealous type …” He stopped, appalled; he’d been trying to draw a laugh from her, and now he realized she was sobbing.

  He went down on his knees beside her. She shifted away when he touched her, but she wouldn’t let go of the dog—who was subdued now, as if he sensed that she was grieving. Ty pushed his handkerchief into her hand and stayed where he was, listening to her heartbroken weeping, watching her trying to smother the sound in Lou’s furry neck. Her anguish and his helplessness caused him an almost unbearable distress. He’d consoled the bereaved, the pain-racked, the hysterical—a hundred times, but he’d never felt this desolated by another person’s sorrow, or more hopelessly inept at soothing it.

  He thanked God when she stopped crying. She mopped her face and blew her nose, and fell back against the shadowy clapboard wall of his house as if she were exhausted. Lou settled himself along the length of her outstretched thigh, and heaved a sigh that sounded for all the world like relief. Because it was impossible now not to touch her, Ty wrapped his fingers around her long, skinny foot. Her face was a delicate pale oval, indistinct in the dimness. He wanted to hear her voice; but there seemed to be only one question in his mind, and he wasn’t ready to ask it.

  Stalling, he slid his fingers between her cold toes, in and out, reconciled to the gently sexual pull the contact aroused in him. He heard her light sigh. Squeezing her bony ankle, voice soft, belying the tension in every muscle of his body, he put the question.

  “Carrie, did he rape you?”

  Her head went back against the wall; she appeared to be looking up at the sky. The answer he dreaded came out on a wispy, disembodied breath. “Yes.”

  He made some sound. He felt her hand pressing against his and realized he was hurting her. Releasing her ankle, he was about to reach for her, and to hell with whether she wanted it—he wanted it—when her hopeless voice came again and arrested him.

  “But not today. Five years ago.”

  Five years ago.

  “And—only once.”

  Only once.

  Tyler put a hand under Lou’s belly and lifted him bodily up and away, then shuffled on his knees into the dog’s place. Carrie pressed back against the wall, her body a white blur of mortified resistance, but he snaked his arms around her and held on, dragging her up against him. He said her name repeatedly, holding tight until a measure of calm came back and helped him see what he ought to do. Rocking her, working against the stiffness in her he couldn
’t seem to defeat, he chanted, “Darling, darling, it’s all right, you’re safe now. Tell me—no—Carrie, let me hold you—”

  But she would not allow it. She scrambled to her knees, pushing back at him with her hands. “Don’t, please. I don’t want this.”

  “What do you want? Carrie—”

  “I can’t bear your pity.”

  He was floored. “Pity,” he repeated stupidly. “Pity.”

  “I can’t bear to have you touch me the way you touch the others, all your—patients. I don’t want kindness or friendship from you anymore. I want everything. But you don’t want me that way, Ty, and it’s killing me. You have to let me go.”

  She stumbled up, batting aside the arm he put out mechanically to stop her. Stepping past him, she jerked open the screen door and disappeared inside the house.

  He felt as if he’d been racing up a hill and had just achieved the summit. Head down, hands on his knees, he waited for his heart to slow and his breathing to steady. His body knew before his brain that he’d come to a decision.

  Louie was guarding the screen door, staring inside at the bright, empty kitchen, ears cocked. Tyler put his shoe across the dog’s chest to hold him back. “Sorry,” he muttered, sidled inside, and shut the door in his face. Flicking out the porch light and the kitchen light, he headed for his bedroom.

  She’d turned on the bedside lamp, but she was standing in front of his bureau, gazing down at a framed photograph of his parents. He moved toward her cautiously, but she didn’t turn or step away when he stopped behind her. Her head was bowed; he couldn’t read her expression in the mirror over the bureau.

  “Your mother and father?” she asked, fingering the silver frame.

  “Yes.”

  “They look …” She hunted for the word. “Formidable. And very handsome.” She exchanged the picture for the one beside it. “And this is your sister, Abbey.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she always laughing?”

  “Very nearly.”

  “She’ll miss you. When you go away.”

  He put his hands on Carrie’s waist. Her head shot up. “You were wrong about me,” he said in a low, level tone. “I do want you, in the same way. Just as you said—everything.” Her eyes softened indulgently; she didn’t believe him. He slid his hands to her hips and gripped them hard. “I want to lie with you and make love,” he said starkly, enjoying the shock in her face when he said it. “I’ve wanted us to be lovers since that night on the bridge, the first time we kissed.” Her eyes shone; her mouth widened enticingly with surprise. “But, Carrie, I—”

  She heard only “But” and tried to twist away. He gripped her harder and kept her still. “But I’m going away,” he whispered, his lips grazing the crown of her head. “Carrie, my darling, I have to leave you. I must.”

  Her bright, gentle smile, at once hopeful and forbearing, took his breath away. “I don’t care,” she whispered back. “I love you. I never thought you would stay. Did you think I thought you would marry me? Oh, Ty, I just love you. I just love you.”

  She defeated him. Circling her in his arms, he held her close, and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair.

  16

  HE WANTED TO LOOK a little longer at their reflection in the bureau mirror, because the view of his big, suntanned hands sliding across Carrie’s stomach and stretching the white fabric of his shirt tight over her hips was an erotic pleasure he wasn’t ready to relinquish. But she pivoted in his arms and embraced him, and then kissing her seemed like an even better idea.

  For Carrie, it was as if they’d never kissed before and this was their first, or at least their first free, uncomplicated kiss, with neither of them holding back or trying to ignore a guilty conscience. Her mouth opened under his gentle probing and welcomed his warm, sleeking tongue, sucking on it softly until he growled low in his throat and pressed his hands against her spine to bring her nearer. “I don’t want to hurt you, Carrie,” he whispered, “and I might, inadvertently. So you must tell me if I do. Promise.”

  She ran the tip of her index finger along the furrow between his dark eyebrows. “I promise,” she said dreamily.

  “I mean it.” He frowned harder at the spreading, blue-black contusion at her temple. “How do you feel?”

  She licked her lips delicately, tasting him. “How do you think?”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Seriously.”

  Her arms around his neck tightened. “Oh, Ty. I think you must’ve given me happiness medicine.” She laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes, to enjoy the feel of his fingers soothing the hair back from her forehead. He had the cleverest hands. “We’re going to make love, aren’t we,” she said on a long sigh, a statement more than a question—but needing to make sure.

  “Yes.” It didn’t feel like capitulation to him anymore; it felt like a gift. He pressed his mouth to her hairline, letting stray wisps tickle his nose.

  She lifted her face. Behind her shining eyes lurked a question, shy but also bewitchingly matter-of-fact: Well, what now?

  What, indeed. Of course he must handle her with great care and utmost tenderness, go slowly, lead her along this new, risk-strewn path with deliberate consideration, for in every way but technically Carrie was a virgin. But behind her, in the mirror, his hands had hiked the nightshirt up to the tops of her long thighs, and he could see the narrow white crescents of her buttocks gleaming like smooth marble under the hem. In the unexpected flash of lust that scorched him, he wanted more than anything to strip her bare and take her where she stood.

  Instead he took her hand and led her to the bed; they sat down on the edge, side by side. He smiled at the prim straightness of her back, and trailed his fingers up and down to relax it. She smiled back, enjoying that, but behind her sensuously drooping lids blinked the eyes of a very alert and attentive pupil. He slipped his fingers inside the square neck of the shirt and stroked them softly across her chest, discovering that her skin was as smooth as warm glass. “Amazing how much better this shirt looks on you than me,” he observed.

  Carrie tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs weren’t expanding quite right anymore. “Shall I take it off?”

  He shook his head very slowly. “I will.”

  Her heart gave an extra heavy pound, then missed the next beat entirely. Even kissing him, she’d never felt like this before. Ty taking her clothes off was a powerful thing; it would’ve scared her to death if it hadn’t been so thrilling. Every button he unbuttoned gave her body a new jolt; it started behind her ribs and shot all the way down to her feet, making her go soft as butter inside. The last button was right over her woman’s place, and the feel of his fingers there made her flex her thighs together. He slipped his hands in and coasted his warm, dry palms slowly over her pelvis, her stomach, right between her breasts, across her collarbone and up to her shoulders. He pushed the open shirt behind her arms, and when he looked at her bare breasts, she felt the tips pucker and crinkle. Just for a second, she was embarrassed. She might’ve tried to cover herself, but her arms were stuck to her sides in the nightshirt’s long sleeves. But then Ty put his fingers on her breasts and made little circles, and then he pinched the peaks ever so gently. Her head fell back. It felt like shooting stars were popping and sparking in her nipples and then zinging away, down to her vitals. It didn’t last long enough, though—he stopped, and when she opened her eyes he was scowling at her throat. “Bastard,” she thought he muttered.

  “Don’t look there, Ty. Don’t think about it,” she advised, whispering. “We won’t let him spoil this.”

  He took her face between his hands, holding her jaws and feathering his thumbs across her cheeks. “Sweet Carrie, I’m sorry for what he did to you. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m all right, though. I’m so happy right now.”

  He kissed her with all the tenderness in him, over and over, each kiss taking them deeper, binding them tighter. She was drawing deep gulps of air when she could, her breath coming
fast and hot in his mouth; he felt her move under his hands, and opened his eyes to see her squirming the rest of the way out of the nightshirt. He began to unbutton his own shirt, but she put her fingers over his to stop him. “I will,” she said in her husky voice, and his whole body tightened.

  She started out boldly enough, but about halfway down his chest Carrie got pudding-fingered, because shocking pictures of where all this undressing was leading to kept flashing in her mind’s eye. But she finally did it, got every last button undone. “Oh, you’re beautiful,” she breathed, pulling his shirt wide open. “I always knew it, and now …”

  “Now?”

  “Now I get to touch you.” She spread her palms across the hard, horizontal ridges of muscle that lay over his stomach, amazed at how soft his skin was there—she hadn’t thought he’d be soft anywhere. He wasn’t covered all over with hair, like Artemis; he only had a downy, light-brown sprinkle in the center of his chest. It narrowed at the bottom to a fascinating arrow that trailed down his flat belly and disappeared into his trousers. She didn’t have the nerve to explore that—yet—but she couldn’t resist putting an index finger on one of his flat nipples, the way he’d done for her. But it didn’t do a thing for him—not until she gave it a little flick with her fingernail. Then it turned to a hard bead, and Ty sucked in his breath. “Aha,” she murmured. “So.”

  “So,” he agreed, beguiled by her keen-eyed, gentlehanded exploration.

  “I don’t know anything,” she wailed, suddenly dismayed. “Nothing at all. All the things to do, all the differences between a man and a woman—Ty, I’m not going to be any good, I’ll just—”

  “Be quiet,” he commanded, kissing her to make sure she did. “It’s all right not to know anything. You can’t hurt me—everything you do pleases me. It’s all good between us, Carrie. All good.” He took her down in a long, drugging kiss, pressing her into the feather mattress. When she tried to protest, offer more reasons for why she wasn’t going to be any good, he seized her wrists. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he instructed, nudging her lips apart and slipping his tongue deep inside.