The Dixie Virgin Chronicles: Bea (Book 4)

by Peggy Webb

  “Never.” Jed leaned over and kissed his wife’s cheek. “You’ll never grow old, Glory Ethel.”

  “On that fine note, let’s eat.... No. Wait.” Glory Ethel held up her hand. “My daughter’s friend, Russ Hammond, is with us this year. We welcome him.”

  “Daddy,” a child in the back of the room said, “can’t we ever eat?”

  With much laughter and good-natured teasing, the Adams clan began their meal. Glory Ethel loved parties and had outdone herself for this one. Folding tables had been set up, and each one sported a lace-edged white cloth and a bouquet of flowers. The long buffet table along the south wall was fairly groaning with food—ham and biscuits and fried chicken and sawmill gravy and beans, snapped fresh from Aunt Sukie’s garden and kept frozen till the reunion; cakes and cookies and tarts and pies, made from the apples straight from Uncle Howard’s backyard tree.

  Bea and Russ sat at the table with Samuel and Molly. The meal was lively with lots of laughter and plenty of good conversation. Russ had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a crowd. And he couldn’t remember what it was like to be part of a family. He had no living relatives, and neither had Lurlene. So even their brief marriage had not provided him with a sense of belonging to some larger clan, of being a part of a family.

  Suddenly all the conversation in the room stopped. Two women at the table behind Russ gasped, and Bea’s face turned white. He reached for her hand.

  “Bea. What’s the matter?”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway. Russ turned and saw a man standing there, a tall handsome man who bore a striking resemblance to both Bea and Samuel Adams.

  “At ease, folks. I’m not a ghost.” The man’s dark eyes darted around the gathering, taking in everything. When he found Bea and Samuel, he strode forward.

  “It’s Taylor Adams. Mack, it’s your nephew, Taylor.” Aunt Rachel’s voice carried around the room. “He has his gall.”

  Bea watched in astonishment as her father came toward her table. He’d said he was not a ghost, but he might as well have been. In her heart, he’d been dead since he’d walked out on her mother all those years ago.

  She gripped the edge of the table, hoping she was in the middle of a nightmare, hoping she’d wake up and discover she’d been dreaming. But he was real; she heard his voice, saw his black eyes. And he kept on coming.

  When he was at their table, Taylor Adams stopped and leaned down to kiss Molly’s cheek. “My dear, you look lovely.” Then he reached out and gripped his son’s hand. “Samuel. Good to see you.”

  Bea was frozen, speechless. Her brother was sitting across the table acting as if he’d seen Taylor yesterday, acting as if the man had done nothing more than leave them for a Sunday stroll.

  “Bea.” Taylor’s voice was deep and rich as it had always been. She used to love for him to read bedtime stories to her. “You’re more beautiful than I could ever imagine.”

  He came around the table toward her. She suddenly found the strength to move. Without saying a word, she left the table.

  “Bea.” It was Taylor, calling after her. She kept on going. Let him call. Let him see what it felt like to be left behind. She maintained her dignity all the way to the door. Once she was out of sight of the relatives, she bolted. There was only one place she could go. She made her way down the hall and through the kitchen, intensely aware of the smell of fried chicken and the man she was running from.

  The back door shut behind her, and she ran out so fast she lost one of her shoes. The thick grove of trees loomed ahead and she plunged in then sank to her knees. Pine needles and fallen leaves made a thick brown cushion. A squirrel, angry at her intrusion, chattered at her then scurried up a water oak tree and sat scolding on a branch.

  She was sick to her stomach. Leaning over, she heaved, but nothing came up. She bowed her head and clutched at the earth.

  “Bea.”

  She didn’t even look up.

  “Go away, Samuel.”

  “No, Bea.” He sat down beside her.

  She turned accusing eyes toward him. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew he’d be coming.”

  “Yes.”

  “How? Why?”

  “How is a long story. After I married Molly, I realized that I couldn’t keep hiding my head in the sand. Taylor Adams left us. That’s true. But he’s still our father.”

  “Maybe he’s yours. He’s not mine.”

  “Yes, he is, Bea. What he did doesn’t change that.”

  “A father takes care of his children. He picks them up and carries them to bed every night. He reads them stories and teaches them to play ball and cheers at their school plays and cries at their graduation. Taylor didn’t do any of that.”

  “That wasn’t entirely his fault, Bea.”

  “Are you saying it was Mother’s fault? How dare you!”

  “Bea, I’m not saying Taylor didn’t make a terrible mistake. I’m not saying he was a good father. He wasn’t there to talk to us or to bandage our wounds or to cheer us on. But he did make some provisions for us.”

  “What provisions?”

  “Through Uncle Howard. I only found out about it two years ago.” Samuel smoothed his sister’s hair as he talked. He knew the healing power of touch. Molly had taught him that. “He set aside trust funds for our education. Mother was too proud to use them. She was determined to make it on her own.”

  “She did, too. She didn’t need Taylor Adams. I don’t need Taylor Adams.”

  “You do. You need him and you just don’t know it.”

  “What can he do for me now? Watch while I drive off in my fancy used car? Take credit when I cash my salary check?” Fury made her eyes black. “What I am is due to my own ability and the love of my mother and my brother. I don’t owe him a damned thing, not even a decent hello.”

  “You owe yourself, Bea.”

  “It’s not like you to pussyfoot around, Samuel. Tell it to me straight. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

  “Then I’ll tell you straight out. We invited Taylor here.”

  “You.”

  “Yes. Mother knew. We had her blessing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would you have come?”

  Bea was thoughtful for a moment, then she answered with typical honesty. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “What do you want me to do, Samuel? Go in there and hug him and kiss his cheek like a good little girl? Go in there and pretend he’s my daddy?”

  “Dammit.” Bea rarely saw her brother explode, but he did now. “You’re just as all-fired stubborn now as you were when you were ten years old.”

  “Maybe I am, Samuel. I don’t know.” She picked at the grass and pine needles. “Go away. Go back inside to Molly. I want to be alone.”

  Samuel had always been sensitive to her moods, and now he stood up to leave. Bea knew he didn’t want to. Samuel was a fixer. He hated to leave something behind that he couldn’t fix.

  To soften the blow, she reached for his hand and smiled up at him.

  “Tell Aunt Rachel to save me a piece of pie.”

  o0o

  When Samuel got back to the house, Russ was waiting for him in the hallway.

  “How is she? What did she say? What is she doing?”

  Samuel reached for his pipe, and then remembered that he hadn’t smoked in years.

  “She’s out back in the grove, just as I knew she would be. And she’s fine. She just wants to be alone.”

  As Samuel talked, he studied the play of emotions on Russ Hammond’s face.

  “I know you wanted to go after her, Russ. I want to thank you for letting me do it. There were some things I had to tell her.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.” Samuel recognized that protective tone in Russ’s voice. It was one he used himself with Molly. Contentment rose in him like yeast until he was swollen with it, bursting with pride and joy an
d deep, abiding satisfaction.

  Russ stood beside him, watchful, barely restraining his urge to ask questions, to demand answers. Samuel saw all of that, and he understood. Suddenly he came to a decision.

  “Come into the library with me, Russ. There are some things I want you to know. Family things.”

  When they were seated in leather chairs and locked behind closed doors, Samuel told Russ Hammond the story of Taylor Adams. Russ listened without comment.

  He sat silently long after the sound of Samuel’s voice had died away, and then he stood up.

  “Thank you, Samuel.” He took Samuel’s hand in a firm grip, and then turned toward the door.

  “Where are you going?’’

  “To Bea. The last thing she needs right now is to be alone.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Samuel said I’d find you here.”

  Bea squeezed the pine needles in her hand and glanced over her shoulder. Russ was three feet from her, looking as solid and tranquil as the tree beside him, holding on to the shoe she’d lost in the yard.

  “I told Samuel I wanted to be alone.”

  “He relayed that message.” Russ sat down beside her, tossed the shoe aside and pulled her into his arms. “You’re hurting, Bea. Lean on me.”

  She fought the urge to bury her face against his chest and cry. “I don’t need to lean. I need to be strong.” She sat stiffly in the curve of his arms, determined to be strong.

  “You need me, Bea. And I’m not going to let you go.”

  “I don’t need anybody. Not you, and certainly not Taylor Adams.”

  “Don’t fight it, Bea. Don’t keep running away.”

  “I’m not running away. I’m sitting in the sunshine watching the squirrels.”

  She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the truth in her eyes. In spite of her resolutions to be strong and mature and intelligent, she was scared.

  But not as scared as she had been before Russ sat down beside her. She wanted to cuddle up to him the way she had on the mountain during the thunderstorm, but he’d be leaving soon. He’d go back to traveling the roads in his pickup truck, and she’d go back to Dallas and date another string of Mr. Wrongs and fight the dragon boss and pretend she was climbing the ladder to success.

  “Bea.” Russ cupped her chin with one hand and gently turned her face toward his. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Your father.” He held her chin and studied her face.

  If he ever needed wisdom, he needed it now. Gazing down at Bea, he felt the urge to be everything for her—her confidante, her counselor, her friend, her protector. But most of all, he felt the need to ease her loneliness.

  “I barely remember my father,” he said. “I was so young when he died. Over the years I suppose I’ve created him, made him larger than life.”

  He rubbed her upper arms, his touch saying, I’m here for you, Bea.

  “I don’t know what he would have been like if he had lived. Maybe he would have been a careless father or a negligent father or even an absentee father.’’

  “Like Taylor,” she said.

  “Like Taylor,” Russ agreed. “But a father, still.”

  Bea pressed closer to him and somehow that small movement made her feel safe.

  “I never knew you didn’t have a father.”

  “Nor a mother. I grew up with a series of foster parents.”

  “At least you had two parents to love you.”

  “They were paid to keep me, Bea. Not to love me.”

  How could anyone not have loved Russ? She felt broken inside. And selfish. And guilty.

  “I’m so sorry, Russ. So sorry.”

  He turned her hand over and kissed her palm. Then, because it felt right, he kissed it again, lingering until he had absorbed the fragrance and texture of her skin.

  “I guess what I’m saying, Bea, is that we don’t often get second chances to have a father, a real father.”

  She watched the squirrels playing in the trees. Then she turned her attention to a mockingbird, scolding and chattering nearby. How easy it would be to drift along, letting nature take its course. Taylor would leave; he couldn’t stay forever. And she could wait him out, just sit back and watch from a distance until he gave up and went away.

  “I remember growing up in this house, Russ.” She propped her elbow on her knees and cupped her chin. “I remember running home from school sometimes, hoping that Taylor had come back, wishing he would be in the kitchen waiting for me, holding a glass of milk and some cookies and telling some silly story about why he had gone away. I imagined he’d say he had gone to be a circus clown so he could learn to make his children laugh, or that he had gone out west so he could come back and tell us authentic cowboy stories.”

  “Children often wish for things they can’t have, Bea. I wished for a pet—a puppy, a turtle, a goldfish. I didn’t care, as long as I had something to call my own.”

  “Did you get a pet, Russ?”

  “Once. I had an old stray dog two weeks before he died.” He put his hand on the back of her neck and laced his fingers through her dark hair. “Bea, we’re not children anymore.”

  “Are you telling me to grow up?” She turned and smiled at him.

  “No. I’m telling you that you have a choice to make. You didn’t have a father when you were a child, but it seems that you can have one now.”

  “What would you do, Russ?”

  He sat very still, his eyes darkening as he studied her. Overhead a mockingbird scolded a squirrel, and it scampered away, sending a shower of leaves drifting toward Bea’s hair.

  He remembered another time, another place, another woman with blossoms in her hair. Need ripped through him, but it wasn’t Lurlene he wanted. It wasn’t Lurlene who made his pulse quicken and his breathing ragged.

  “If I were you,” he said, “I would kiss me.”

  “You would?” Her eyes widened and her face grew soft. “Why?”

  “Because it would taste good.”

  Bea’s pulse quickened, and she felt a lethargy creeping over her.

  “Anything else?” she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  “Because it would feel good.”

  She tipped her face up to his. Not unconsciously, but deliberately. She was making a choice, a choice to give something back to this wonderful man who had given her so much.

  “And...” she whispered.

  His hands bracketed her face and he bent over her, so close she could feel his beard tickle her chin.

  “And—” his head dipped lower “—because I need you and you need me.”

  As if fate had decreed it, he lowered his mouth to hers. She welcomed him, weaving her arms around his neck and pulling him so close he could feel her heart beating against his.

  He tipped her head back and trailed his open mouth down the side of her throat. She had never known a man’s lips could feel like home. She felt passion, certainly. And desire. But most of all, she felt as if she had come home.

  “Russ... Russ...” She said his name over and over, loving the way it sounded, the way it felt on her tongue.

  He lowered her to a carpet of pine needles and stretched full length on top of her, being careful not to crush her under his weight.

  “A public place,” he said, “but I can’t resist.”

  “The bower is secluded. No one will see.”

  He pulled her hard against his chest, and they rolled together, mouths locked and legs entwined. The passion that had been simmering between them since that night in the Quachita Mountains exploded. She pulled his shirt loose from his waistband and slid her hands over his bare back. Through the layers of clothes, she could feel the heat and the size of him.

  “Ahhh, Russ...”

  “You feel so good, Bea. You taste so good.” He murmured to her softly between kisses. “You almost make me believe in love.”

  His words drifted slowly through the fog of desir
e that clouded her brain and finally sank in. Her hands stilled. What was she doing? She was dangerously close to giving her heart to a man who didn’t believe in love, a man who freely admitted that he would have left his wife if she hadn’t left him first. Russ Hammond was wonderful and kind and understanding and chivalrous and lovely to look at, but he was a drifter, a man who would hit the road when the notion struck.

  She didn’t think she could stand any more goodbyes of the important kind, goodbyes to people she loved. It was best all around not to fall in love.

  “Russ?”

  “Hmm?”

  She shivered as he nibbled the tender skin below her ear. “I want to thank you for all you’ve done.”

  “To thank me?” He lifted himself on his elbow and gazed down at her.

  “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she might change her mind. And then, heaven help them all. “And to pay you, Russ. I’ve never paid you.”

  “You want to give me money, Bea?”

  “Yes. That was our bargain.”

  Russ sat up, taking Bea with him. He kept one arm draped around her shoulder because he couldn’t bear to let her go, not yet. Then he gazed upward into the pines. A ray of sunlight filtered down through the thick branches.

  It seemed to him that he was always seeing sunlight from a distance, that it never quite reached him, never quite touched him. Turning, he looked at the white Victorian house. Such a homey, comfortable house. A man could get used to living in a house like that. Or any house, for that matter.

  No, he corrected himself. Not any house. A special house. One with clean sheets and polished floors and a hall clock that ticked and a beautiful woman who waited at the windows, watching for the man she loved to come home.

  It was foolish of him to be dreaming. Bea was out of his reach, always had been, always would be. And anyhow, he hadn’t given himself permission to be reaching, not on any permanent basis, anyhow. He guessed fatigue had made him see things in a crooked, upside-down way.

  He turned back to her, his smile tinged with sadness. Bea Adams didn’t need him anymore.

  Whatever happened, she could handle it without him. Oh, maybe not as well as if he were there. But, he couldn’t hang around indefinitely, waiting for her car to quit or for kidnappers to come or for somebody to get stuck on a bridge. It was time for both of them to get on with their lives.