“Anne,” she supplied, already smiling at the homely, cordial features of the big-shouldered man.
“Anne,” he echoed, shooting a stern look at Jake, and threw an arm around her shoulder as he led her inside. “Carla. We’re getting a divorce!” he shouted to someone in another room.
“How about next Tuesday?” a feminine voice shouted back to him.
He paid no attention, his eyes on Anne as he gave her a bear-type hug. “You’re a lot prettier than he ever let on,” Jake’s friend told her, and leveled another threatening stare over her shoulder. “You could have brought her any day but Thursday, when we might have had a chance to get to know her.”
“Anne can cope with the crowd,” Jake assured him.
Reed took it upon himself to ensure that Anne felt comfortable, introducing himself before he rattled off another eight names…eight, nine, ten…of the other people gathered in the two rooms she could see. A beer can was placed in her hand, and just as promptly taken away.
“The ladies are having cherry punch,” a redheaded wisp of a woman informed Reed. She wiped her hands on a dish towel as she rose up on tiptoe to kiss Jake. Rapidly, she scolded a child for turning the sound too high on a TV set in another room, and then extricated Anne from the bearlike grip of her husband. “I’m Carla, Reed’s wife, if you haven’t already guessed. Come on into the kitchen with me. You can’t enter a whole houseful of strange people and sit down by yourself. Who are you going to talk to? I always feel terrible when I have to do that. Reed, you big oaf, bring her some punch. Oh, wait, maybe you’d rather have beer…”
“Punch is fine,” Anne assured her, preferring something nonalcoholic. She added immediately, “But anything is fine.”
“That’s exactly how I feel when I’m making potato salad,” Carla agreed with an impish grin. “I hate making potato salad. For heaven’s sake, keep me company…”
The kitchen was no less chaotic than the rest of the comfortable house. Two high school boys with their father’s jowls were stomping in the back door, peeking at sealed containers on the crowded counters as they sauntered through. A woman with stern features and a smile of pure sunshine started a second conversation with Anne as Carla continued chattering. Anne caught her name-Alice. Carla placed some deviled eggs in front of her, to be transferred to a serving plate, and tied an apron around her waist. They had shouted down her earlier offers to help, but this just wasn’t the kind of household where one could sit on the sidelines and worry about being shy.
Gradually, Anne sorted out what was happening. When Reed’s mine was open, he and Carla celebrated Thursdays. The people in the other rooms were their kids and neighbors, miners, people who worked in the town. Two were mining professors from Spokane; another was a doctor. They all seemed to get together regularly once a week. Each guest brought a dish to pass and a six-pack of beer.
“Usually the beer is warm, since my fridge’ll only hold so much,” Carla admitted. She leveled a worried stare at Anne. “You like the punch? It’s a mixture of crushed apples and cherries. I made it myself in the fall, but it doesn’t turn out the same way every year.”
“It’s delicious,” Anne said truthfully. The drink was tangy and cool; her throat was parched, and she’d drunk two glasses already.
Dinner was set out haphazardly on the kitchen table, to be collected in equally haphazard fashion and eaten wherever one could find a seat. The menu was simple: ham, potato salad, bright red Jell-O, sweet potatoes in a hickory-nut sauce, chestnut bread. Anne caught a glimpse of Jake an hour later, when he came in to get a plate-and, perhaps, to check up on her. His palm made a circle at the small of her back. “Doing okay?”
“Absolutely fine.” Her smile was meant to tell him she didn’t need taking care of. She’d seen he was engrossed in a nonstop conversation with one of the mining professors and a burly man she assumed was a miner.
“Anne?”
She glanced up from filling her plate.
“Watch the punch, honey.”
She glanced at the table and noticed that the punch bowl was almost empty and that her hostess had her hands full. When she’d found the pitcher in the refrigerator and refilled the bowl, Anne meant to sit next to Jake, but Reed claimed her, steering her to a seat next to him in the already crowded living room.
“He’ll talk your ear off,” Carla warned Anne. “When you’ve had enough, just call out for Jake.”
“We’re going to talk about our divorce,” Reed informed his wife.
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve been promising me that for eighteen years.” Carla handed her husband her plate and went to retrieve a sprawling six-year-old from the top of the bookcase. Carla then reclaimed her own dinner and wandered among guests, a bright red bird with ceaseless energy.
“I love that woman,” Reed informed Anne.
Anne chuckled as she speared a forkful of food. “Have you two always lived here?”
“Our families have been here four generations. Always the silver… Once it gets in your blood, it’s damn hard to get it out.” He gestured in Jake’s general direction. “He’s the exception to the rule. Most times we’re friendly people here, but to have someone new arrive and try to settle down as one of us…” He shook his head. “Just doesn’t happen. He’s nothing like the rest of us, but he still fits in, if you get my meaning. You going to marry him?”
“Mmm,” Anne said expressively-savoring the taste of the ham.
Reed nodded to his eldest son, who filled Anne’s glass yet another time with Carla’s delightful punch. The room grew increasingly warm; Anne grew increasingly thirsty. Talk finally turned to mining. Anne had the feeling that was inevitable. She settled back next to her host once she’d finished her dinner.
This mine was open; that one just closed; Harvey had been hurt; there had been an explosion and a fire… Anne listened, feeling like a foreigner trying to absorb the flavor of their lives. The men lived with real danger day by day in the mines. There was always the chance that a mine would close when the economy shifted or a vein ran out. No one ever considered leaving, though. Even Harvey, who’d been hurt, would stay in the mining community; they would care for him until he was well enough to get a job. These people cared for their own, and had for generations. Their loyalty to one another touched her heart.
Reed kept reaching over to pat her knee. You’re accepted, said the gesture. He delivered the same proprietary pat periodically to the fanny of his passing six-year-old. The thought made her unexpectedly feel like giggling. Jake had been engrossed for the hour and a half since dinner in a conversation with three men, but he shot her an occasional glance. Are you still doing all right? Certainly, certainly, certainly. She felt like laughing again.
“You sure can hold your wine, can’t you, sweetheart?” Reed patted her knee yet another time. “I respect a woman who can hold her liquor.”
“Me, too,” Anne answered blankly, wondering what on earth he was talking about. She hadn’t drunk anything but cherry punch…but even as a sudden, alarming thought registered, Reed’s eldest son was in front of her again, filling her glass to the brim and sending her a twinkling grin. She made a hurried attempt to count exactly how many times she’d seen that twinkling grin…when a hiccup erupted from her throat. Anne turned tomato-red.
“I should have known any woman of Jake’s could drink ’em under the table,” Reed roared in approval.
“Enough of this mining talk. Music, everybody. You have any favorite songs, darlin’?”
“Thousands,” Anne agreed brightly. She loved music. From across the room, Jake’s pewter-colored eyes suddenly came into focus. He looked distressed. Distressed? She waved a vague reassurance in his direction.
“Rafe and Benjy!” Two men got up to take their fiddles from their cases, with laughter and clapping approval from the rest. “Stand up, honey,” Reed ordered her.
Anne obediently stood, for the first time in two hours. Jake’s face went out of focus, but that really didn’t matter. Every
one was laughing. Laughing and happy. The fiddlers’ bows were dancing lightly over the strings.
“You first, darlin’. What do you want to sing?” Reed asked her.
The question made no sense. Anne cleared her throat. “Not sure I understand,” she admitted happily.
“We play Round the Horn. All of us get a chance to sing our favorite tune. Doesn’t matter what kind of music you like-anything goes. Here, honey.” Reed handed her another full glass of Carla’s delightfully refreshing cherry punch.
Jake was suddenly, miraculously by her side, apparently having traveled at the speed of light. He intercepted the glass. Anne looked at him in surprise, took her punch back and leaned contentedly against his shoulder. “Jake wants to sing first,” she told Reed, and took another sip of the homemade nectar. Was she really going to have to sing in front of all these people? Normally, the thought would have struck an appalling note of panic in her. Regardless, she was certainly in a mood to hear everyone else. Especially Jake. He was handsome as the very devil, an oddly watchful spark in his eyes for Anne as he took up the challenge, clearly having been through this before.
Leaning back against the edge of the couch, he took Anne with him; an iron hand crept around her waist. Which was nice, because her knees suddenly felt like Jell-O, and being locked between his thighs was not unpleasant. She took just one more sip from her glass before he started to sing. She seemed to have been dying of thirst all evening. In the meantime, Jake’s first song fell flat. “Violets for Her Furs,” an old jazz melody. It failed because no one else could conceivably know the connotation but Anne, and secondly because Jake, sad but true, was tone-deaf. His second song enjoyed a better reception.
It was “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain When She Comes,” except that Jake’s verse had nothing to do with chicken ’n’ dumplings. “She’ll be teasing up a tempest when she comes” was how it started-and it deteriorated drastically from there.
These people liked their songs ribald. Lord, they went crazy, stomping their feet and laughing. They were really a hard-drinking bunch, Anne thought vaguely, although Jake, behind her, was still nursing the beer he’d started out with. The man to the left of Jake sang a mountain tune about a nubile young lass. The lyrics turned his wife’s ears red; but then, she certainly had a song to match his for lewdness. Carla, the sweet homemaker, came up with a Western melody about cowboys and what they did on lonely nights. As each person took a turn, the tunes grew even lustier. The fiddles had everyone’s feet stomping.
One by one, around the circle of the room, all of the guests offered songs. Anne’s cheeks were flushed from laughter and heat when Reed thumped her shoulder. “Your turn, darlin’.”
With her limbs sheer liquid, Anne was not about to spoil the party. But what song did she know of that nature? She handed Jake her empty glass, ignoring the message he was trying to send her with his eyes. She certainly had no intention of letting him down. The old fear that she could never fit into Jake’s life… Well, one could get tired of being pegged as inhibited and proper.
This was her chance to change her image. Confidently, she delivered a throaty, sexy rendition of a bawdy old Bessie Smith song.
“Keep on truckin’, Mama. Trucking all the whole day long…”
Anne threw one hip west, caught in Jake’s palm.
“She’s the best truck driver this side of town…”
She threw the other hip east, crashing again into Jake’s opposite palm before she could accomplish the bump-and-grind action she had in mind. She delivered the rest of the song in a breathy roar.
“…’Cause she does her truckin’ from the hips on down. Keep on truckin’, Mama, truckin’ all your cares away…”
They definitely liked the chorus. Anne was envisioning a singing career, her cheek molded to Jake’s shirt. Bessie Smith hadn’t been the only one who could belt out a song. Her limp arm extended, Anne accepted pumping handshake after handshake, as Jake moved with her toward the front door. He had one arm tucked under her knees and the other around her waist. Being carried certainly beat walking.
Carla was trailing after them. “Dammit, I’ll kill him for making her sing. If she doesn’t come back here after this because of Reed, he’s going to have that divorce he’s been joshing me about all these years. Jake, you know he was just trying to make sure she wasn’t nervous with a bunch of strangers, that she could be comfortable with this-”
“It’s all right,” Jake assured Carla.
From about a million miles away, Anne was still humming, tapping out a tune on the second button of Jake’s shirt.
“I’m still going to kill him,” Carla reiterated with relish.
Who cared? Who really cared? Murder was on the front page of every newspaper. Jake’s buttons never rated headlines. Because no one knew, Anne thought sleepily. No one had any idea about the sexy hair on his chest. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Carla,” Anne sang out politely.
“You want an aspirin for her?” Carla asked Jake. “I’ve got black coffee on the stove…”
“Much better than purple coffee,” Anne said happily.
Neither Carla nor Jake seemed to be paying her any particular attention. “It’s my fault,” Carla said. “Everyone who comes in knows the punch is spiked. I should have warned Anne.”
“Carla, there isn’t a bit of long-term harm done.” Over Anne’s limp body, Jake and their hostess exchanged a last peck on the cheek. Which struck Anne as terribly funny.
Giggling, she noticed vaguely that the warm, crowded room suddenly turned into a black chill night. Jake’s chest drew her like a magnet. She tried to mold herself around that warmth like clay. “Want to make love?” she whispered up to him seductively.
“First, I’d like to negotiate these stairs,” he whispered back. “Either you stop squirming or you’re going over my shoulder fireman-style.”
An idle threat if she’d ever heard one. “I had a wonderful time. I love your friends, Jake. I love Idaho. I love this night. I love…”
“Yes?”
Her finger poked his chest. “You never thought I’d sing in front of a bunch of people, did you? Old inhibited, proper Anne. Couldn’t strip in front of that hot tub to save my life. I knew what you were thinking-old, boring Anne. I keep waiting for you to be bored…”
“I have never-” breathing heavily, he adjusted her 110 pounds in his arms at the bottom of the steps “-never been bored with you, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead.
“You do want to make love,” she whispered hoarsely, brimming with satisfaction.
“I just thought I’d take a little on account. Something tells me you’ll be breathing fire in the morning.”
“Like a dragon, Jake?”
“A dragoness.”
That made more sense. She fell asleep.
Chapter 12
Anne woke up to a pair of bright gray eyes leaning over her. Too-bright eyes, and an offensively cheerful smile. She dragged her comforter back over her head, and settled her five-hundred-pound head back into the pillow.
“Now, Anne. I have a nice plain piece of toast here for you.”
“No, thank you.”
“One tiny glass of grapefruit juice, two brewer’s yeast tablets…”
“God. No, thank you.”
“All I want you to do is put a little something in your stomach. Then you can go back to sleep while I drive.”
Going to sleep sounded good; grapefruit juice did not. She seemed to be waking up far too fast. Vague, distorted memories from the night before were trying to rush at her. “Did I…?” She spoke directly to the comforter. “Jake, if I did anything to embarrass you in front of your friends…”
“You don’t remember?”
She took a breath. That was a mistake. A knife sliced directly into her temples. “I’m sorry. Really sorry,” she said unhappily. “Jake, it tasted like fruit juice, and there were so many people that it was hot in there. By the time I realized… Carla
told me it was homemade, but I thought she meant…”
“Excuses, excuses.” Jake mercilessly tugged the comforter away from her face. “There’s my big drinker,” he said affectionately, a grin just dying to be let out of the corner of his mouth. “When I tell the lady to watch the punch bowl, she certainly watches the punch bowl.” He took advantage of her parted lips to nudge a sliver of toast inside. “I really think you should be all upset about this, honey. I mean, it’s a terrible habit you’ve built up. You’ve had too much to drink exactly once in thirty-one years.” His forefinger tapped her nose. “It’s just a real shame you don’t remember last night, since you had such a good time. You kept most of your clothes on, honestly, you did.”
He sauntered up to the driver’s seat and started the engine. Anne stared after him. As the engine vibrated to life, she rather hastily realized she had a glass of grapefruit juice in her hand, trying not to spill.
She downed it, grimaced and edged out of the bed. It was no small punishment for the night before, trying to get dressed while Jake drove down Killer Road. They were going to Coeur d’Alene; she applauded herself for remembering that…
Jake was humming a vaguely familiar tune when she made her way up to the passenger seat, planning to sit in total silence. The song got to her after a time, though. It was the kind of tune that could drive her crazy trying to remember a title she thought she knew. “What is it?” she asked finally.
“The one you sang last night.” He started humming again.
Anne drew an imaginary hat down around her ears and curled up in the seat, her knees tucked up to her chin. The words to the song came to her. All of them. Particularly the chorus.
“And did you belt it out,” Jake said admiringly.
“One might be tempted to suggest that you’ve already gotten your licks in,” Anne said politely.
“Reed was ready to divorce Carla for you… Reed and the rest of the men there. You know, the guys whose mining stories you were sweet enough to listen to for more than two hours. The women, now, they can appreciate anyone who lets off a little tension from time to time. It’s not the easiest life, being married to a miner. Now, if you’d stuck your nose in the air and looked down on them, you’d have had a little problem going back, but as it is…” Jake flashed her a crooked smile. “You’re invited for the next three thousand Thursdays.”
Silver and Spice Page 14
