They sat together in the porch swing, in the dark, where the beams of the streetlight did not reach. Marilee, in jeans and a thick sweater, was cocooned in a quilt. She snuggled up against Tate, who wore his suede jacket and refused to cocoon with her.
Why was it that men could not abide wrapping in a quilt? It was cozy, two wrapped together.
“Makes me feel tangled,” Tate said. “If some-thin’ happened—the house caught on fire, or an attacker came up—I’d have to get unwrapped from the quilt before I could defend us.”
And men said women had great imaginations. “Remember bundling?” she asked.
“Way before my time,” he replied, and gently rocked the swing, causing a slight squeak with each sway.
Squeak, squeak, squeak. She really needed to grease the porch swing chain.
After a moment, she said, “I believe tonight Stuart got a taste of the rigors of parenthood.”
“Huh? What did he do?”
Good question. “I guess he got to observe it all. The time and energy it takes to clean up unexpected messes.”
“That’s about it. He observes well and gets fed in the bargain.”
She thought she detected a note of deprecation in his voice and found it satisfying. No woman ever wanted her man to be patient with an old lover. It had been gratifying that he and Parker had been rivals. Their rivalry had distressed her, but it had also given her satisfaction, she thought, being totally honest with herself. Although, seeing their friendship now, she felt pleased. It was odd how feelings could change.
Probably she should be appreciative of Tate’s patience in many matters, and she was appreciative, but at the same time his patience could get on her nerves. In her estimation, Tate could be too patient at times. For one thing, his level of patience very often showed hers to a disadvantage, and it got tiring to always be the one to lose patience first.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
She had lost a bit of patience with the tomato juice. It had seemed to go everywhere. Willie Lee had seen her exasperation and cried, “I am sor-ry to make you mad, Ma-ma.” He could never stand for her to be angry. Corrine had helped her to clean up the tomato juice. Dear, precious Corrine.
“I never, ever want to have to deal with skunk smell again,” she said.
“Oh, I imagine your chances of that are slim, livin’ in town. Although on the other hand, this is a rural town and in the South…and you are the mother of a growin’ boy.”
Her situation sounded precarious.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
“Willie Lee said the skunk told him it was sick.” She let that sit there a second and then added, “It could have rabies, Tate, and it is still out there.”
“Yes, that is so,” Tate agreed slowly. “But there are a lot of skunks out there, and I imagine there are a lot of skunks with rabies, and yet few people—or even dogs, for that matter—are bitten or even get around one, so I don’t think we need to worry over it a whole lot.” His arm tightened around her. “Willie Lee’s okay, Marilee. He’s safe in that bed in there. And clean, too.”
Yes, her son was safe and clean. Closing her eyes, she laid her head back again on Tate’s firm shoulder. She could not recall anyone she ever knew being bitten by a rabid animal. Maybe she would speak to Parker about the danger, though. This made her recall that Parker was married.
“What’s Parker’s wife like?”
“Amy? Oh…she’s tall…. She’s a vet, too. Real nice. Nice smile. Nice eyes. Real nice.”
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
“She’s a knockout, isn’t she?”
“Yep.”
Marilee wondered if she could get time tomorrow to go see Parker to get his view on this skunk problem and her own view of his wife.
“Well, I’m glad for him.” She realized with a suddenness that she was purely delighted for Parker.
“Me, too.”
She sighed deeply, feeling the weight she had not even known she carried roll off her shoulders. Even though she knew she had done the right thing, there had remained a bit of guilt for calling off her marriage to Parker and leaving him in his lonely life, not to mention the mismatched colors of his home. She had felt responsible for Parker for so long that she didn’t know how to stop, and now she could. Another woman had taken over the job. Quite swiftly this relief was followed by gratitude for the man in her life, and she squeezed Tate.
“Now, if we could just get Stuart settled.” It pained her to see Stuart. So alone, he seemed.
“Stuart is not your responsibility to settle.”
“I know that.” The censure in his tone pricked her. “What I mean is that his dropping in out of the blue to—develop an acquaintance with Willie Lee at this late date encompasses so much more than I care to be involved with right now.” How did one make up for nine years of lost fatherhood?
“So don’t be involved,” Tate said. “Stuart is a fairly capable sort. I think he can manage to make friends with Willie Lee, even make a stab at being a father to him, without you having much to do with it. Don’t meddle in it.”
“I don’t think being concerned for my son’s welfare is meddling,” she said, and then shut her mouth, pulling away from him, if only inwardly.
His accusation hurt. And the idea of no involvement frightened her. Someone needed to see that things went along in a safe fashion and make certain Stuart didn’t do something foolish with Willie Lee. What exactly this foolishness might entail, she could not have named. She only knew that she had to be involved to keep the situation from getting out of control somehow. Stuart had no idea of how to be a parent. She felt obligated to do her best to show him.
She did feel responsible for Stuart, she realized. He seemed like a lost soul, and he had once been her husband, and now here he was again, plopped down in front of her.
All of which she could not say to Tate, who more than once had voiced the opinion that she had the overwhelming tendency to mother everyone. He had been verbal in his view that her part in the relationship with Parker had been one of mothering, had even gone so far as to say she had not allowed Parker to be a man.
Well, she did not think a woman could stop a man from being a man. There was no question but that she was a mothering sort, but she thought it going too far to say that she had stopped Parker from being a man. Parker was the sort who gave himself over to be looked after and doted on and led around so that he didn’t have to make decisions. Possibly he found that it took all his strength to be a veterinarian and looking after animals all the time, so he wanted a woman to look after him.
No one could stop Tate from being a man, that was for sure. Tate never let her mother him. Tate was the type who might enjoy her ministrations but never her directions.
She became aware, quite suddenly, that he was pressing his lips to the top of her head. And that his hand was kneading her arm through the blanket.
Tate whispered, “You smell so good.”
“Citrus shampoo.” She had felt compelled to wash from head to toe, too.
She twisted to look up at him. Even though it was too dark to see his eyes, she knew their blueness and how he looked at her. She brought her hand free of the quilt and pressed it to the back of his neck, at the same time lifting her lips to meet his.
They kissed and kissed and kissed in a way that caused them both to gasp for breath and then go at it again. Tate claimed her lips in the thrilling manner of urgency and demand that made her pulse throb in intimate parts of her body. The passion went even higher because of their position, there on the swing, a place suitable for necking but not suitable for sex.
He kissed her until she thought she would fly to pieces with wanting.
“Oh, Tate…Tate,” she whispered when his lips at last let hers go.
“Marilee…”
He trailed moist kisses down the tender skin of her neck. She put her hand into his open collar and felt the warmth of his skin.
Then, abruptly, he broke away. “I’ve got to g
o home, Marilee.”
He got up so fast that she fell over.
“I’ll be here in the mornin’. Same time,” he said, as he hot-footed it across the yard, not looking back.
Well, for heaven’s sake.
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Marilee wrestled herself free of the quilt and strode inside, where she stripped out of her clothes, including panties quite damp, put on flannel pajamas, took three aspirin and went to bed with the pillow over her head. Even so, she thought she caught a whiff of skunk.
Nine
In the eye of the beholder…
Winston was a little disconcerted to find Mildred out of bed before sunup. Seeing the shut bathroom door, he figured she was in there, and that he could slip down and get his coffee in peace.
Unfortunately, when he came into the kitchen, there was Mildred at the table, in her orange turban and bright green print robe, with what had been a package of a dozen cinnamon rolls but was now down to six in front of her on the table.
“Leanne brought us a treat,” she said. White sugar icing smudged her lips.
“If it was for us, then you might have left more.”
Apparently Leanne had set the packaged sweet rolls out the night before. Winston blamed himself for not telling her that she couldn’t set out things like that in front of Mildred, who had developed diabetes, the worst thing in the world for someone who was addicted to food.
“You know what the doctor said about eatin’ like this, Mildred.” He moved the remaining cinnamon rolls to the counter, threw a towel over them and wet a paper napkin with which he wiped Mildred’s face, while she complained that the doctor didn’t know how hungry she got.
“I was so hungry that I woke up,” she said in a small voice.
Now she was tuning up to cry, and Winston knew it would do no good to scold her. She was growing more like a child every day, and she simply couldn’t leave food alone. She had always carried it around in her purse, but now she was hiding it around the house. Yesterday he had found dried-up bacon in with the towels.
He put a hand on her shoulder, then noticed that she had not fully buttoned her robe over her humongous breasts, so he did that for her, telling her, “Why don’t you have that Jell-O in the refrigerator? It ought to tide you over until we have us some breakfast.” It was the artificial sugar variety, made the previous afternoon by their day help, Marie.
Mildred, brightening, got up more quickly than he would have imagined anyone of her considerable rotundness could move.
Feeling tired and annoyed at having his early morning time invaded, he turned to get himself a cup of coffee. He decided on a cinnamon roll, too, but felt guilty about eating it in front of Mildred. He gave in to the urge, keeping his back turned while he munched on it. It seemed a sad state to not be able to eat a cinnamon roll in his own home. Perhaps that was how Mildred felt, too.
Facing the window, he moved the curtain and peered out at the corral and the mare there with her filly, a pretty sight in first light. It lifted his spirits to see the horses, at the same time making him think sadly of days gone by, when his wife always had a horse or two out there. Coweta had been gone now almost four years.
Life was difficult for a man of his advancing years and still in his right mind, and not doing too poorly physically, either. It was as if people blamed him for his unusual stamina, at the same time resenting that he did not have stamina enough.
As if seeking comfort, he shifted his gaze to look across the small meadow at the Blaines’ house. There was a glow in the kitchen window.
Full sadness fell over him. Days with Vella were pretty much gone, too, and he missed them. It had been pleasant to have a woman serve him morning coffee, put on lipstick for him and be capable of stimulating conversation.
But last fall, when it had gotten too cold to sit outside, he had quit having morning coffee with her. Since she had taken Perry back, Winston didn’t think it fitting that he be alone with her inside the house. Not that there was anything Winston could really do of an untoward nature, but he was still a man, no matter how society discounted him as being old, and it was not proper to be alone in the company of another man’s wife.
He knew he had proved a disappointment to Vella. He had kissed her one time, but the passion that erupted proved to be of a short-lived nature, with nothing whatsoever coming behind it. He himself had been pretty disappointed, although he didn’t know what either of them had expected at his age. That she, a woman considerably younger than he, had actually been interested and anticipated anything else on his part had been a pleasant experience, though.
Then Perry had ended up doing enough to get Vella to take him back, and to keep himself there. The stick-in-the-mud had actually gotten up the gumption to give that Vi-ra-grow, or whatever it was called, a try. Perry had reported considerable improvement and delight, but there was one thing Perry would never have, and that was spark. One could not get spark from a pill. At any rate, Perry’s liveliness had proved as short-lived as Winston’s passion, and he had returned to his dull ways and his television. Vella had turned her considerable energy to home improvement and landscaping ideas.
And Winston was alone. Again.
“’Mornin’, y’all.”
He turned to see Leanne, all sleepy-eyed and scratching her hair, which looked like birds had nested in it overnight. It was the going style for young women, and there was no accounting it. He had to admit, even with the hair, Leanne was a looker; she was from his wife’s side of the family—Overtons, known for beautiful women.
“Good mornin’,” he said.
She came over to get a mug out of the cabinet and pour her coffee. Winston watched her graceful movements. Not too many women moved like Leanne, like a lazy female cat, despite she had on men’s insulated overalls with suspenders that went over a silk undershirt so thin that he could see clearly she did not bother with a bra. And she was a fully developed woman, too.
“In a little bit here, I’m gonna go feed my horses and then go up to MacCoy’s for grain.” She sipped her coffee. “Do either of you need me to pick up anything while I’m out?”
Mildred said, “I would like some ice cream….Can I have ice cream, Winston? And some chocolate pudding.”
“She needs anything low carb and sugar free,” he told his niece.
He said he didn’t need anything, then added, “But there is one thing I would like, and that is the courtesy of you coverin’ up your body. I’m sayin’ this to the both of you. I may be old and on my last leg, but I am deservin’ of the respect due a man.”
With that, he took his coffee and went through the house, put on his coat, tucked the flags under his arm, and went out on the front porch, with the certain attitude of sending back anyone who tried to come out with him.
As he lowered himself into the rocker, he glanced out at the street and saw a figure, a rather small woman, walking past, heading east at a smart pace, swinging her arms. He followed her with his gaze, trying to figure out if he knew her. The first golden glow of the morning sun hit her, and he saw she had copper-penny hair.
Just then the “Star Spangled Banner” blared out from a speaker at the base of Everett Northrupt’s flag pole across the street. Winston jumped and sloshed his coffee.
There was Everett, coming to the edge of the porch.
Annoyed at being behind—apparently Everett had decided winter rules were off—Winston fumbled to get out the remote control, kept ready in his coat pocket, and point it through the window. He succeeded, and the strains of “Dixie” filled the air, coming from speakers up underneath the eaves, as he hurried to the pole to raise his flag. He stood as straight as possible and saluted. Then he saw that the woman in the street was standing at attention.
He liked her immediately.
And, to his immense surprise, when the last strains of the two patriotic songs died, here she came striding across his yard.
“Good mornin’,” she said, sticking out her hand. “You
must be Winston Valentine. I’ve heard so much about you from my son. I’m Franny Holloway.”
Her voice was smooth and her accent in no hurry. Silver-and-bead earrings swayed from her ears, and her deep green eyes sparkled.
Winston, mesmerized, stared at her for a full three seconds before managing to gather his wits to shake her hand. Thank you, God, I guess I’m glad to be alive after all.
Charlotte was hanging the flags when Sandy pulled up out front. He had a small bag from the IGA deli.
“How early this morning?” he asked her, coming inside and pulling her into his arms.
“Not so early…around five.” She rose slightly on tiptoe to kiss him. It was nice that she had to stretch to reach him, rather than bend down, as she had for every man in her life until Sandy, who was over six feet six inches in his boots.
The kiss revived her, as did his lean, hard body against her.
He had brought bagels this morning, and cups of rich mocha. And then he pulled something out of his pocket, a small box.
“I want you to marry me, Charlotte.” His jaw muscle worked with unusual firmness as he opened the box, revealing a beautiful diamond solitaire. “I want to marry you…for you to be my wife and for me to be your husband. I want to sleep with you. I want to be there with you. I want us to be together. Let me help you with your mother. I want to do that.”
Charlotte, who never let anyone help her with anything, looked into his face. Into his dear, sweet, wholesome brown eyes. She brought her palm to touch his cheek.
“I can’t.” Her words came out hoarse and yet poured forth, painfully, all on the order of: I’m too old for you; you can have so much more with a woman your own age; maybe I can’t have children; and I have the burden of my mother. She said all this, but not what really burned in her mind, what Sandy already knew, which was that she loved him as she had never loved any other person in her whole life. And because she loved him, she wanted the world for him. She did not want to be a burden to him; she did not want to face a day when he became sorry he had married a woman eleven years his senior.
Sandy reached for her, but, overwhelmed, she turned and ran out the front door.
At the Corner of Love and Heartache Page 9
