The coffeemaker gurgled its final gurgle. Marilee prepared Tate a cup with cream and sugar, as he liked it, took a deep breath and started down the hallway and up the steps, heading for Tate’s bedroom. Each step in her boots seemed to echo on the oak flooring.
She paused at the top of the steps, again cocking her head. All the doors were closed; the hall landing was shadowy, lit only by the first light of dawn coming in the window at the end. She thought she caught a sound, and she walked on tiptoe, stopping at the bathroom door to listen.
Just then the sound of water running on the other side of the door caused her to jump slightly. Tate, or his mother?
Knowing the bathroom also had a door into the master bedroom, she continued on to Tate’s bedroom, which she had seen only twice ever—and thinking of this, she felt firmer determination to become familiar with the house of the man she would be marrying, so she walked more firmly.
At the closed door, however, she did not burst in but slowly opened it and peeked around. “Tate?”
The lamp on the nightstand was on, showing the empty, rumpled bed. The door to the bathroom was ajar, light spilling through.
Shy about seeing him naked, and curious at the same time, she at first averted her head as she stepped into the center of the room. It went totally against her nature to come into a person’s privacy like this.
She was going to marry this man, for heaven’s sake.
She had been single so long that sharing some-one’s privacy and giving of her own seemed exceedingly foreign to her.
As she thought this, she leaned over to see exactly what she could see through the crack. A virile figure, bare skin, plaid pajama pants.
The sight caused a pleasant throbbing deep inside of her.
Just then the door swung open, and Tate, wiping a towel over his face, stepped out.
Marilee jerked up straight, sloshing the coffee, and Tate jumped back upon sight of her, sending the towel flying.
And then he was laughing. “You scared me.”
She held out the cup and saucer. “I brought your mornin’ coffee.”
“You did?” Surprise was quickly followed by delight. “Well, thank you.”
She smiled as she handed it to him, and then she opened wide her coat, saying in as sexy a voice as she could find, “I also brought you a sight to stir your senses.”
His eyebrows arched upward on a grand scale, and he stared at her, his mouth parting in a manner that Marilee found quite satisfying. Watching expressions pass over his face, she experienced her power as a woman. It came over her with such force as to amaze her.
Thus encouraged, and still holding the coat wide, she sauntered forward until her face was inches from his, her eyes locked on his. “Good mornin’, Editor.” She lifted her lips to kiss him.
Tate broke away. “Oh, lady…let me set this coffee down.”
Almost in one movement, he set the cup and saucer on the nearby chest of drawers, then took her to him and kissed her in a manner so thoroughly consuming as to leave Marilee breathless and panting.
“Tate…I…have to go back…. The children are alone.”
“Hmmm…” He kissed her again, moving his hands beneath her coat and caressing the bare flesh of her back.
She sighed against him, with passion flowing in delicious waves over her body as she felt his warm, hard skin, and his scent filled her nostrils. She had the thought that perhaps she was more surprised than he.
More firmly, she got hold of herself. “I really do have to go back. I just wanted to practice gettin’ into the habit of being a lover.”
“Well, I like it, lady. You goin’ to do this every mornin’?” He grinned wickedly.
“If you’re good…very, very good.”
He reached for her, and, giggling, she eluded him and raced on tiptoe out the door, wrapping her coat closed, mindful of running into Franny.
He came after her, down the length of landing, and caught her at the top of the stairs, pushing her up against the wall as both of them laughed breathlessly.
“Tate…your mother will hear.”
“So? I need to kiss your socks off.”
And he did.
When he broke away, she cupped the sides of his head and gazed into his dear, luminous eyes only inches from her own. “I didn’t know,” she said in a breathless whisper of wonder. “I thought it was sex I wanted. Oh, and I do…but it really is this that I wanted. This closeness with you.”
It was a miracle to her, and she took in the virile scent of him, the salty taste of him on her tongue, the warm, erotic glaze in his eyes.
He said, “I know.” And she saw the truth of his understanding in his eyes.
She nodded, biting her bottom lip, then bringing forth, “Let’s wait…for sex. I don’t want it to be something sandwiched in…something grabbed without thought. There’s so much, with the wedding, Stuart here, the children. Let’s wait until our wedding night.”
Would he understand? Where were her words to say that she rather liked this precious getting to know each other?
He regarded her, then pushed himself against her, pinning her to the wall and rubbing her pelvis with his groin, which was clearly aroused, and the realization caused an immediate reaction inside of her.
“I think that’s a fine idea, Miz James,” he drawled in a tone that rippled through her body. “I can practice kissin’ your socks off—” he kissed her eyes, then bent and kissed the bare skin at the swell of her breasts, sending tremors down her legs “—and anticipate making love to my wife. Anticipation is sweet, don’t you think?”
“Yes…yes, I…think.” Actually she could not think at all.
“Ah-hem.”
At the sound of the voice, she and Tate first froze, looked wide-eyed at each other, and then turned of one accord and looked down the stairs to see Franny standing at the foot.
“I am sorry to interrupt. I really am. But I need to go to the bathroom, Tate, and there is only one of those in this old house, so excuse me.”
She came sweeping up the stairs as she spoke, in her flowing dress, throwing her scarf over her shoulders. Her pumps dangled from two fingers.
“Are you just gettin’ in?” Tate asked, incredulous.
“Yes, dear. I had a wonderful night. Simply lovely.”
“And Winston is still alive, I hope?”
“Oh, yes, dear, quite. Old people don’t sleep as much and are used to odd hours,” she tossed over her shoulder as she passed by and headed for the bathroom.
Just as she opened the door, she turned to them and said, “You know, the sexiest organ in the body is the mind. Winston still has all his mental capacities.”
Then she disappeared.
Marilee and Tate stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. “Go,” Marilee said, pushing him toward his bedroom. “Have the coffee before it is stone-cold…and don’t you jog in the mornings?”
She hurried down the stairs, and he called over the railing to her, “You bet I’m joggin’. I’ve got to work this frustration off somehow.”
“Tate Holloway!” She was mortified to think of his mother hearing him.
She raced out of the house and across their backyards, and when, halfway, she threw back her head, a joyous laugh erupted from her lips.
How had she been so blind as to not understand what she was truly seeking? How had she been so blind as not to know about this beautiful, magnificent sense of oneness with a man?
She was in love. She really was. Did she glow? She looked at her arms and body as she fairly floated through the gate in the magical dreamy state of grace of a woman in love.
“Good morn-ing, Ma-ma.”
Startled, she pressed a hand to her chest and jerked her head upward. “Willie Lee, what are you doin’?”
“I am in my tree house,” he said in his usual factual fashion.
“I see that, honey. What are you doing in your tree house so early in the morning?” She hoped he didn’t ask her what she w
as doing in the yard so early in the morning.
“I am teach-ing Whis-kers to like Bir-dy.” He lifted the kitten to show her.
Only Willie Lee could do such things.
She allowed him his freedom, saying only that she would call him when breakfast was ready.
Pausing at the back door, she looked back into the big elm tree and the small basket birdhouse there, remembering Stuart and what Willie Lee had said about him being sick.
Willie Lee was only a little boy, she reminded herself. Not burdened with intellect, he had a unique way of seeing the truth of things, however; he was still only a little boy who could misinterpret what he saw in his literal take on things. He might have picked up some sense of distress on Stuart’s part, but it likely meant that Stuart had suffered a headache and had been tired of his lengthy and unaccustomed exposure to the children.
Tate came out whistling and paused at the edge of the porch to inhale deeply. By golly, he could smell the sweet freshness of spring!
Again whistling, he jogged down the steps and broke into a run, whizzing past the twiggy lilac bush that was beginning to swell with leaf buds. The orange cat, Bubba, jumped out and followed him down the street but gave up after several yards and plopped down near the curb to clean his fat belly.
As Tate came to the Wyatt house on the corner, Buddy, who was doing his morning pull-ups on the porch beam, called, “You sure are full of energy this morning, Editor!”
“Yes, indeed,” Tate called back. Passion did not belong only to young men with biceps, he thought.
He made it around to Main and was still going at a good clip. Being ten minutes earlier than usual, he found the street quiet. Bonita Embree of Sweetie Cakes Bakery had not yet opened up, nor had Grace Florist. Charlotte’s car was the only one on the street, parked out front of the Voice, and the flags fluttered on either side of the door, further indication of her presence.
Tate was relieved. Charlotte’s absence on Friday had given him great appreciation for the scope of her work at the paper. She virtually ran the place, although he wouldn’t want to admit that to her. She already had an exalted sense of importance. In fact, she could overwhelm him.
Maybe he should go over and tell her how much he appreciated her, he thought, slowing his stride. Holding on to his pride so often got him into trouble.
Just then, however, the door of the Voice opened, and a tall man strode out. Sandy, walking with swift, angry strides to the corner, where he vehemently tossed a brown bag into the green mesh trash can. Then he headed on across Church Street and beyond, in the direction of his apartment.
Watching the young man, Tate’s spirit took a nosedive. This seemed a definitely disheartening sign that Sandy and Charlotte had not made up. He came to a full stop, gazing across the street to the Voice windows, which were still covered by the closed blinds. He sighed, considered going to talk to Charlotte, but a certain trepidation at facing the woman, plus the desire to hold to the joy filling his life right that minute, propelled him once more into a jog. This morning was too special and precious to get weighed down by things that by rights were not any of his business.
Spirit rising once more, he hit the corner and turned up the hill of Church Street at an energetic stride.
Then here came Parker down the hill, approaching the intersection from the opposite direction.
“Looks like you are tryin’ to wear yourself out,” the younger man said with a knowing grin.
“Yep,” Tate said, grinning broadly.
Life was good.
Vella, dressed smartly and sensibly for an active day, went to the kitchen phone and dialed the private office number for Waller Landscaping. Lawrence’s voice, his recorded voice mail, came over the line, as she had expected at this early hour.
“Lawrence, this is Vella Blaine,” she said in a businesslike tone. “I will not be home this afternoon. I am occupied with producing a wedding, however, I leave the backyard in your capable hands. I will be in touch.”
And that was the end of that, she thought, giving, upon returning the receiver to its hook, a large, deep sigh, which was a mixture of regret and relief.
She had made her choice to direct her considerable energies into the preparations for Marilee’s wedding, rather than get lost in an impossible affair. She had distinctly heard a direction from God to get out of herself and her carnal desires and focus on helping see that Marilee got married. Since she had developed such a strong controlling streak over the years, she might as well put it to good use.
Just as the sun became a fiery ball on the horizon, she stepped out her front door, carrying a notebook that bulged with magazine articles and lists of things to do. She backed her Land Rover out of the driveway in a purposeful manner and headed down the street.
Everett Northrupt was out in his yard, standing at attention and saluting his flags. “The Star Spangled Banner” was blaring from his house. Vella’s gaze shifted over to the Valentine house. But there was no sign of Winston, not in his yard nor on his porch.
Tapping the brake pedal, she slowed the Land Rover, her eyes searching the porch. No, no stooped figure bringing himself to attention.
She slammed on her brakes in the middle of the road between the two houses and their flagpoles, lowered the passenger window and cocked her head. She did not hear “Dixie” playing. The house was silent.
Ohmygod, he’s died!
In a state of shock, she veered over to the curb, jammed the gearshift into Park and hopped out just as the strains of “The Star Spangled Banner” faded away. A man did not raise a flag for all these years, every morning that the sun came up, and suddenly quit. The only time Winston had missed was when he’d had his stroke. She looked again at Winston’s yard and front porch, thinking her eyes must have failed her. She had known this day would come, only she could not bear it now. She simply could not.
She looked across to Everett, who did not seem as concerned as he should be. “Where’s Winston?”
She was already heading around the front of the Land Rover when Everett said, “He’s in bed.”
“What?” She stopped. Had he said in bed or dead?
“He’s in bed. Doris saw him come in just about thirty minutes ago. That fancy woman—the Editor’s mother—brought him. Looked like they’d been out allll night.”
All night?
The image of Winston and Franny and their intimate camaraderie at the restaurant passed across Vella memory, coming like a blow to her chest.
Everett shook his head. “Gonna kill himself, but I guess no one wants to live forever.”
Vella slowly walked back around to get into her Land Rover, automatically shifting it into gear and pressing the accelerator, heading along the street in something of a numb state.
Winston wasn’t dead. He hadn’t had another stroke. Thank you, God.
Oh, she missed Winston. She squeezed the steering wheel with fervor.
But she was a married woman, and Franny was not. She was not jealous, and this surprised her. She would not, after all, change her decision to remain married to Perry. She had once thought maybe she would, but she would not. She was growing to accept her life, and with this acceptance, she could see her many blessings. Her heart filled with gladness for Winston, a dear old friend, and for Franny, a promising new friend.
Just then she realized that she had come to a stop at the intersection of Porter and Church. She noticed an early blooming forsythia on the opposite corner. The weather was warming early this year. The forsythia blossoms would be perfect for Marilee’s wedding. If they were done blooming around Valentine before the wedding, she could drive north and still get some.
The wedding was only three weeks away!
Seventeen
Destiny of a small, intimate wedding…
Vella, toting a heavy-looking notebook, came blowing into his office. “Marilee has okayed this invitation style, but she wants your okay on it.”
“She called me earlier. I was told to be at
your disposal.” Tate had not known he had been concerned about the wedding preparations until Marilee had told him that Vella was taking charge. With Vella in charge, things would go smoothly.
She whipped out the card and held it before him.
“Okay.” He was quite pleased to have accommodated her.
She sat herself in the chair next to his desk, saying as she put on her reading glasses, “Now, let me have your invitation list. I’m just gettin’ a head-count now. I’ll get addresses later.” She unfolded a notepad and poised a pencil.
“Well…everyone here at the paper, of course. That’ll be fifteen. Here’s a list, and the addresses, too,” he said, pulling two sheets of paper out of a desk drawer and passing them to her. “Parker Lind-sey’s my best man—that’s Mr. and Mrs. now. His wife’s name is Amy.”
“They came in the store the other day. She got prenatal vitamins, said she was planning for the future. I need to tell Marilee.”
Tate found this startling. It made him think of his own position, as a soon-to-be new husband. And it seemed life was moving on at too quick a pace.
Vella prodded him to continue with his list.
“Okay…there’s Sheriff Oakes and his family, and everyone over there at the sheriff’s office. I guess we should invite the mayor and everyone on the City Council…and their families, too, of course.
“That’s just one invitation per family, though.” Vella was writing furiously.
“Put Fayrene Gardner down. I think I’ve already invited her. And Norm Stidham and Ramona. Fred Grace and his family, of course.”
Vella lowered her pad and gazed at him. “How about if I just invite everyone who is a member of the Chamber of Commerce?”
He nodded. “That will probably cover it. And you’d better get an extra ten invitations, at least, to allow for those we think of at the last minute.”
“You know, Tate, this is about the last minute.”
Marilee was finishing up the final edits on her piece on rabies and her “Voices of Valentine” column, both of which she would proudly be turning in by the deadline time of noon, when the telephone rang at the edge of her desk.
At the Corner of Love and Heartache Page 18
