Swept Away

by Karen Templeton

She glanced around the room, from brother to brother, then finally back at Mike, who, while nearly three years younger than she was, had passed her in height some time ago. “Okay, I guess. What about?”

  The boys looked at each other. Then Matt said, “Carly.”

  “Okay, guys,” Carly called out to the group of panting, sweaty teens. “Time’s up.” This was met with assorted “Aw, man’s” and groans that swelled her heart, she had to admit. All girls in this group, dressed in everything from sweats to bicycle pants and tees, some barefoot, some in sneakers. The last thing Carly expected was for them, or their parents, to shell out for real dancewear. And Mike’s and Matt’s enthusiasm notwithstanding, she hadn’t expected boys to show up, not in this age group, although she still entertained hopes of pulling a Jacques d’Amboise with the younger kids one day, filling the room with both genders.

  “Hey, Carly,” one girl called out, a tall blond cheerleader type named Billie. “You think you could show us how to dance like that chick in Chicago? The dark-haired one, I mean, not Renee whatshername.”

  “Yeah, that’d be so cool!”

  “Can you, Carly? Can you?”

  She laughed. Bob Fosse was probably spinning in his grave. “We can try, I guess. I’ll rewatch the movie between now and then, see what I think.”

  With a chorus of “All rights!” and “Bye, nows!” they all filed out into the raw, gray day. Libby, however, stayed behind, slipping a sweatshirt on over a double layer of tank tops in turquoise and lime-green.

  “Hey, Lib, what’s up? Want some hot chocolate? I finally found a sugar-free brand that doesn’t taste like poison.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.” She followed Carly into the kitchenette, but there was no place to sit, so she stood, shifting from foot to foot.

  “Haven’t seen you around much.”

  “Dad’s been substituting all week, so I’ve had to watch the boys more, do more around the farm. You know.”

  Carly stuck two water-filled mugs into the microwave, doing her level best to appear calm when she felt anything but. Whatever was on the girl’s mind, she had a strong feeling she didn’t want to hear it. Not now, at any rate.

  For the past three days, ever since Sam’s telling her his little secret, Carly’s brain had felt like a gerbil on an exercise wheel. Not because of the secret itself—even though her heart still ached at how horribly he must have been suffering, to be driven to do something that out of character—but because he’d entrusted her with it. That had rocked her far more, even, than his telling her he loved her. That he found her trust worthy…well. There was a role no one had ever bestowed upon her before. Or that she’d let anyone bestow upon her.

  And annoying as it was, understanding that fact had wedged open her heart a little more.

  “Carly?” Libby said. “The microwave dinged?”

  “What? Oh, sorry…drifted off, there.” She retrieved the mugs, stirred hot chocolate mix into them, then handed one to the girl. “Let’s go sit,” she said, leading Libby back out to the studio, where she’d arranged a cluster of chairs and a sofa for parents to sit and watch, if they wanted to. Her sleeping loft was basically a mattress on the floor, a chest of drawers and an iron pipe across the tops of two ladders to hang her clothes, and she was as content as if she’d been given one of those eye-popping mansions they used on those dating reality shows.

  “What’s doing with you and Sean?” Carly asked, pulling her feet up under her on the chair-and-a-half, while Libby piled onto the sofa.

  She took a cautious sip of her hot chocolate, then peered up at Carly. “Other than me feeling like an idiot?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Eye-roll time. Then: “I don’t get it, Carly. How could I be so sure I thought I knew I wanted it one minute, then totally change my mind the next?”

  She could almost feel her own ambivalence about Sam whisper Yeah, I can’t wait to hear how you answer this one. “Well…maybe because the reality of the situation didn’t exactly meet your expectations?’

  Libby seemed to think this over for a second, then let out a breathy, “I guess.”

  “Sweetie…changing your mind doesn’t make you an idiot. Especially not about something like this. Yes, really,” Carly added when the girl smirked.

  “It’s just…God, I hated feeling so out of control, you know? Like my body had totally left my brain behind somewhere.” She carefully skootched back farther into the cushions, then skimmed her index finger around and around the mug’s rim. “Sean and I talked for a long time that day he came over to apologize. And I believe him, that he’s really sorry, but…I think we’re kinda cooling it for a while.”

  “Oh, honey…I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I realized I’m not as ready for a steady boyfriend as I thought I was. And I know a lot of the kids just ‘hook up’ with each other, for like, sex and stuff, but…” She flipped her long hair over her shoulder. “I don’t dare say this to any of my friends, ’cause they’ll think I’m like this big throwback or something, but some of the stuff they say they do…it really grosses me out. I mean, maybe I’m missing something here, but how is that being in charge of your body? Doin’ stuff that maybe you don’t really want to do, just so everybody will think you’re cool?”

  A chill scampered down Carly’s spine, one she decided had little to do with her cooling off after the class. Did she have a sign stamped on her forehead—Go ahead, you can trust me with your secrets? And what a kick in the head to discover that, after years of being convinced that being “in control” meant keeping herself emotionally distanced from her encounters, some fifteen-year-old-girl had more of a handle on the issue than Carly had ever dreamed of. “Maybe you should tell your friends exactly what you just told me,” she said. “I’ll bet some of them are grossed out, too, but they’re scared, like you, to say anything.”

  Libby shrugged, the classic okay-maybe-but-God-forbid-I-admit-you-might-be-right gesture.

  Carly sipped her chocolate, then asked carefully, “Are you afraid of sex?”

  Libby thought for a moment, then said, “I think it’s more that I’m afraid of messin’ it up by having it before I’m supposed to. Or something. I mean, it really is better when you’re in love with the other person, right?”

  Great. How the hell was she supposed to answer that? “It’s definitely better when you’re sure you want it,” she hedged. “Instead of doing it just because you think you should.”

  “Anyway,” Libby said, setting her empty mug on the floor by her feet, then sitting up again. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

  The chill made an encore appearance. “Oh?”

  Libby scrutinized her for several seconds, then said, “What’s really going on between you and Daddy?”

  Oh, boy. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “And I know that sounds like an avoidance tactic, but it’s the truth.”

  “Do you at least like him?”

  “Oh, honey,” Carly let out on a breath, “what I feel goes way beyond liking him. That much, I can say. I’ve never met anybody like your father.”

  “You think he could make you happy?”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Whether I could make him happy.”

  The girl’s topazy eyes stayed fixed on hers for another several beats, before something on her sock grabbed her attention. “At first, I was so sure you weren’t right for him. I mean, sure, you’re cool and all, but…”

  “You don’t have to explain, I completely understand.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. You know what Daddy does? We’ll be out feeding the cows or whatever, and I’ll catch him staring over here with this goony look on his face. Or one of the boys’ll start talking about you, and it’s like Daddy freezes, gawking at whoever said your name. You know how I knew I wasn’t in love with Sean? Because I look at Daddy, and I know what I feel for Sean doesn’t even come close to how he feels about you.
” She swallowed. “How he felt about Mama.”

  “Libby, I—”

  “It’s us, isn’t it? You’re scared of getting involved with him because there’s so many of us?”

  Carly’s knee began to ache; she stretched out her leg, massaging it. “I won’t lie to you, that’s a big part of it.” And at least this part, she could talk about. As opposed to everything else, which she couldn’t even define. “Libby,” she said when the girl made a face, “I know nothing about taking care of kids. I mean, you guys are great, but honestly? I don’t think I’d make a real good mother. It’s a huge responsibility. Which has never been my strong suit, unfortunately.”

  “But that’s the thing, we don’t need a mother, not really.” Libby leaned forward, her eyes huge and importunate. “I mean, not the kind who cooks and cleans and does laundry and all that stuff. We can do all that by ourselves. Well, except for Travis, maybe, and even he knows how to help keep his room clean and throw his dirty clothes in the basket. After Mama died, Daddy told us that there was no reason to let everything go to pot just because she wasn’t there anymore. Not that anybody likes doing all that stuff—housework is the pits—and Daddy’s all the time on our cases when we get lazy, but we manage okay. And nobody expects you to suddenly start riding the tractor or cleanin’ up after the pigs and stuff, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I mean, just because we get off on the whole farming thing doesn’t mean we’d expect you to.”

  Then her eyes got all shiny, and Carly felt a sympathetic knot lodge in her throat as well. “You have no idea how huge this is. Daddy liking you, I mean. It means he’s admitting that maybe he needs something besides us and the farm. But what worries me—and the boys, too—is that, if he’s lonely, and you say ‘no’…well, we don’t even want to think about who else he might end up with.”

  Carly’s sip of cocoa went down the wrong way; her coughing fit, however, didn’t stop Libby from continuing.

  “I mean, maybe you could spend a lot of time over here, anyway, so you wouldn’t even feel like you were living with us…”

  “Libby, Libby…” Do not laugh, do not laugh. “I get the point. And, believe me, I really appreciate all the concessions you guys seem willing to make, here. But—”

  “Oh, come on, Carly! You admitted you liked him! And excuse me, but somehow I can’t see you living over here all by yourself for the rest of your life. I mean, jeez, how boring is that? So I don’t get it—what’ve you got to lose?”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—answer at first. Instead, she got up, carting her empty mug back to the kitchenette. Living alone, knowing she had a someplace to retreat when things got too close, too pointless, had always been her safety valve. Boring had never been an issue—when you’re content with the status quo, why would it be?

  But then she remembered an ancient Russian-trained dance teacher she’d once had, early on, who’d admonish Carly whenever she balked at trying a new step. “Vat are you afraid of?” Madame Propoviova would bark. “You can only fall as far as the floor! So you fall, you get up, you try again. Is no big deal.”

  Yeah, well. This wasn’t about attempting a triple pirouette en pointe. Which did result in her falling. Repeatedly. Until eventually she got it. This was about letting herself admit to the possibility that maybe—something that felt like an electric shock zapped through her midsection—she was actually interested in seeing how far this could go. That maybe, with the right person, you might be willing to consider doing something you’d never thought you’d want to before.

  That maybe it was okay to change your mind.

  She turned around. Libby was sitting with her elbows on her knees, watching her. Waiting.

  “Got any ideas how I should go about this?”

  The girl grinned, then clambered off the sofa. “You and your dad could come over for supper tonight, to start. I mean, how’re you gonna get used to us if you’re never around us?”

  Kid had a point.

  “I don’t suppose your father has a clue about any of this?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Huh. If nothing else, the look on Sam’s face alone might make this worthwhile. “Okay.”

  “Okay? You’ll come?”

  Carly nodded away the “What have I done?” demons screaming inside her, as Libby said, “What don’t you eat?”

  “Bad carbs and fat.”

  “Oh. That doesn’t leave much, does it?”

  Carly laughed. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll adapt. Dad eats anything on his plate, though.”

  “Okay, I’ll think of something.” Libby shoved her feet back into her sneakers, then tromped across the room to get her coat off the long rack that Dad had put up for her. Before she left, however, she turned back and gave Carly a long, assessing perusal.

  “Um, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But maybe you should think about fixing yourself up or something?”

  Carly barely got the door shut behind the girl before she burst out laughing.

  Chapter 14

  Sam’s first clue that something was up was when he came in from milking and spotted candles, and the good dishes, on the table.

  The dining table, not the kitchen table.

  He stepped into the room to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, couldn’t help but notice there were nine place settings.

  Back in the kitchen, Libby was humming up a storm as she cooked—two roast chickens, sweet potatoes, broccoli, a huge salad. “So, what are we gonna eat?” Matt said on a moan, which was pretty much Sam’s take on the situation.

  “Don’t worry, I’m makin’ macaroni and cheese for the rest of you. Travis, Frankie—go wash your hands! And your faces! And change those grody shirts, too!” Then she gave Sam the same ewww face. “Daddy! Honestly!”

  Sam glanced down at himself, half expecting to find his fly open, then met his daughter’s eyes. “What’s going on, Lib?”

  “Nothing. I invited Carly and Lane to come to supper, is all. So you might want to think about changing. Maybe a quick shower? We’ve got time, they won’t be here until six-thirty.”

  Now his gaze swept the room. Several sets of eyes, including a few of the not–human being variety, met his, all innocence. Sam crossed his arms. “Y’all wouldn’t be tryin’ to fix me up, now, would you?”

  “Nooo,” Libby said in exasperated teen mode, as the boys all solemnly shook their heads. She set about transferring the chickens to the big turkey platter, then arranging the sweet potatoes around them. “I just thought it’d be fun to have them over, that’s all.” She tossed an oh-so-sweet smile in his direction.

  “Yeah,” Wade said, “’specially since we all got tired of waitin’ for you to make a move on the woman!”

  “Wade!” everybody said, except for Travis who frowned, like he’d been left out of the loop.

  Sam opened his mouth to expound on the foolhardiness of their mission, only to realize, well, hell, maybe they were right. Maybe this business about giving Carly space wasn’t the way to go about things, after all. Maybe she needed a little push.

  Right over the edge, with this bunch.

  “Guys…”

  Libby waved the salad tongs at him. “Don’t even try to tell us you don’t like her.”

  “Well, no, I suppose it’s pretty obvious that I do, but—”

  “I know, I know,” Libby said, on a sigh, dousing olive oil on the salad. “We’re a handful. And being a farmer’s wife might not have exactly been in her plans. It’s okay, Daddy—we’ve already got it covered.”

  Sam decided maybe it was best not to know what that meant.

  He grabbed his daughter’s chin, tilting it toward him. “You changed your mind?”

  “No,” she said. “You changed my mind.”

  Feeling slightly dazed, he dropped his hand. “Okay, fine. Just…don’t expect miracles from one dinner.”

  They all grinned at each other. Sam let out a sigh himself, then went upstairs to take a shower. Was
n’t until he’d scrubbed most of the barn smell off that it hit him that, his daughter’s persuasive abilities notwithstanding, Carly wouldn’t have accepted the invitation unless she’d wanted to.

  That was worth digging out his best shirt for.

  In the end, despite Carly’s pleas, Lane had refused to go, clearly more down about the whole Ivy thing than he was letting on. Instead, he kissed her on top of her head and pushed her out the door with some gibberish about her needing to face this on her own, anyway.

  So here she was. Facing this. Them.

  All of them. Not including Henry, the old tom, who kept staring at her with a judgmental gleam in his rheumy yellow eyes.

  Not that the boys weren’t being perfect angels—Mike and Matt had nearly collided in their zeal to both pull out her chair for her, and every time she glanced over and caught Wade’s serious expression over one of his father’s ties, looped around a scrawny neck jutting out from a Shrek T-shirt, the funniest, sweetest feeling shot through her—but she wondered how long they had before the kids exploded.

  She wondered how long before she would.

  Oh, God, this was torture, all this politeness, watching the big ones glower at the little ones if they so much as looked like they might be thinking of acting like, you know, normal kids. Carly complimented Libby on the meal, which really was delicious, and the girl beamed, which was spontaneous and real, but other than that, the tension at the table was congealing faster than the chicken juices on the rapidly cooling platter in the center of it.

  To make matters worse, Libby had insisted on seating Carly at right angles to Sam, at the head of the table, a position from which there was no escaping the occasional graze of his knee against hers.

  Or the hot, dripping-with-meaning eye contact that resulted. Hot, dripping-with-meaning eye contact that did not escape the attention of any of the Stepford children having dinner with them.

  “Wade,” Mike asked, “would you please pass the macaroni and cheese?”

  “Frankie, would you like me to pour you another glass of milk…?”