She tilted her head, looked at him quizzically, with that enigmatic smile still on her lips. "I guess I do," she said quietly. And then, suddenly, the smile broadened, suddenly it was shy and irresistible and genuine, and so warm, Rand felt dizzy in the heat of it. "Yeah, I guess I do."
Chapter 24
She was alone in the house. Lillian and Rand had gone to church, and in spite of the fact that Sarah had gone, too, Belle was not tempted to join them. She could count on one hand the times in her life when she'd stepped into a church, and each time had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. Even being with Sarah couldn't soften the hypocrisy Belle felt in the air, the sanctimonious attitudes of their neighbors.
And more than that, she wanted to be alone. To walk through the house without having to think or react or protect herself. She wanted to just be—just for a few hours—to do nothing but sit in the kitchen and smell the aroma of stewing chicken, to walk in the yard and feel the breeze blowing in her hair.
She wanted to just be home.
Home. It was a funny thought, unfamiliar and new, but true nonetheless. In the last few days she'd begun to think of this house as home again, to feel comfortable walking the halls and coming down for breakfast, to feel like she belonged when she walked through the barnyard. It had sneaked up on her slowly, but now she realized that she felt, if not exactly whole again, then at least close to that, at least more herself than she'd felt at any time in the last six years.
It was a good feeling, and a little bit frightening too. Frightening because being herself meant doing the one thing she had made a vow never to do.
It meant forgiving Rand.
She had not intended to do it of course. She had wanted to be strong, to keep him firmly away from her, to hold the sword of her anger between them. It was what protected her, what kept her from caring too deeply or wanting too much. But last night, when she'd looked into his eyes and seen not passion there, or lust, but simply regret, her hostility had fallen away from her. She'd forgotten that this was the man who hurt her so badly in the past, forgotten that she was afraid of him still. All she saw was the friend she'd missed so badly all these years, the friend who was dearer to her than herself.
And after last night Belle knew she'd been lying to herself about not wanting to trust Rand again. The truth was she did want to trust him. She wanted to confide in him and talk to him. She wanted his keen understanding and that lightning-sudden smile that crinkled his whole face, the smile that had drawn her to him when she was twelve years old and new to Lancaster and needing a friend.
And love had nothing to do with that.
Belle sat on the porch railing, leaning against a pillar, and stared out at the road, at the fields beyond it. No, love had nothing to do with being friends with Rand again. She could learn not to love him. She could learn not to care that he didn't love her.
But despite herself the images from yesterday, from the night before, plunged into her mind. The feel of his body close to hers, the touch of his lips. She tried to ignore them, tried to remember what those things had brought her before—the revulsion in his eyes, the way he'd pushed her away—but the memory seemed blurry and vague, and it shifted out of reach, leaving her only with last night, with the gentle warmth of his fingers against her jaw.
Friends. Just friends, that was all.
She could do that, she knew she could, she wanted to. Talking to him would be enough. Laughing with him would be enough. She would be happy knowing he confided in her, knowing that he came to her when he was worried or upset, when he wanted to celebrate or have fun. She could bear the fact that he was married, knowing she was the one he'd go fishing with, that she was the one he would sit and talk to on a hot summer day.
While Marie was the one he was kissing.
The image of the singing party swept into Belle's mind, the image of Rand laughing down at Marie, covering her hand with his, and with it came the sick feeling again, plunging through her stomach, into her heart. Belle squeezed her eyes shut. She could bear even that, she told herself. It was a little enough thing—a touch, a kiss. It was little enough to give up for the sake of their friendship. It meant nothing. He'd told her that himself, a long time ago. "I didn't know you cared for Elizabeth."
"I don't."
"You have a funny way of showin' it. You kissed her."
"That doesn't always mean anything, little girl."
Little girl.
She'd forgotten that. The nickname squeezed her heart; she remembered it along with all the other ones he used to call her: sweet girl, honey girl, my girl. Casual endearments, words that wrapped around her soul, made her feel like she belonged to him, made her feel special and cherished, and . . . and young.
Little girl.
It made her think of all the things they used to do when they were friends: fishing in the river, jumping off canal bridges, playing poker, and racing horses, and it occurred to her suddenly that they were all childish things. All things people did until they were adults, until they had responsibilities such as children and wives and farms. Things men like Charlie Boston still did because they were waiting for something better, waiting for a future. Things she'd always done because there was nothing else to do.
But now there was Sarah. And Rand had the farm, would have Marie. Those carefree days of fishing and wasting time were gone forever.
Belle glanced out at the fields beyond the pasture, at the brown stalks of corn. There was no time to waste on a farm. The cutters would be here Monday, then there would be husking, then milling. After that they would thresh the already cut wheat during the dark months of winter, and after that there was plowing and sowing in the spring, harvesting oats and wheat and hay, and then the corn again. ... It was an endless cycle. Belle remembered how Henry spent every day in the fields or in the barn, how work had taken from sunup to sundown. She remembered thinking once it was a good thing he was married, because he had so little time that he needed someone who would always be there, to fit into the few free moments he had.
There had been little time for anyone else. Only family. Henry saw his friends on Sunday, and that was all.
Just Sundays.
And Belle suddenly realized that Marie wouldn't be just the one Rand was kissing. She would be the one he was talking to as well.
Just friends.
It didn't seem like very much anymore. And not enough.
But it was the only choice she had. She would not stand in the way of Rand's happiness, and she knew he was happy with Marie. Belle had seen the laughter on his face as he talked to the schoolteacher at Paula's party—a carefree laughter Belle hadn't seen in years. Yes, he was happy, and she loved him enough to give him that happiness. She loved him enough to learn how to be "just friends" again.
No matter what it took.
The sermon was long. Rand shifted in his seat, arching slightly to ease the hard press of the pew from his spine, and tried to concentrate on what Reverend Snopes was saying. It was hard to do, especially because his mind hadn't been on the sermon since it started. Rand couldn't even remember what the theme for this Sunday was. Redemption probably. Hell, it was always redemption, and though usually that particular sermon left him feeling uncomfortable and vaguely guilty, today it didn't. Today he already felt redeemed. Forgiven.
He thought of last night, of the way Belle had smiled at him, her soft words. It filled his heart like nothing he could have imagined, made him feel whole again, somehow complete, as if her smile had been the one thing missing all these years. They were friends again, or well on their way to becoming that, and the knowledge made him feel relieved and slightly drunk, sent a frisson of excitement tingling through his blood that had nothing to do with fear or desperation or darkness.
He felt so good, he even smiled when Snopes embarked on another long-winded prayer, and when the sermon was finally over, and the congregation was rising to leave, he threw the reverend a quick, irreverent grin. Snopes only looked confused.
&nb
sp; Rand laughed lightly to himself and started for the aisle.
"What is it?" Lillian asked, putting her hand on his arm. "Did I miss something funny?"
He shook his head. "Not really."
"You were smiling."
"I just feel good today."
Lillian looked at him quizzically. "Oh? Why is that?"
class=Section5> "No reason." He shrugged.
"I see." Lillian sounded puzzled. "I just wondered— oh, look, there's Marie."
Rand stumbled. His heart stopped. Marie. He looked up, following Lillian's gaze. Marie was just outside the door, standing demurely next to the steps, her hands clasped in front of her, the breeze blowing the ribbons on her straw bonnet, snapping the hem of her pale green dress. The same dress she'd worn to the singing party the other night, he remembered, and the thought made him stiff with tension.
He'd forgotten about her, and now the reminder took away his contentment, sent guilt rushing through him. Of course, Marie. His mind sped back to the other night, to the long ride home, and he wished again that he remembered what the hell he'd said to her. And then he remembered Belle's words last night. "She didn't tell you Lydia told her all the gossip?" He'd forgotten that. He'd been so wrapped up in Belle's forgiveness, he'd forgotten all about Marie.
Lillian patted his arm. "I see Stella over by the tree. I'll get Sarah. We'll be there when you're ready to go home." She moved off, leaving him alone in a crowd that surged around him as he stood motionless by the doorway.
Then Marie looked up. She saw him, and her eyes lit. The smile on her face was wide and warm and pleased. Like Belle's smile. Not like Belle's.
He moved toward her, feeling the guilt roil in his stomach with every step he took. It made his throat so tight that he could barely say hello when he got close to her, so he offered her a smile instead.
"Rand, there you are!" she said, and then she blushed prettily. "I've been waiting for you."
He sighed. "Hello, Marie."
"I've been hoping to see you here," she said, frowning slightly. "I was worried about you the other night. You seemed so—so preoccupied driving home."
He wished he could remember anything she'd said. Anything at all. Rand raked his fingers through his hair. "We're cutting the corn tomorrow," he said, as if that explained everything.
She nodded as if it did. "I see. How's Belle?"
"She's—she's fine."
"I was looking forward to seeing her today." She glanced around, surveying the people moving past them. "Is she still inside?"
"No. She didn't come. She doesn't—like church."
"Oh." Marie's eyes darkened in sympathy. "I guess I understand why. It must be hard to face gossip all the time."
He felt supremely uncomfortable. He wanted to ignore her statement, to pretend she hadn't said it. But he couldn't. She was watching him as if she expected a reaction, and he knew he had to say something, to try to explain something he should have told her from the start. Christ, it was so much easier before she knew the rumors, before she knew anything about him but his present life. He wished it could have stayed that way.
Rand took a deep breath, plunged in. "Belle said Lydia told you the gossip about—about her. About me."
"Yes, she did." Marie shook her head regretfully. "I've told her not to repeat those things to me again. People can be so contemptible."
The words surprised him, though he knew they shouldn't. Belle had already told him Marie cared nothing for the gossip. But somehow, hearing the words come from her mouth, seeing the compassion on her face, disturbed him, annoyed him, and he wasn't sure why.
He couldn't keep irritation from his voice. "What did Lydia say?"
Marie looked taken aback. "Well, I—I don't like repeating this."
"Tell me anyway."
She hesitated, and her gaze was measuring, considering before she looked away, obviously uncomfortable, and took a deep breath. Her voice was steady and emotionless, as if she were reciting an oration she didn't particularly like. "She says that you and your brother were in love with Belle. That you raced each other to see who could have her. That your brother . . . died in that race."
It surprised him that the words still had the power to hurt, but they did. They seared through him, slammed against his heart, made him feel angry and ashamed and aching. But still he wanted to know more, felt an insane urge to know more, to torture himself with the stories that had been spoken behind his back for six years. "What else?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "What else did she say?"
Marie looked nervous. "Rand, it's obvious this hurts you—"
"What else did she say?"
"Well." Marie squirmed. She licked her lips anxiously. "They say that—oh, Rand, this is so absurd—"
He felt a quick surge of anger. "Tell me."
She looked at him uncertainly. "Lydia says that after your brother died, you and Belle, well, you . . . you were . . . together." She took a deep breath. "But then Belle ran off somewhere. No one knows why. Lydia thinks—some of them think—maybe she was a ... a fallen . . . woman in New York, but not everyone believes that."
He worked to keep his tone even. "She was no whore."
Marie stood her ground. "I didn't think she was."
They stood there in silence. He heard the murmur of people around him, the quick bursts of laughter that punctuated the low and earnest voices, and Rand struggled to remember Lillian's lessons, to keep his anger and his pain under control, to keep them hidden. But he didn't succeed, he knew it the second Marie touched his arm, the moment he saw the deep, genuine compassion in her eyes.
"1 certainly don't believe them, Rand," she said softly.
Her steady conviction annoyed him. He wanted to hurt her somehow, to crack her faith in him, misplaced as it was, and because of that, his words were harsh and rough. "What if the stories are true?"
She looked confused. "I don't understand."
"What if they're true?" he asked, unable to help himself, wanting to see the same contempt in her eyes that he felt for himself. "What if I told you they weren't lies? Would you still be standing here talking to me? Or would you be running back to Lydia and your safe little friends?"
"Rand." She stepped away, her brow wrinkled in bewilderment. "I'm not sure what you want me to say—"
"Just answer me. What if those stories are true?"
"Are they?"
"Parts of them," he admitted, and then abruptly wished he hadn't when he saw how still she went.
But her voice was very calm. "Which parts?"
He hesitated. Christ, what was he doing? Why the hell tell her anything at all? She would believe anything he said; she'd told him that. He could tell her the safe lies he and Lillian had concocted. Lies that would restore her confidence in him, would make their life together safe and easy.
But then he saw her pressed lips, the way she watched him, waiting, and Belle's words from last night floated through his mind. "If I was her, I'd want you to tell me the truth," and he knew then he would tell Marie the whole story, because he respected her enough to do it. Because Belle was right.
"Cort died in a race with me," he said. He focused his gaze on Lillian and Sarah in the near distance, on the huge, shedding maple tree. "That much is true. But it wasn't over Belle. It was a game, an accident, that's all." He paused. "And Cort—he took care of her. They were like a real brother and sister. He wasn't in love with her."
"But you were."
Her voice was soft, so quiet, it sent his guilt plunging back, crashing through him, a relentless rhythm that left him lonely and aching. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I was."
She was silent for a moment, and he didn't look at her, instead imagining her face, the expression he knew he would see in her eyes. Contempt and anger, revulsion even—all those things he'd felt himself, all the emotions he knew he deserved. Even Belle's forgiveness didn't
ease those things in him, and he wondered if anything ever would.
"And now?" Marie's voice st
artled him. Her face was carefully blank, her eyes guarded, but he heard the edge in her voice, recognized the need for reassurance.
And he wanted to give it to her. Wanted to say, "It's been over a long time. I'd like to marry you. Would you marry me?" Wanted the safety of being with her, of burying his needs and his desires in her body, of the comfortable harmony of liking instead of loving. He wanted all those things, and so he opened his mouth to tell her the lie, to drown himself in caution and security.
But then he saw her face, saw the careful way she stood, as if bracing herself for pain, and he knew that lying to her would only hurt her more, that she already knew what he'd been hiding from himself all this time.
He was still in love with Belle.
He'd never stopped loving her.
The realization startled him, brought his fear crashing back. He was so damn afraid. He felt the darkness move over him, felt the inexorable stealth of it sliding through his blood, and he knew that even Marie couldn't save him from this, that eventually the madness would catch up with him. He could not stop it. He had never been able to stop it. Slow it, yes; control it, for a while; but the darkness would always be there, as long as he was alive. It was a part of him he could never escape.
Like Belle was.
Like Belle . . .
"You still love her, don't you?" It was as if Marie read his mind, and though she spoke in a hushed voice, it seemed too loud, seemed to pierce his head and the air around him. "It's not over."
Rand swallowed. "No," he said. "It's not over." The admission hung in the air between them, the unsaid spoken now, and because of that the words seemed to take on weight and size, permanent, unerasable. Inescapable. "I still . . . love her. I'm sorry." Inadequate words. Silly words.
She flinched. "I think I've ... I think I've always known that, really." She laughed slightly, sadly. "Last summer I hoped . . . and now . . . But I guess I always knew I wasn't really the one you wanted."
"Marie, I—"
After the frost f Page 27
