She didn't know what to say, how to answer him, so she said the only thing she could, the only answer there was.
"Because," she said quietly, looking at him. "Because you wanted me to."
She saw the way her words hit him. He looked stunned for a moment, and then he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as if he couldn't bear to look at her. She couldn't tear her eyes away, not when he opened them again and looked at her, not when she saw the anguish in their hazel depths, and the regret.
And not when she saw the longing.
"Christ." The word sounded torn from him, raw and aching.
Fear shot through Belle. Look away, the voice inside her warned. Back away. But she couldn't move, couldn't speak as he leaned toward her. He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and part of her knew she shouldn't let him. Part of her knew she would only be hurt if she let him. But the other part—oh, the other part longed for it so much. The other part wanted this kiss, since she could have nothing else, wanted the heat of his lips on hers and the erotic tease of his tongue.
And it was that part that won. That part that reveled in the soft brush of his lips against hers and heard the sharp rasp of his breath with a shiver of anticipation. And when he pressed into her, and Belle felt his hands at her waist, felt his fingers tighten, that part of her was swept with longing so intense, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling her fingers in the heavy, dusty weight of his hair.
Oh, God, she had dreamed of this. For years she had dreamed of this kiss, of this moment. She felt the gentle pressure of his mouth, and her lips parted beneath it, and then he was dipping inside, touching her tongue with his, filling her senses with the flavor of apple pie, sweet and rich and cinnamony, along with the taste of him, a taste she remembered even though she couldn't put a name to it, a taste that set her skin on fire, made her entire soul cry out with yearning.
She heard him moan deep in his throat, felt the urgency in his movements as he pressed closer, the same urgency she was feeling, the same, intense sensation of soft, wet heat and flaming touch, and she knew that this —this—was what she wanted. This heady excitement, this touching that led to other touching, this yearning that went beyond the memory of pain.
Not just friendship. Love.
She wanted love.
And it was the one thing she could not have.
Sickness swept through her. Sickness and a fierce, unrelenting pain. Belle jerked her head back, banging it on the pillar, twisting away, fighting his arms, his hands, his mouth. "Rand," she whispered and she heard the desperation in her voice, the pain. "Please—"
And then she heard the front door open.
Belle froze. She glanced toward it, and with a shock she saw her mother standing there, saw the color drain from Lillian's face, the slow realization. "Mama," she said. Rand jerked away, twisted to look at the door.
"Jesus." It was more a sound than a curse. He dropped his hands from her, struggled to his feet. "Lillian . . ."
But Lillian didn't look at him. It was almost as if he didn't exist. She stared at Belle, and Belle had the sudden feeling that the world had faded away. All that was left was this—this porch, and this moment, and she and Lillian staring at each other. Everything focused down to this, to the hatred in her mother's eyes, the condemnation.
And then Lillian backed inside and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 26
“Mama—" Belle tore away from Rand, lunging to the door. She heard his protest behind her, saw him reach for her, but the image of her mother's hatred glowed in her mind, unrelenting and too strong to ignore. It was time to face her now, Belle knew that, and in the light of it nothing mattered, not Rand's kiss, not anything. Belle yanked open the door. It slammed shut behind her.
Voices floated from the kitchen. Stella, Dorothy, Kenny . . . talking away as if nothing had happened, as if it were just an ordinary day cutting corn, and the mundaneness of it seemed suddenly not quite real, took on the twisting, fanciful quality of a nightmare. Belle stood there for a moment, listening for Lillian's voice, not hearing it, and then she heard the steps upstairs, the sharp clap of boot heels.
Belle hurried up the stairs. "Mama!" she called. "Mama!"
There was no answer, but it didn't matter. Belle knew exactly where her mother was. She hurried down the hallway, stopping just before the last door, the door farthest away from her own.
It was cracked open, as if Lillian had rushed inside and forgotten to close it. Belle nudged it with her hand, pushing it open until she could see her mother on the far side of the room.
Lillian was standing by the window, staring outside, at the fields the window overlooked. She was just standing there, arms crossed, spine ramrod-straight, but the chignon at the back of her neck had loosened, and strands of pale blond hair escaped to curl against her face. It made her look softer somehow, in spite of her rigid posture, more approachable.
Though Belle knew that was just an illusion.
She stepped inside the door, shut it softly behind her. "Mama," she said quietly.
Lillian didn't turn around. "How long has that been going on?" she asked, and though her voice was calm, Belle heard the faint edge of tension beneath it. "How long?"
Belle pressed her palms against the door, taking strength from the hard, smooth feel of wood. "Mama, it's not what you—"
"How long? A week? Longer?"
Belle swallowed. She shook her head. "No. Not that long."
"I see." Lillian's fingers tightened on her arms, her gaze stayed focused outside. "You know he's going to marry Marie Scholl."
The words sent a shaft of pain stabbing into Belle. "Yeah. I know. She's a nice girl."
"Yes, she is." Lillian took a deep breath; it echoed in the room, in the muslin curtains edged with crocheted lace, in the eaves. It bounced against the huge wardrobe and fell over the wedding-ring quilt on the bed. "Then I don't understand why you won't leave him alone."
The accusation was like a slap. Belle felt the heat racing into her face; anger made her voice tight and harsh. "What makes you think it's my fault?"
"Isn't it?" Lillian turned then, and her pale eyes were blazing. "Everything has been—fine since you've been gone. Rand has been fine. He's been seeing Marie, we've had no trouble at all. But since you've returned . . ." The anger in Lillian's eyes faded, replaced by a bleakness that was somehow even more hurtful, a hopelessness that made Belle feel guilty and sad. "What else can I think but that you're tempting him?"
"Mama, you're wrong." Belle could barely say the words. "You're . . . wrong."
"Am I?" Lillian's mouth tightened, her fingers were white where she clenched her arms. "Then perhaps you should explain it to me."
Belle stared at her mother. Explain it to me. As if it were that simple, as if she could explain it in a word or a sentence or even a lifetime. Hell, she couldn't even explain it to herself. "I—I don't—"
"I thought it was over. I . . . hoped ..." Lillian closed her eyes, shook her head. "I hoped we could all live together peaceably. But it's obvious we can't. With you and Rand . . ." Her voice trailed off; her face was tight with what looked like revulsion. "Good Lord, Belle, have you even thought of what people will say?"
"I don't give a damn what people say," Belle said, and though she tried to control her feelings, her voice was sharp with anger and pain. "They've always talked about me. It doesn't matter. And it's not like that—"
"Then how is it?" Lillian glared at her, her words were razor sharp, each one honed, each one stabbing. "Explain it to me, then. Tell me why I am continually having to protect this family from you."
"Mama, why do you hate me so much?" The words slipped out before Belle could stop them, and she heard the hurt in her voice, a hurt she no longer had the strength to fight.
The words shivered between them; the outside sounds seemed suddenly loud. Lillian stared at her in shock, and then she sagged, crumpling to the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands, her fingers
trembling.
Belle stared at her, unable to move. She had never seen her mother lose control before, and it was frightening, confusing—somehow reassuring. It made Lillian seem more human somehow, vulnerable as she'd never been. Belle had the unexpected urge to comfort, to soothe her mother as Lillian had never soothed her.
"Mama," she whispered, afraid to touch her, afraid not to. She dropped onto the bed beside her mother, laid a cautious hand on her arm. "Mama—"
Lillian's hands dropped away from her face. She looked up, and Belle saw the wetness of tears glimmering in her mother's eyes, a pain she'd never seen before, never even imagined.
"I don't know what else to do," Lillian said, her voice broken and harsh and completely unfamiliar. "You are so much . . . like him."
Belle frowned. "Like who?"
"Your father." Lillian sighed. She looked out the window, her hands convulsively crumpling the material of her apron.
"My father?" Belle could not help her surprise. She would never have thought she was anything like the man in the portrait upstairs.
But Lillian nodded. "He was the most irresponsible man I ever knew. But he could talk—oh, the man had the prettiest words. I was . . . overwhelmed by him."
"I—I didn't know that about him. He seems so—pious."
Lillian glanced at her, frowning in confusion. "Who?"
"My father," Belle said. "His portrait isn't—"
"The portrait," Lillian repeated slowly. "I see." She took a deep breath, looked down at her hands. "Isabelle, the man in the portrait is not your father."
Belle stared at her mother, sure she'd misheard, sure she didn't understand. But before she could ask, before she could make sense of it, Lillian looked up and straightened her shoulders.
"The man is John Calhoun, that's true. And I was married to him. He was my father's assistant, a brilliant politician. Everyone said it was a wonderful match." She paused. "You know all this, I realize. But what you didn't know was that I was very young—just sixteen. And John"—she looked away—"Well, John was much like his portrait. He was a very serious, very important man. A little self-important.” A soft smile touched her lips. "But we suited each other very well."
She stared out the window again, and Belle waited, unmoving and listening, feeling oddly as if the world was about to open up beneath her and unsure whether or not she wanted it to. Unsure if she wanted this level of trust, or wanted to hear her mother's secrets. Part of her wanted to stop Lillian right now, to refuse to hear the rest, to let the future go on without knowing what her mother was about to tell her. And the other part was afraid to say a word, afraid that if she did, Lillian would stop, and she would never know the truth.
So she waited, torn, almost dreading the words when they finally came.
Lillian's voice was soft with memory. "It was the summer they started work on the canal. John took me to see them dig. It was a—a present to me, I think, a sop he threw me because he was gone so much and I was so often home alone. The foreman was Jack Murphey. He was . . . very handsome, very charming. I'm afraid I fell a little in love with him then. It was a—a foolish thing to do. But I was lonely, and Jack was lively and entertaining. I believed he loved me too."
Lillian fell silent.
"Jack Murphey was my father," Belle said quietly.
Lillian nodded. "John never ... he never knew. I was ready to leave him, to run off with Jack, but"—she closed her eyes as if it still pained her—"but Jack left first. I don't think he ever . . . meant to stay."
Belle heard the sadness in her mother's voice, an ache she recognized. She knew exactly how it felt to love someone who hurt you, knew the desperation and panic of being pregnant and alone, the feeling that your life was moving out of control. She knew how it felt to be lonely and afraid and hungry for something—anything —to call your own.
She knew all that, and so when Lillian looked at her and Belle saw the hesitation in her mother's eyes, she took Lillian's hand. "I know, Mama," she said. "I know."
Lillian made a sound, a small, breathless laugh. "You are so like him. I always thought John would look at you and know—you were so very different from either of us." She shook her head, and then she looked up, and there was a bright intensity in her eyes. "I have always wanted the best for you, Isabelle."
Belle sighed and looked away. "Maybe that's true."
"It is true." Lillian gripped Belle's hand, squeezed hard. "I have not loved you as much as I should, I know that. I have been so . . . afraid. You are so much like him, I—I saw trouble wherever you went. Every time I look at you, I see him, I see the terrible mistake I made." She took a deep breath. "But I do love you, in my way. And I have always wanted the best for you."
Belle winced. "The best, Mama? Is that why you threw me out six years ago? Is that why you called me a disgrace to the family?"
Lillian closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "I'm sorry for that," she said softly. "You'll never know how sorry."
Belle had not expected that. Not the apology, nor her mother's obvious regret, and it threw her for a moment, took away her sarcasm, cut through the pain still remaining from that time. She did not want to feel for her mother, did not want to forgive her, but she found herself thinking she should. Found herself looking at Lillian and wanting to reassure her, to tell her that it was all right, to say things were better even though they weren't, even though there was a piece of her that wanted to keep a firm hold on her resentment, a part she wasn't sure she wanted to heal.
"I was afraid," Lillian said, continuing on in the face of Belle's silence. "Everything was—it was so much like before. So much like—like it was with Jack . . ."
"But I'm not my father," Belle said quietly.
"No."
"And I—I'm not sure I can just forget what you did, Mama. I'm not sure I can forgive."
Lillian nodded slowly. "It is your decision of course."
The silence fell between them. Lillian sat there, staring at her hands, and Belle felt her mother's sad acceptance, felt the memories between them, along with the heaviness of regret.
And she knew then that she didn't want to live in the past. Not anymore. She'd been there for such a long time already.
She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I can forgive," she repeated. "But I—I'd like to try."
Lillian looked up, and smiled—a small, tender smile that made Belle feel sad for all the time they'd lost, all the things there would never be between them. But her mother's next words made the ache disappear, filled her with a hope she'd never felt before, never known she wanted.
"Oh, so would I," Lillian said quietly. "So would I."
Rand threw himself into cutting corn, relishing the hard, backbreaking labor. He ignored the sharp-edged leaves that sawed gently and persistently at his back and neck, and grabbed the stalks in the crook of his left arm, whacking them off with the machetelike corn knife—a single stroke that had taken him years to perfect—dropping the butts to the ground to drag behind him until he had all he could carry. Then he lugged the bundle to the shock one of the hired cutters had started and went back for another load.
The swish, thwack, swish, thwack of the blade and the rustling of the stalks were a constant rhythm in his ears, the soreness of his hand and arm a welcome relief to his thoughts, and he concentrated on it and not on the endless rows of corn that allowed no breeze in, or the pollen from dry tassels that dribbled into his collar, itched where it clung to his sweaty face. The pattern was all, the swish, thwack, swish, thwack filled his ears, forced his numb arms to move, his fingers to grasp the wooden handle of the knife. He could think about that, and not about anything else. Not about the fact that he'd followed Belle and kissed her, not about the fact that he was burning for her and he didn't know what to do about it.
He'd dreamed about her last night; the vision was still so vivid in his mind. She was at the end of the yard, smiling at him, calling to him, and the sun was falling across her hair, the breeze molding her dress to her bo
dy. Seductively she gestured for him to come closer, and when he did, when he reached for her and tried to pull her close, she stepped away from him before he could touch her, stayed out of reach, and her laughter was warm and lilting and infinitely beguiling.
He woke up drenched in sweat and painfully aroused. Had fallen asleep only to dream the same thing again, only this time he caught her. This time he ran his hands over her body and felt her heat against him. This time he kissed her—a hot, wet kiss that pulled him in, sucked at his soul until he couldn't escape, couldn't breathe, and suddenly she was gone and there was darkness all around him. Frightening, horrible darkness that made his heart race and his breath harsh and rasping.
Darkness that reminded him of his mother, and that bottomless pool at Rock Mill, the pool where they'd never found her body—
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the image from his mind, trying to forget it and the words that echoed in his head, circled over and over and over. You love her, you love her, you love her.
Christ, yes, he loved her. But he'd loved her once before, and had destroyed them both with it. He'd loved her with the blinding, inescapable hunger of obsession, and all it had got him was a life full of lies and obligations, six years of darkness and frustration.
Six years without her.
He saw again that cold November night in his mind. The night everything changed. It was a husking bee, and he remembered her pulling the husk away from an ear to reveal ruddy kernels. The red ear. She had looked up at him then, and the flush that stained her cheeks, her sudden shyness, made him almost dizzy with need. He had wanted her for weeks, and she had kissed him and teased him and pulled away as if that were all there was, and he knew that for her there was nothing more. He knew she was too young to know better.
He wanted to kiss her then, but it was Charlie Boston who stood up and took the forfeit, Charlie Boston who swept the red ear away from her and made a great show of kissing her forehead, because she was too young even to be there with them and they all knew it. But still Rand remembered how inflamed he'd been, how Charlie's kiss only made him think of all the things he wanted from her, all the things he could never have.
After the frost f Page 29
