Mariah Stewart

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by Swept Away


  Jody sat on the ed­ge of the king-si­zed bed and won­de­red how she co­uld avo­id let­ting him back in.

  Des­pi­te the fact that her fa­ce had be­en lat­he­red with aloe all thro­ugh the night, her mo­uth was still swol­len, her chin was still blis­te­red, and her eye­lids, whi­le not swol­len shut, we­re puf­fed. She'd shri­eked when she'd ca­ught a glim­p­se of her­self in the mir­ror. How co­uld she fa­ce Jeremy with her fa­ce so dis­tor­ted?

  The do­or­k­nob rat­tled and she duc­ked un­der the pil­low. The­re was no way he was go­ing to see just how ugly she was.

  "J­ody?" he as­ked softly.

  "Go away," she grum­b­led mi­se­rably in­to the mat­tress.

  "J­ody, what's wrong?"

  "I lo­ok li­ke a gho­ul. I'm not le­aving this ro­om. Ever. Go away."

  "So­oner or la­ter, you're go­ing to get pretty hungry, you know."

  "Pro­mi­se me that, if I star­ve to de­ath, you'll ma­ke them co­ver my fa­ce be­fo­re they bring the body out."

  "J­ody, it's not as bad as all that."

  "Yes, it is. I tho­ught you sa­id that the aloe wo­uld fix it."

  "I sa­id the aloe wo­uld help it he­al. If yo­ur skin was al­re­ady badly bur­ned, it can't re­ver­se that. What it can do is help it to he­al qu­ickly. Open the do­or," he sa­id pa­ti­ently.

  "No. I can't let you see me li­ke this, Jeremy."

  "I al­re­ady did."

  "You didn't!"

  "Sorry, but you we­re right the­re, next to me in the bed when I wo­ke up this mor­ning."

  Jody got out of bed and pad­ded on ba­re fe­et to the do­or to let him in.

  Jeremy pla­ced the bag down on the dres­ser and be­gan to un­lo­ad its con­tents. "Cof­fee, oran­ge ju­ice, an En­g­lish muf­fin, and so­me can­ta­lo­upe."

  "J­eremy, this is very swe­et of you," she sa­id, trying to ke­ep her he­ad down.

  Was it pos­sib­le to eat with yo­ur he­ad at such an an­g­le? How did one drink cof­fee wit­ho­ut ra­ising one's he­ad?

  With the fin­gers of one hand he til­ted her fa­ce up to his. When she tri­ed to turn away, he stop­ped her, sa­ying, "We might as well get this over with now." He pe­ered clo­sely. "My, my, tho­se blis­ters are re­al­ly im­p­res­si­ve. And I didn't ex­pect that the swel­ling wo­uld be qu­ite so bad this mor­ning; too bad we didn't get the aloe on ear­li­er."

  She pul­led away and aver­ted her eyes.

  "The blis­ters will he­al, Jody, and with any luck, the swel­ling will be down by the end of the day," he told her gently, ho­ping he was right.

  "I lo­ok hi­de­o­us."

  "If you say so." He tur­ned his back and ope­ned one of the bags. Han­ding her a cup of cof­fee, he as­ked, "Wo­uld you rat­her ha­ve bre­ak­fast out by the po­ol? The­re are a few tab­les in the sha­de, so you won't ha­ve to worry abo­ut get­ting mo­re sun."

  She put the cup down, wan­ting to pro­test. She'd ne­ver felt ug­li­er in her li­fe. But he­re was Jeremy, hol­ding out his hand to her.

  "I can't be­li­eve you'd want to be se­en in pub­lic with me."

  He sho­ok his he­ad. She was, in his eyes, be­a­uti­ful, the blis­ters and puffy eyes in­con­se­qu­en­ti­al. How did you ma­ke a wo­man un­der­s­tand a thing li­ke that?

  "And I hurt. I re­al­ly hurt." Te­ars wel­led in her eyes. "I ne­ver knew that sun­burn co­uld hurt so much."

  "J­ody, if you are still in that much pa­in, I think you sho­uld go to the ne­arest hos­pi­tal."

  "J­eremy, this is sun­burn. I'd fe­el li­ke an idi­ot go­ing to the hos­pi­tal for sun­burn."

  "You'll fe­el li­ke a big­ger idi­ot if you get re­al­ly sick, Jody. And pe­op­le do get re­al­ly sick from sun­burn. You co­uld ha­ve sun po­iso­ning."

  She sat up and lo­oked at him thro­ugh slightly swol­len eye­lids.

  "I re­al­ly think you sho­uld let me ta­ke you."

  Re­luc­tantly, and with the gre­atest of ca­re, Jody swung her legs over the si­de of the bed. She gat­he­red elas­tic-wa­ist shorts and an old, over­si­zed tee-shirt from her su­it­ca­se, and wal­ked to the bat­h­ro­om.

  As she clo­sed the do­or, she sa­id over one sho­ul­der, "Just gi­ve me fi­ve mi­nu­tes to get dres­sed."

  The day was over­cast, the fog thick as they went from her ro­om to his car, and Jody was than­k­ful for the fact that she ne­edn't fight the sun's rays that mor­ning. She slid ca­uti­o­usly in­to Jeremy's car, win­cing as her sen­si­ti­ve thighs met the le­at­her se­at.

  They fol­lo­wed the signs for Is­land Me­mo­ri­al Hos­pi­tal, just fo­ur blocks away. As the se­dan ro­un­ded the cor­ner to the emer­gency ro­om en­t­ran­ce, shrill si­rens split the mor­ning calm, and Jeremy stop­ped to al­low an am­bu­lan­ce to pre­ce­de him in­to the par­king lot. He pul­led in­to the ne­arest par­king spot just as the first am­bu­lan­ce was fol­lo­wed by a se­cond, then a third.

  "What do you sup­po­se that's all abo­ut?" Jody shif­ted in her se­at to watch the last of the am­bu­lan­ces pull in­to the li­ne that had for­med at the do­or­way to the emer­gency ro­om.

  "Stay he­re," Jeremy told her, "and I'll find out."

  He was back in mi­nu­tes, his fa­ce whi­te.

  "The­re's be­en a re­al­ly bad ac­ci­dent out on the Gar­den Sta­te Par­k­way. A trac­tor tra­iler jac­k­kni­fed, and the­re was a six-car pi­le­up be­ca­use of the fog. Ap­pa­rently the­re we­re a lot of se­ve­re inj­uri­es. You can't get ne­ar the emer­gency ro­om right now. I think the­re's anot­her hos­pi­tal far­t­her up the co­ast, tho­ugh. We can try that one."

  "I'll bet they're jam­med, too. The­re are only three am­bu­lan­ces he­re, Jeremy. The­re must be ot­hers on the­ir way to every hos­pi­tal wit­hin mi­les." She nod­ded her he­ad in the di­rec­ti­on of the am­bu­lan­ces that we­re li­ned up, and the flurry of ac­ti­vity that had erup­ted. "Com­pa­red to that, a lit­tle sun­burn se­ems pretty in­sig­ni­fi­cant."

  "J­ody, what you ha­ve is mo­re than just a lit­tle sun­burn."

  "The­re's no way that I wo­uld ex­pect an­yo­ne to tend to me in the midst of what tho­se pe­op­le must be go­ing thro­ugh. Let's just go back to the mo­tel, Jeremy, and try a lit­tle mo­re aloe." Jody shif­ted un­com­for­tably in her se­at and tri­ed to smi­le.

  One pos­si­bi­lity nag­ged Jeremy all the way back to her mo­tel ro­om.

  It nag­ged him as he wat­c­hed Jody walk ac­ross the ro­om on swol­len fe­et and smi­le at him ru­eful­ly as she eased on­to the si­de of the bed.

  It nag­ged him as he wat­c­hed Jody try to sip cof­fee bet­we­en swol­len lips, and his in­si­des twis­ted, kno­wing that she was in pa­in.

  It nag­ged him as he bit his bot­tom lip pen­si­vely, kno­wing he had a cho­ice to ma­ke, right he­re and now. Jeremy had ho­ped that the vi­sit to the hos­pi­tal wo­uld ha­ve pro­vi­ded re­li­ef for her dis­com­fort, but now, with the hos­pi­tal per­son­nel con­cen­t­ra­ting on pa­ti­ents with mo­re im­me­di­ate, mo­re cri­ti­cal con­cerns, Jeremy had to fa­ce the fact that he had one op­ti­on left.

  Help was less than an ho­ur away, if he was man eno­ugh to ta­ke that one gi­ant step bac­k­wards in­to his past.

  His he­art tur­ned over in his chest, and he knew that the­re was, af­ter all, re­al­ly no cho­ice to be ma­de. She was hur­ting, and the­re was only one per­son that he knew for cer­ta­in co­uld help her.

  Miz Tu­es­day, the ol­der-than-the-hil­ls he­aler from de­ep in the Pi­nes, co­uld he­al wo­unds in a fas­hi­on that ne­ver left scars. In his yo­uth, Jeremy had se­en Miz Tu­es­day set bo­nes and cu­re ever­y­t­hing from pne­umo­nia to sna­ke bi­tes with con­coc­ti­ons that had be­en pas­sed down thro­ugh ge­ne­ra­ti­ons of he­alers.

  Su­rely, Miz Tu­es­day co­uld t
re­at Jody's sun­burn, co­uld ta­ke away her pa­in.

  Assu­ming, of co­ur­se, that Miz Tu­es­day was still ali­ve.

  And if his own wo­unds we­re ope­ned, well, he wo­uld just ha­ve to de­al with it, as he al­ways had.

  The dri­ve was not a long one, but Jeremy was numbly awa­re of every mi­le, every turn in the hig­h­way. It wasn't un­til he pul­led off the ma­in ro­ad on­to the first of the mo­re nar­row co­untry la­nes that his sen­ses be­gan to co­me ali­ve. Sights and so­unds, smells, so­me long for­got­ten, all but over­w­hel­med him. For­ced to slow down on­ce he hit the dirt ro­ads, he fo­und him­self sur­ro­un­ded by a half-do­zen va­ri­eti­es of pi­ne and as many of oak. He­re and the­re he stop­ped mo­men­ta­rily to lo­ok aro­und, but ne­ver spo­ke. Jody sat qu­i­etly, wat­c­hing his eyes, kno­wing that whe­re­ver he was ta­king her, he was pa­ying a toll that she had yet to un­der­s­tand. She sus­pec­ted that be­fo­re the day had en­ded, she wo­uld le­arn.

  We're go­ing in­to the Pi­nes," she sa­id fi­nal­ly as the fo­rest de­epe­ned aro­und them.

  "Yes." He nod­ded.

  "The­re aren't as many tre­es as I wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught."

  Jody sa­id. "I al­ways ima­gi­ned the Pi­nes to be thick with tre­es and den­sely over­g­rown."

  "Fi­res are very com­mon he­re," he sa­id, so­un­ding de­tac­hed. "Plants that can't adapt, don't sur­vi­ve. That's why the­re is so lit­tle di­ver­sity of plant li­fe he­re. So­me are struc­tu­ral­ly bet­ter in­su­la­ted from he­at than ot­hers. So­me are bet­ter adap­ted ge­ne­ti­cal­ly to the con­di­ti­ons. So­me se­eds ger­mi­na­te mo­re qu­ickly when he­ated or when they raff on­to the ba­re so­il left be­hind af­ter a fi­re. So­me pro­du­ce ro­ot spro­uts that grow mo­re qu­ickly af­ter be­ing ex­po­sed to in­ten­se he­at. Se­ve­ral of the pi­nes that thri­ve he­re-the pitch pi­ne, for exam­p­le-ha­ve thick bark and can send up new sho­ots from the ba­se if the top of the tree is kil­led."

  His vo­ice had ta­ken on the flat mo­no­to­ne of a to­ur gu­ide who had re­ci­ted his li­nes a ti­me or two too many, but she let him con­ti­nue, sin­ce tal­king se­emed to be dis­t­rac­ting him from wha­te­ver it was that he was trying to avo­id win­king abo­ut.

  "The hot- air bal­lo­on pi­lot sa­id the­re we­re lots of stre­ams back he­re."

  He nod­ded. "The­re's a who­le net­work of them far­t­her in, back in the swamps. I used to know the stre­ams li­ke I know the stre­ets in D.C. now. li­ke the back of my hand."

  "You grew up back he­re."

  "That's right"

  They dro­ve in si­len­ce for a very long fi­ve mi­nu­tes.

  "How do­es a boy from the Pi­nes get to go to Prin­ce­ton?" she as­ked.

  "It's a very long story, Jody," he an­s­we­red wit­ho­ut lo­oking at her.

  She was abo­ut to ask when he'd be tel­ling her that story, when they ro­un­ded a bend in the ro­ad that bro­ade­ned in­to a cle­aring, be­yond which sto­od an an­ci­ent ca­bin of wo­od that se­emed to grow out in all di­rec­ti­ons from a cen­t­ral squ­are.

  All Jody co­uld think of was Han­sel and Gre­tel.

  Jeremy sta­red ahe­ad at the ca­bin for a long, qu­i­et ti­me, his left hand on the do­or han­d­le. Jody kept wa­iting For him to open the do­or, but he did not. Fi­nal­ly, from aro­und the si­de of the ca­bin, an old wo­man ap­pe­ared, her Bril­lo-li­ke gray ha­ir par­ti­al­ly hid­den by the dark blue scarf aro­und her he­ad. A fa­ded brown dress that must ha­ve had a belt at one ti­me hung on her slight fra­me. She le­aned on a thick wal­king stick of whi­te birch.

  Jody's eyes wi­de­ned. Han­sel and Gre­tel in­de­ed!

  Upon se­e­ing the car, she stop­ped and sta­red in­tently at them, her eyes se­eming to dis­miss Jody's pre­sen­ce as she ap­pe­ared to fo­cus so­lely on Jeremy.

  "Who is that?" Jody whis­pe­red.

  "That's Miz Tu­es­day," he sa­id softly.

  "Miz Tu­es­day?" she re­pe­ated.

  "My step­fat­her's gre­at-gran­d­mot­her." Jeremy pus­hed open the car do­or and step­ped out wit­ho­ut wa­iting for Jody and wal­ked slowly to whe­re the old wo­man sto­od.

  Jody ope­ned her own do­or, and for­get­ting the bubbly ap­pe­aran­ce of her fa­ce, fol­lo­wed be­hind.

  "J­eremy." The old wo­man sa­id. " Jeremy."

  He nod­ded slowly, and they eyed each ot­her wit­ho­ut spe­aking.

  " 'Bo­ut ti­me." The old wo­man tur­ned to­ward the ho­use and po­in­ted the stick in Jody's di­rec­ti­on wit­ho­ut tur­ning to lo­ok at her. "Bring yo­ur fri­end."

  Jody to­uc­hed Jeremy's arm. He lo­oked back over his sho­ul­der at her and sa­id, "She hasn't chan­ged in six­te­en ye­ars. She hasn't chan­ged at all."

  "Are we go­ing in­si­de?"

  "Yes."

  He held the do­or for Jody, and she step­ped in­to a dar­ke­ned par­lor. The sha­pes of fur­ni­tu­re lo­omed he­re and the­re aro­und her, but the­re was no light. Jeremy led her thro­ugh the dim ro­om in­to the kit­c­hen, whe­re the light was only slightly bet­ter.

  "Miz Tu­es­day, this is my fri­end, Jody Bec­kett." Jeremy sa­id as they cros­sed the worn thres­hold.

  The old wo­man nod­ded to ac­k­now­led­ge the in­t­ro­duc­ti­on but did not turn aro­und.

  "I'm ma­kin' you a dish of tea." The old wo­man told them as she pla­ced a few short pi­eces of wo­od in­to the big wo­od­s­to­ve that do­mi­na­ted one who­le wall. Thanks, Miz Tu­es­day."

  She nod­ded that they we­re wel­co­me.

  "You ever get elec­t­ri­city, Miz Tu­es­day?" Jeremy as­ked.

  "You be­en away a long ti­me." She tur­ned and smi­led slyly. "Even stump jum­pers got elec-tri­city the­se days."

  Jeremy la­ug­hed for the first ti­me that day.

  "How've you be­en, Miz Tu­es­day?" Jeremy's fa­ce sof­te­ned as he wat­c­hed the old wo­man fill a te­aket­tle with wa­ter from the spi­got of an old por­ce­la­in sink.

  She nod­ded her he­ad briskly. "Pretty mid­dlin' smart."

  "I'm glad to he­ar that."

  The old wo­man po­in­ted to the wo­oden cha­irs that sat aro­und the old ro­und tab­le in a cor­ner of the ro­om.

  "Set the­re," she told them as she cle­aned the dust from mis­mat­c­hed te­acups, long unu­sed, and pla­ced them on the tab­le.

  He sat whe­re he was told to and sa­id, "You ha­ven't chan­ged much, Miz Tu­es­day."

  "Not much do back he­re." She nod­ded. "Ro­ads be­en sci­en­ce'd, so­me 'em. 'Bo­ut all. You be­in' a Clam Tow­ner, wo­uldn't know."

  "I don't li­ve in Tuc­ker­ton an­y­mo­re," Jeremy told her. "I ha­ven't li­ved the­re in a long ti­me."

  "Then whe­re?"

  "O­ut­si­de of Was­hin­g­ton, D.C."

  Her eyes wi­de­ned. "All that far?"

  He nod­ded.

  "Lot­sa folks go­ing from he­re, but me, I be­ant go­ing now­he­re." She sat and le­aned back in her cha­ir. 'Our Mar­t­ha, she bent down to Mays Lan­ding, and her son John, he bent all the way to Tren­ton, to a scho­ol to le­arn to be a te­ac­her. I al­ways fi­gu­red him for a we­ighty man. li­ke you, Jeremy Nob­le. You grown up to be a we­ighty man? A scho­ol­te­ac­her? A bo­ok­ke­eper, may­be?"

  "I'm an in­ves­ti­ga­tor. I don't know that what I do ma­kes me 'we­ighty,' Miz Tu­es­day, but I gu­ess so­me­ti­mes you ha­ve to be smart eno­ugh to find pe­op­le who don't want to be fo­und."

  Her eyes nar­ro­wed and she stu­di­ed his fa­ce.

  After a long mi­nu­te, she tur­ned and le­aned over to cup Jody's fa­ce in her hand.

  "You're he­re for a cu­rin'," she sa­id, and un­der­ne­ath her sun­burn, Jody blus­hed.

  Drawn in by the un­k­nown dra­ma un­fol­ding aro­und her, she had for­g
ot­ten just how aw­ful she lo­oked.

  Self- con­s­ci­o­usry, Jody ra­ised a hand to co­ver the blis­ters on her chin.

  "Aloe." Miz Tu­es­day pro­no­un­ced.

  "Tri­ed that."

  "Whe­re'd you find aloe in D.C.?" She pro­no­un­ced the let­ters as if they we­re in qu­ota­ti­on marks.

  "Not in D.C. In Oce­an Po­int. In the drug­s­to­re."

  " Bo­ug­h­ten?" She ra­ised her eyeb­rows. "From a sto­re?"

  "Yes. They sell it in bot­tles."

  "Fancy that." She sho­ok her he­ad. "Next thing you'll be sa­ying they sell tur­pen­ti­ne and Jer­sey lig­h­t­nin' too."

  Jeremy la­ug­hed.

  Miz Tu­es­day sto­od up and went to a ca­bi­net that hung from the wall next to the sto­ve.

  "Tur­pen­ti­ne and Jer­sey lig­h­t­nin'?" Jody whis­pe­red. "And what the hell's a 'stump jum­per'?"

  "Stump jum­pers are the bac­k­wo­od­s­men." He grin­ned. "Tur­pen­ti­ne, in one form or anot­her, has be­en the tra­di­ti­onal tre­at­ment of cho­ice he­re in the Pi­nes for any num­ber of con­di­ti­ons. And the­re are so­me that ma­in­ta­in that Jer­sey lig­h­t­nin'-ho­me­ma­de ap­ple­j­ack whis­key- can cu­re just abo­ut an­y­t­hing. If, of co­ur­se, it do­esn't kill you."

  Miz Tu­es­day shuf­fled back to the tab­le with se­ve­ral small vi­als in her hand. Af­ter re­in­s­pec­ting Jody's fa­ce, she tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to the sho­ul­der burns, then to tho­se on her chest. She nod­ded to her­self, then went to the sink, re­fil­led the te­apot, and tur­ned the bur­ner back on.

  "First thing you ne­ed is to get out of that dress. Then you so­ak in the tub in flo­wer wa­ter…"

  "Flo­wer wa­ter?" Jody mo­ut­hed the words si­lently.

  "… then you ha­ve sal­ve, then la­ter, so­me pu­re aloe." Miz Tu­es­day ges­tu­red for Jody to fol­low her thro­ugh a do­or­way to the right, mut­te­ring un­der her bre­ath, "Bo­ug­h­ten aloe. Hmmph!"

  "J­eremy, you can cut me so­me short pi­eces for my wo­od­s­to­ve.' She po­in­ted to a wo­od­pi­le abo­ut ten fe­et from the back do­or. "And you can stack 'em right he­re, ne­ar the do­or."

 

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