“Then you go tell Edwina she’s pointless.” Jake stepped away.
Truvy’s indecision lasted a mere second before she kept walking toward Jake. She couldn’t tell Edwina that.
Up next to the house’s wood siding, a lawn settee had been covered for the winter by a length of canvas cloth. The settee faced the fallow garden and a yard wearing a counterpane of snow. With a sweep of his hand, he removed the canvas to reveal the green wicker beneath.
“Take a load off and quit thinking up ways to get back inside.”
Taken aback, she didn’t move, unsure. Not yards from the settee, the parlor’s lights shone out the window and onto the weathered, but not warped, porch boards. Although the settee was tucked deep into the shadows of the wraparound porch, anyone could press their face against those window panes and see them. But who would without the whole parlor knowing?
Although it was beastly frigid, the awning above was shelter from the snow drifting from the sky. Disregarding her reservations, Truvy took a seat on the lawn furniture and snuggled deeper into Edwina’s cloak, burying her hands in the front folds to keep them somewhat warm.
Jake sat down beside her, the wicker creaking beneath his weight. Two tall people on a short settee didn’t leave a tennis ball’s width of space between them. Their shoulders touched. Their hips touched. Their knees touched. If one of them crossed his or her legs, their legs would touch. Unable to slide down a fraction, she didn’t move lest she touch him someplace she hadn’t thought of.
Shadows cast from leafless branches melted into a twilight bright in the cold light of snow. Neither of them spoke. Sitting this close to him, she could smell his cologne, a kind of spicy something that threw her senses into utter chaos; her stomach went from fluttering to forming knots. Moose Thompson smelled like menthol and eucalyptus oil, a combination so overpowering at times that her eyes had watered.
Barkly ran around the yard, stopping every now and then to dig in the snow and send a spray of white between his hind legs. Loping through the barren garden, he knocked over the pole for the scarecrow as he bounded up the porch via one route and leaped off it via another.
“You think he’s a little hound crazy from being in the house?” Jake’s question broke the silence—along with the icy shot of snow Barkly left in his wake when he ran off again.
Brushing off her skirt, Truvy replied, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a pet.”
“No cat?”
“No.”
“I figured you to at least have a companion bird.”
“What would I do with a companion bird?”
“Watch it hang on a perch and fluff its feathers.” Then he added—and to her, it seemed he did so just to nettle her, “You seem the type to enjoy one.”
She let her eyes rest on him with deliberate censure. “And what type is that?”
“Since you’re overheated about it, I’m not going to answer.”
She gave him a scorching glare before replying sardonically, “Yes, I was waiting for this. ‘She’s a sports coach, so she’s manly.’ A real tomboy type. A woman who would like gamy wildlife—companion birds.”
“Uhh . . .” He cleared his throat, putting on a darn good show of innocence when she knew he was only trying to back out of his slip-up. “Uh, I didn’t mean it the way you’re taking it. I don’t know of any sports coaches who keep pet birds. I was going for the compassionate and devoted lady teacher type.”
She stifled her censurious thoughts of him and studied his face. He did look sincere; his mouth was parted, his brows were straight, and his jaw wasn’t ticking. “Maybe I would get enjoyment from a companion bird—a canary or parakeet. But it’s not an indulgence I’d buy for myself.”
“Then you ought to ask somebody to get you one real soon. I read that having a parakeet helps nervousness, keeps your blood pure, and treats brain anxiety. You’ve been exhibiting some symptoms tonight. Bad day?”
“I don’t have brain anxiety! And if birds are such a general health help, why don’t you have one?”
“I have dumbbells.”
“Ah,” she rallied back with a fist pumped exaggeratedly in the air, “just the ticket for no blood circulation in the brain.”
“Naw. I get a Swedish massage for that.”
Truvy could only heave a sigh.
There was no talking to him.
Jake shifted his weight on the settee to lean forward. Doggedly, he laid his hands on his knees. His shoulders seemed wider as he went to face her. He stared. Quietly.
“What’s eating you, sweetheart?”
She hated that he could be so persistent. “Nothing you can fix.” Her gaze broke away from his.
The sun had set, painting the backyard in variegated hues of gray that blended together. A wink of silver moon appeared above the tree boughs. The very same moon that could be seen from St. Francis. Right now.
Truvy shivered, remembering, longing.
“I shouldn’t be out here.” In spite of her resolve, a quiver touched her words. “I should be inside helping Edwina and Mrs. Dufresne put dinner on the table.”
“Don’t go.”
Two words. Simple enough. But how could she stay without breaking down, telling him her utmost fears, and ultimately making a fool of herself?
She ran her palms over her thighs in an effort to warm her legs. With a forward-to-backward motion, she rocked her shoes from the heels to the tips in an effort to restore her circulation. The blood in her feet had to be frozen; her new shoes might as well have been made out of newspaper for all the good they did keeping her warm—not to mention that her toes were squished together and her insteps ached. But like the saying went: Suffer for beauty.
Suffer for reading The Science of Life.
Jake quietly surveyed her. Her indirect reply to the question he had asked hovered between them. She defiantly refused to give in. Pointing at the fancy beaded shoes, she declared, “It’s these shoes. They hurt my feet.”
“Then why did you buy them?”
Truvy looked down, blinking, seeing only the fringe of her lashes as her vision clouded. The tanned, butternut brown shoes had beckoned. They were stylish, becoming, extravagant—the things she wasn’t.
Why did I buy them?
Because she thought she would be someplace new and exciting for only a short while. Because she wanted to be different from herself for only a short while. Because . . .
Hot tears formed in her eyes. She tried to hold them off.
Because she wished . . .
She wished she was small-boned, delicate, and slim. She wished that she was shorter or, at the very least, that it would become fashionable for women to wear flat shoes. She wished her hair was a lighter shade. She wished her nose was a different shape. She wished she could play the piano. She wished she was more of a social butterfly.
She wished she would be kissed just once in her lifetime . . .
Lifting her chin, she gazed into Jake’s face.
“Because I didn’t want being tall to matter,” Truvy replied in a colorless way. “I bought the shoes so I could be like other women.”
He had no reply.
There. She’d shocked him. She’d been too honest. Not only with him but also with herself. Speaking character weaknesses aloud gave them substance, credence.
“I don’t think you’re too tall.” He scratched the bridge of his nose, then knit his fingers loosely together. “Hell, I once saw a woman built like she was on stilts. She has you by half as much.”
Truvy felt a smile threaten to curve her mouth.
She wanted to hug him. In his clumsy way, he’d tried, and succeeded, to make her feel a smidgen better. What would his anecdote be for Miss Pond’s telegram? Could he overturn her despair again like a bull walking uphill?
The urge to unburden herself lodged in her chest.
“Yeah, she was definitely a hell of a lot taller than you. Christ, she was taller than any man. But it was good for business because nobody’d
ever seen a woman like her in San Francisco before. She worked where the lights were red and the beds were soft and—”
“I’m on a leave of absence from my teaching position,” Truvy broke in before she lost her courage, “because I read inappropriate material out of a sexuality book to my students. My knee really is fine—I can’t walk very well in high heels because they hurt my feet. I’m wearing pink satin underwear because I never have before and I’m trying to have fun. I far prefer my tunic and pantaloons to skirts because I can move around better in them. And”—she took in a breath—“I’m twenty-five and did fib to you about being kissed before. I haven’t been—not because I never had the opportunity, but because I think Coach Thompson is a big ape.”
Drawing back, he gazed into her eyes without flinching. “Sweet Judas.”
Then nothing further. She’d made him speechless.
Truvy fought against lurching to her feet. The tip of her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed and tried to force her heart not to ram into her ribs. A faint touch of remorse squeezed her throat, but she wouldn’t let it catch in her breath. “There, I don’t have a single secret from you. I’m an open book.”
“Yeah?” As he leaned toward her, that untamable lock of hair fell into his eyes. “After twenty-five years, your book’s got to have more secrets than you just told me. I’d rather read the chapters myself and see what’s between the lines.” An unbalanced grin kicked up one corner of his well-defined mouth. “Actually, I want to go right to that reading about sex part.”
Truvy was morbidly aware of the fire singeing her cheeks. A good thing the parlor lamps didn’t illuminate the area any more than they did. Surely she was red-faced. She snapped her attention to the sky while explaining, because she had no choice now but to explain.
“As of today, in spite of my optimism,” she began, “my visit to Harmony has been extended. Indefinitely. Because I read excerpts to my students from a book called The Science of Life. Some of the terms are forthrightly medical. I used what is considered poor judgment by educating young ladies on human anatomy and its counterparts.”
“Do you think it was poor judgment?”
“Obviously not.”
“Then don’t back the hell down. Stand up for yourself.”
She inclined her chin at Jake. “I can’t stand up for myself if I’m here and the problem is there.”
“You’ve got a point.”A contemplative expression settled on Jake’s face as he sagely spoke. “Yeah, I was on a boxing tour in D.C. once, and I got fed up with how this sports writer, Hadley Burns”—he said the name with a contemptuous snort—“for the New York World kept writing that I performed as a chorus boy when I wasn’t in the ring. Over the telephone wires, Burns didn’t think I had a beef.So I had to bring him around.In person.I canceled a fight and took the first train back to Manhattan, went to the newspaper offices and rearranged Burns’s desk. I never had any trouble with him after that.”
“I can tell you’re sincere about your advice, but my teaching at a school for young ladies and your being in a boys’ chorus are entirely different things. Although I don’t see anything shameful in singing.”
“Singing? A chorus boy is a man who dresses up like a—” He severed the rest of the sentence while working two fingertips over his smooth-shaven jaw.
A sudden gust of wind blew snow beneath the awning. The soft, frozen dots pelted her face, stuck to her lashes, and clung to her lips. Still pondering his unfinished sentence, she asked, “Dresses up like a what?”
“Never mind.” Jake ducked her question, easing his broad back into the settee and taking her with him by holding onto her shoulder. Nestled into the crook of his arm, her cheek grazed the rough tweed of his coat. The faint odor of his cologne came to her. “We’re going to write a new chapter in your book.” The baritone of his voice vibrated through her bodice. “The one where Truvy gets her first kiss.”
Before she could say anything, he captured her chin in his strong hand and turned her face. All the while he brought his head lower, he stared at her mouth. His closed lips touched hers lightly, wet from snow, cold. But as the kiss went on, warmer. Much warmer.
The hard muscle of his side flattened her breast as he held her close. If she moved even slightly, her hand would fall into his lap—deep into his lap at the place where the fly to his trousers began. As it was, from the intimacy of their position, her palm had ended up high on his thigh. Her arm, crushed by where they joined, was immobile.
She could feel the blood beating in his lips, feel the cadence in her own. Her lower lip became his sole focus; he alternated between gently suckling the flesh and softly tracing its plumpness.
Breathless, she settled into the kiss, her first. So unexpected—beyond her expectations. Every one of her senses was in discord. Her body felt like it was plummeting and soaring at the same time; her lungs felt oxygen-deprived. All that she had wondered about was no longer a mystery. The kiss was what The Science of Life had alluded to—
The appetite of sexual emotion pervades every ele ment of our bodies, and in every nerve it thrills with pleasure or grows mad with a desire demanding us to be fruitful.
Pulses came to life in her that she had never imagined could feel so . . . maddening with . . . the need for more than this. She breathed in, surrounded by the scent of Jake’s skin. The position of his mouth changed to a slant and pressed harder against her moist lips. The teasing friction gave a tenderness to her mouth, an extraordinary sensitivity, evoking the feeling of goose bumps along her spine.
Sounds that were foreign to her filled her ears—the scratch of tweed, a mellow whisper of linen evening shirt, the heavy rhythm of a man’s breathing. The faintness of her own moan as it welled up in her throat, only to be caught by Jake’s lips.
Lost in the haze of emotions spiraling through her, Truvy didn’t readily hear the commotion going on in the house until Edwina screamed.
Abruptly, Truvy’s limbs turned to ice. She broke away and bumped her nose against Jake’s. He sat up the same time as she did.
Edwina’s cry came once more.
Fright drained the blood from Truvy every place its heat had pulsed not seconds before. Jake bolted out of the settee, bringing her with him. They rushed inside the house through the glass parlor door, a burst of cold air rolling in behind them.
There in the middle of the parlor, Edwina didn’t look distressed. In fact, she stood beside Tom, laughing. Everyone else laughed, too.
And soon Truvy and Jake found out why.
Crack! Crack!
The pinecones on the Christmas tree were exploding in the warm and cozy room. Crack! And then another pop! And another. The pops continued, and Tom plucked one of the cones from the tree to show his wife. Heat from the fireplace had caused the scales to open. The pinecones had been closed so tightly that nobody had noticed them amid all the ornaments.
Edwina’s laughter rang out once more. “Oh, Tom, we’ll have to save the cones for next year. They’re special now.”
“Bawr!” Bijou giggled, snorting at Jake.
Faces turned toward Truvy and Jake. She grew self-consciously aware that her hand was tucked into his. There hadn’t been a moment to sort out her thoughts about that kiss when she’d had to focus fully on the exploding tree. But with all eyes on her and Jake, she wanted to hide out of embarrassment. They knew, or had to surmise, what had gone on out there on that veranda.
In what she hoped appeared to be a nonchalant manner, Truvy slipped her fingers free of Jake’s grasp.
It was precisely then that Barkly bounded through the parlor. He wove between the furnishings, his whip-like tail knocking decorations off the tree. He was a bundle of hound dog energy, a dead gopher swaying from his mouth. As he came to a carpet-rippling stop, he proudly dropped the rodent at Truvy’s feet.
Right on her beaded tan shoes.
She screeched, shook the gopher from her shoe with a twist of her ankle, then looked into the drooping eyes of B
arkly. His tail wagged. Once. Waiting for her reaction.
Barkly bayed, ears lolling behind his boxy head. “I suppose you should be proud,”Truvy said. She bent forward and smoothed her palm over his fur. “Good dog.”
Tom said, “At least he didn’t eat the gingerbread cookies off the tree again this year.”
“No, that’s Bijou’s job.” John Wolcott picked up his daughter, her face smeared with frosting.
“Bawr!” Bijou pointed to Jake, then tucked her face into the lapel of her daddy’s coat.
Smiling, Truvy looked in turn at the people in the parlor. A dear friend. A baby in a cradle. New friends. Husbands and wives. Children. And a man who sent her heartbeat leaping. The scene filled her with a true appreciation for togetherness: the piano music from the phonograph; a snapping fire in the hearth; the dining-room table spread with a fine cloth, accented by mismatched silverware and name cards lovingly placed at each setting.
She felt an instant’s shame that she hadn’t wanted to come to Edwina’s tonight and be a part of all this.
Crack! Pop! Crack! Another eruption of opening pinecones sang from the tree like a chorus of “Joy! Joy! Joy!”
For Truvy, this was the most memorable Christmas she’d had since she was a child.
Chapter
9
“W hen I think of Mrs. Mumford in my classroom, I just want to get on the next train back to Boise and tell her she can’t take my place,” Truvy said as she stood in the Wolcotts’ kitchen pressing a hot iron back and forth over Elizabeth’s freshly laundered infant robe.
“She can’t, and won’t, take your place. Miss Pond said she was working to fix things. And I believe she will.” With a pull of her teeth, Edwina broke a thread from Tom’s shirtsleeve. The rest of the gray flannel shirt remained in her lap while she sat at the kitchen table mending.
When Truvy had arrived that morning, she’d told Edwina about yesterday’s telegram from Miss Pond. Edwina was supportive, once again welcoming her into her home. Although the Wolcotts had been truly gracious to her, Truvy would never impose on them. Tom and Edwina were so tenderly romantic with each other, Truvy felt like an outsider who didn’t belong in their married world.
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