Sealed with a promise

by Mary Margret Daughtridge

  Emmie la­ug­hed. Un­til this mo­ment she’d ne­ver se­en it from this per­s­pec­ti­ve exactly.

  His eyes we­re gold aga­in. The an­g­les of his che­eks sof­te­ned, and his lips, tho­se sha­pely, full, firm-lo­oking Brad Pitt lips, ope­ned in an un­con­s­ci­o­us smi­le. He wrap­ped one hard hand aro­und her up­per arm, tug­ging her for­ward, lif­ting her on­to his lap. “I don’t think you’ve ever be­en typi­cal in any way.”

  He tuc­ked her left arm bet­we­en them and set­tled her right hand on his sho­ul­der so that her arm was com­p­le­tely sup­por­ted when he le­aned her aga­inst his chest. “Sho­ul­der okay?” he mur­mu­red. In­s­te­ad of kis­sing her as she ex­pec­ted, with smo­oth stro­kes he mol­ded her un­til she re­la­xed aga­inst him with her he­ad on his sho­ul­der.

  Emmie nod­ded, her eyes sud­denly hot and wet. Em­mie had en­co­un­te­red his strength be­fo­re. She’d se­en the smo­oth con­fi­den­ce with which he mo­ved her body when he ne­eded to. No mat­ter that she still wasn’t su­re how much she trus­ted him-at so­me po­int her body had de­ci­ded it trus­ted his. Pic­kett had told her re­pe­atedly to be­co­me mo­re awa­re of how she was be­ing tre­ated. He wasn’t do­mi­na­ting her as he’d do­ne be­fo­re when he’d buc­k­led her se­at belt. She co­uldn’t yi­eld tho­ugh un­til she un­der­s­to­od… so­met­hing.

  “What are you do­ing?” she as­ked.

  A so­un­d­less chuc­k­led mo­ved his di­ap­h­ragm. “Hol­ding you.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  “Be­ca­use I wan­ted to.”

  “Is that a go­od eno­ugh re­ason?”

  “ Em­mie. Stop trying to fi­gu­re out the re­gu­la­ti­ons for what’s hap­pe­ning bet­we­en us.”

  Was that what she was do­ing? From the first she’d be­en a lit­tle af­ra­id of him, sen­sing he wasn’t a man who wo­uld be easily kept in his pla­ce. Ti­me had pro­ved her right. She hadn’t suc­ces­sful­ly ma­na­ged him. At every po­int he had be­en do­ing what he wan­ted to, what he saw fit to do, and as she had ex­pec­ted, she hadn’t be­en the re­ason.

  “And don’t ask me what is hap­pe­ning,” he sa­id, ap­pa­rently ha­ving re­ad her mind. “All I know is I went lo­oking for my fat­her and fo­und you. That’s eno­ugh for now.”

  Eno­ugh for now. The words mo­ved aro­und in his mind as if he was de­ep in a fo­rest, and they we­re ec­ho­es tos­sed from tree to tree, so­me­ti­mes right be­si­de him, so­me­ti­mes im­pos­sibly dis­tant. Af­ter a whi­le they frag­men­ted, be­ca­me sof­ter…

  So­met­hing had chan­ged. So­met­hing that de­fi­ed every bit of her ex­pe­ri­en­ce (albe­it li­mi­ted) with men. Des­pi­te his pro­tests that he had pul­led her in his lap be­ca­use he wan­ted to hold her, Em­mie had ex­pec­ted him to ma­ke lo­ve. She had wa­ited, and wa­ited, trying not to con­t­rol what he was do­ing. But she did li­ke to un­der­s­tand the go­al, and his res­pon­se in­di­ca­ted the­re wasn’t one, which wasn’t en­ti­rely sa­tis­fac­tory. And then-she wo­uldn’t ha­ve be­li­eved it if it hadn’t hap­pe­ned to her-he had fal­len as­le­ep.

  Dra­ped ac­ross him as she was, the sen­sa­ti­on of mo­ving with his bre­ath was al­most li­ke flo­ating, and when he didn’t do an­y­t­hing… and didn’t do an­y­t­hing… she had be­en lul­led in­to de­eper and de­eper re­la­xa­ti­on. When even­tu­al­ly she had re­ali­zed that his bre­ath had be­co­me de­ep and re­gu­lar and he might be as­le­ep, she hadn’t known whet­her to la­ugh or to cry. She’d had plenty of ex­pe­ri­en­ce with men who co­uldn’t get rid of her fast eno­ugh when they le­ar­ned she wo­uldn’t put out, but if he co­uld ig­no­re the fact that she was the­re and go to sle­ep even with her on his lap, she was in­sig­ni­fi­cant in­de­ed.

  On the ot­her hand, she’d no­ti­ced how much of the smi­ling ease with which he ap­pro­ac­hed li­fe was in fact iron­c­lad self-con­t­rol. He was mi­les from the swag­ge­ring jocks with the­ir sen­se of en­tit­le­ment and un­wil­lin­g­ness to ta­ke se­ri­o­usly an­y­t­hing that didn’t di­rectly im­pact the­ir own egos. She was a lit­tle as­ha­med of her­self for ever ha­ving tho­ught that of him. This af­ter­no­on she’d be­co­me awa­re that the­re was a pri­ce for the se­eming ease with which he ma­na­ged and mas­te­red every si­tu­ati­on. May­be the bill had co­me due, and he was simply ex­ha­us­ted.

  The arm un­der her was go­ing numb, but she didn’t want to mo­ve lest she wa­ke him. It was a small eno­ugh co­ur­tesy to gi­ve the man a few mi­nu­tes of pe­ace. She was mas­te­ring his le­xi­con of smi­les, but she’d ne­ver se­en his fa­ce in re­po­se. He’d sig­hed de­eply and ex­pertly shif­ted her so that the pres­su­re on her arm was re­li­eved. She was di­sap­po­in­ted a few mi­nu­tes la­ter when he re­mo­ved the hand on her hip to lo­ok at his watch.

  He ope­ned his eyes. Out­si­de the bro­ad slats of the whi­te plan­ta­ti­on blinds, night had fal­len. He must ha­ve do­zed for a mi­nu­te.

  Funny, he co­uldn’t re­mem­ber the last ti­me he had do­zed off, ac­ci­den­tal­ly, wit­ho­ut pre­pa­ring him­self for sle­ep first. He wasn’t go­od at go­ing to sle­ep, pe­ri­od. He’d ne­ver got­ten the hang of po­wer-nap­ping, as so­me guys co­uld, sle­eping for ten or fif­te­en mi­nu­tes whe­re­ver they we­re, no mat­ter how no­isy or bright or un­com­for­tab­le.

  He’d sur­vi­ved as a SE­AL only be­ca­use he re­qu­ired less sle­ep than most. Thro­ugh me­di­ta­ti­on he co­uld ac­hi­eve pro­fo­und re­la­xa­ti­on that al­lo­wed his body to rest, whi­le he re­ma­ined alert. He lif­ted his left arm from whe­re it res­ted on Em­mie’s hip to check his watch. He’d only be­en out a few mi­nu­tes. That he had do­ne it whi­le hol­ding Em­mie on his lap de­fi­ed ima­gi­na­ti­on.

  “Are you awa­ke now?” she as­ked.

  “Um- hmm.” He felt ri­di­cu­lo­usly go­od, and when he put his hand back down, he felt even bet­ter. The flap in her skirt-the flap that had te­ased him and tan­ta­li­zed him all af­ter­no­on-had co­me open. His hand en­co­un­te­red the silky mesh of her ho­se. He was in­s­tantly as alert, as fully con­s­ci­o­us, as he had ever be­en in his li­fe. And as hard. But the­re we­re so­me par­ti­cu­lars he ne­eded to know first. “When’s yo­ur bir­t­h­day?”

  “Feb­ru­ary 16.” Sud­denly, Em­mie sat up stra­ight. “Bir­t­h­day! I for­got.”

  “Who­se bir­t­h­day?”

  “Tyler’s. That was Pic­kett on the pho­ne. I’m sup­po­sed to ask you, in­s­te­ad of go­ing out to din­ner, wo­uld you be wil­ling to go to Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s fa­mily re­uni­on? It’s li­ke a Chris­t­mas party she throws every ye­ar.”

  “To­night?” All the plans he had ma­de for an in­ti­ma­te din­ner to set the mo­od, a lit­tle wi­ne, and then back to Em­mie’s cot­ta­ge, di­sap­pe­ared. He co­uldn’t think of much he wan­ted less than to ma­ke con­ver­sa­ti­on with pe­op­le he didn’t know in the hu­ge for­mal ro­oms of Lilly Ha­le’s ho­use. He wan­ted Em­mie. Ne­eding to ha­ve her was get­ting clo­se to an ob­ses­si­on.

  “Yes. She wants me to me­et her the­re.” She lo­oked at his fa­ce, which he knew wasn’t ra­di­ating joy. “For­get it. I’m su­re a fa­mily party of pe­op­le you don’t know do­esn’t so­und li­ke a fun ti­me. You don’t ha­ve to go.” She star­ted to sco­ot of his lap. “I ho­pe you’ll ex­cu­se me from din­ner with you.”

  “Wa­it a mi­nu­te,” he an­c­ho­red her hips in pla­ce. “Ye­ah, I’d rat­her ha­ve an eve­ning alo­ne with you-a chan­ce for us to talk-ye­ah, talk, not the ot­her fo­ur-let­ter word. But if this is what you want to do…”

  “Usu­al­ly, it wo­uldn’t be. But I’ve se­en so lit­tle of Pic­kett la­tely. We’ve tal­ked on the pho­ne, but it isn’t the sa­me.”

  “This isn’t for Pic­kett, it’s for y
ou? You want to see her?” Em­mie nod­ded. He gently hel­ped her off his lap. “Stand up for a se­cond. I ne­ed to get my cell pho­ne. I left it in my jac­ket poc­ket.” He pun­c­hed in num­bers and in a dis­tant part of the ho­use, Em­mie’s pho­ne war­b­led. A lo­ok of con­fu­si­on ap­pe­ared bet­we­en her brows. “Yo­ur pho­ne is rin­ging,” he told her. “You left it in the bat­h­ro­om.”

  Chapter 25

  Emmie pad­ded in her stoc­kin­ged fe­et thro­ugh the kit­c­hen and the bed­ro­om. She had to turn on the light in the bat­h­ro­om. The pho­ne was on the lip of the tub.

  What kind of ga­me was Ca­leb pla­ying now? She was as­king for a sud­den chan­ge in plans, and she’d be­en a lit­tle di­sap­po­in­ted when Ca­leb wo­uldn’t go along, but not sur­p­ri­sed. Blo­unt had ne­ver wan­ted to do an­y­t­hing that was her idea-blo­wing her off for the fa­culty din­ner wasn’t out of cha­rac­ter-she sho­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted it. And he’d sne­ered mo­re than on­ce at what he cal­led her “co­untry co­usins.”

  She and Pic­kett had sworn they wo­uld ke­ep the­ir fri­en­d­s­hip strong, and if that me­ant go­ing off and le­aving Ca­leb, she wo­uld.

  “Hel­lo,” she sa­id.

  “Is this Em­mie?” Ca­leb en­qu­ired, for all the world as if he hadn’t ex­pec­ted she wo­uld an­s­wer her own pho­ne.

  Emmie swal­lo­wed a sur­p­ri­sed la­ugh and pla­yed along. “Yes, it is.” Pho­ne to her ear, she star­ted back to the li­ving ro­om.

  “This is, yo­ur fri­end, Ca­leb.”

  “Yes, Ca­leb.” Em­mie sup­pres­sed anot­her gig­gle and ad­ded with dry un­der­s­ta­te­ment, “I had gu­es­sed it was you.”

  “The­re’s a party at Miss Lilly Ha­le’s ho­use to­night. I’d li­ke to go, but I don’t ha­ve a da­te. I was won­de­ring if you’d go with me?”

  The she­er swe­et­ness stop­ped her in the do­or­way to the li­ving ro­om. If he’d sa­id, “Okay, I’ll go with you,” ne­ver in a mil­li­on ye­ars wo­uld she ha­ve trus­ted that he was do­ing an­y­t­hing but pla­ca­ting her. His back was to her. He was to­uc­hing items on her desk in one of the few aim­less ges­tu­res she’d se­en him ma­ke. “Yes,” she whis­pe­red past the ye­ar­ning that thre­ate­ned to clo­se off her thro­at. “I’d lo­ve to.”

  He must ha­ve known she was the­re, but he kept his back to her. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  Emmie tho­ught they we­re do­ne. Why was he car­rying it fur­t­her? “Pick me up? You’re stan­ding in my li­ving ro­om.” She clo­sed her pho­ne. “Ca­leb, what is this abo­ut?”

  He tur­ned aro­und, clip­ping the pho­ne to his belt. “It’s cal­led mul­ti­tas­king. We’ll go to the party. We’ll go be­ca­use you want to see Pic­kett. But I want it to be per­fectly cle­ar- you’re go­ing with me be­ca­use I just as­ked you for a da­te, and you ac­cep­ted. Even if you spend the who­le eve­ning tal­king to Pic­kett-this co­unts as our se­cond da­te.”

  “Sit tight.” Ca­leb pus­hed the ge­ar le­ver in­to park and shut off the en­gi­ne. “I’ll co­me aro­und and get you.” It wasn’t a sug­ges­ti­on. She had as­ked for this. Put that man an­y­w­he­re ne­ar a fo­ur-whe­el dri­ve ve­hic­le, and every al­p­ha tra­it he had ca­me to the fo­re. He pres­sed the latch of her se­at belt be­fo­re she co­uld re­ach it. In the glow of the de­la­yed turn-off he­ad­lights, she tho­ught she ca­ught a tra­ce of a smirk.

  He ope­ned her do­or.

  At le­ast a to­ken pro­test was cal­led for. “I’m per­fectly ca­pab­le of clim­bing down myself.”

  “I know you are. Le­an for­ward.” He gras­ped her wa­ist. Em­mie was used to the ca­su­al strength with which he pic­ked her up, but he didn’t set her on her fe­et. In­s­te­ad he pul­led her flush with his body.

  Her bre­asts brus­hed his chest as he slowly let her down.

  “You’re using this as an ex­cu­se to cop a fe­el!”

  “Right.”

  “You’re ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of me.”

  “You so­und sur­p­ri­sed.”

  “I tho­ught you we­re do­ing the ‘man has to be in char­ge’ thing.”

  He tug­ged one of her curls. “Think mul­ti­tas­king.” The cor­ners of his Brad Pitt lips dug de­eper in­to his che­eks. “The two aren’t mu­tu­al­ly ex­c­lu­si­ve.”

  Gol­den ob­longs of light stre­amed the pro­mi­se of wel­co­me and warmth from every win­dow of Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s ho­use in­to De­cem­ber’s early dark. Em­mie pul­led her co­at clo­ser. Damp wind cha­sed le­aves ac­ross the sandy dri­ve­way. Be­ca­use they we­re la­te, Ca­leb had to park al­most at the hig­h­way.

  He bent and put his lips to her ear. “Lo­ok.” He po­in­ted to the ed­ge of the fi­eld whe­re a dra­ina­ge ditch di­vi­ded the fi­eld from the ro­ad. “De­er. Fi­ve of them.”

  “Aunt Lilly Ha­le says that du­ring hun­ting se­ason they ac­tu­al­ly co­me on­to her lawn, right up to the ho­use, in day­light. They know no one will sho­ot that clo­se to the ho­use.”

  One of the lar­ger de­er ra­ised its he­ad. In less than one se­cond they va­nis­hed so com­p­le­tely it was dif­fi­cult to be­li­eve they had be­en the­re.

  Emmie slip­ped her hand in­to his. Her fin­gers we­re a lit­tle co­ol, the bo­nes tiny. His eyes pric­k­led. He had be­en the se­xu­al ag­gres­sor, and ye­ah, ag­gres­sor was the right word. He’d go­ne af­ter her wit­ho­ut a lot of con­cern for the im­pact he wo­uld ha­ve on her li­fe. She had al­ways res­pon­ded, but ex­cept for the be­gin­ning when she’d grab­bed his arm and drag­ged him in­to the small of­fi­ce, she had ne­ver to­uc­hed him first. An odd pri­de fil­led his chest that so­mew­he­re in this day she had gi­ven him this much trust.

  Emmie led him aro­und the ho­use to a back do­or. “No­body uses the front do­or.”

  “What do you me­an? Ever­y­body used it at the bre­ak­fast.”

  “That wasn’t a fa­mily gat­he­ring. That was so­ci­al. Dif­fe­rent ru­les.” Em­mie led him up a short flight of brick steps and on­to a scre­ened porch. Wit­ho­ut knoc­king, she ope­ned a glass do­or de­co­ra­ted with a spray of pi­ne bo­ughs gat­he­red with a lar­ge red bow.

  They en­te­red to cri­es of, “Hey, lo­ok who’s he­re,” and an ol­fac­tory blast of ro­as­ting tur­key and sa­ge, tangy cran­ber­ry, cin­na­mon, ye­asty rolls, and an oddly ref­res­hing re­siny smell co­ming from pi­ne bo­ughs stuck ever­y­w­he­re. The­re was al­so the smell of a lot of pe­op­le. Ame­ri­can pe­op­le.

  Every pla­ce had a smell, and the pe­op­le in a co­untry al­so had a dis­c­re­et, re­cog­ni­zab­le odor. He’d left Af­g­ha­nis­tan months ago but he was still was sur­p­ri­sed so­me­ti­mes to smell a bunch of Ame­ri­cans in one pla­ce.

  “Don’t get hung up on ex­pec­ta­ti­ons,” he’d told tra­ine­es. “Once you’re in­ser­ted, it’s ne­ver the way you tho­ught it wo­uld be, and even if you’ve be­en the­re be­fo­re, it’s ne­ver the way it was.”

  He knew bet­ter, but he’d fal­len for his ex­pec­ta­ti­ons.

  He’d an­ti­ci­pa­ted a low-key, de­co­ro­us gat­he­ring. Not this. The kit­c­hen was a sur­ging mass of pe­op­le, co­lors, so­unds, and smells, and calls for con­sul­ta­ti­on sho­uted abo­ve the no­ise of a mi­xer.

  Under­ne­ath it all was the smell of the ho­use. He re­mem­be­red it from be­fo­re. The­re was a cer­ta­in smell all old ho­uses had in com­mon. Old wo­od, old wo­ol, old dust-no mat­ter how cle­an. This one had that smell. But he al­so tho­ught it smel­led li­ke sta­bi­lity, li­ves li­ved to com­p­le­ti­on, and kin­d­ness, swe­et and dark and rich and com­p­lex.

  At the sto­ve in con­ver­sa­ti­on with ot­her co­oks, Miss Lilly Ha­le, a lar­ge po­in­set­tia-prin­ted ap­ron over her swe­ater and slacks, he­ard the com­mo­ti­
on and tur­ned aro­und. “Do-Lord, I’m so glad you’re he­re!” She held out her arms in cle­ar ex­pec­ta­ti­on of a hug.

  Do- Lord had one of tho­se “whe­re the hell am I?” mo­ments. Ever­y­body had them. They co­uld be scary se­conds of di­so­ri­en­ta­ti­on when wa­king up in a stran­ge pla­ce. Or Zen mo­ments in which the jux­ta­po­si­ti­on of the fa­mi­li­ar in­to the un­fa­mi­li­ar pro­du­ces an awa­ke­ning when you sud­denly find it re­mar­kab­le that you are he­re. It co­uld to­tal­ly de­ra­il one’s fo­cus, which usu­al­ly wasn’t go­od. It co­uld al­so ma­ke per­cep­ti­on hyper­c­le­ar. A per­son sud­denly knew how re­mar­kab­le, spe­ci­al, and sin­gu­lar this par­ti­cu­lar in­s­tant is.

  Of all the things he’d ever do­ne, hug­ging an old lady wasn’t one. He wasn’t su­re what he sho­uld get hold of her by. He step­ped clo­ser, and her arms ca­me aro­und his mid­dle and squ­e­ezed whi­le he tri­ed to re­ason whe­re he co­uld sa­fely put his hands. Lilly Ha­le Ses­soms was a sub­s­tan­ti­al wo­man, so he was sur­p­ri­sed at how lit­tle she felt, and how fra­gi­le. And pe­cu­li­arly soft. Not flabby. But li­ke so­me cru­ci­al bin­der that ke­eps flesh to­get­her was bre­aking down. He didn’t da­re squ­e­eze her. He set­tled for pla­cing his hands lightly on her sho­ul­der bla­des un­til she let go of him.

  As she pul­led away her gray curls brus­hed the un­der­si­de of his chin, and his thro­at tig­h­te­ned aro­und a stran­ge lump. And the world set­tled back in­to or­di­nary re­ality.

  After a few ex­c­han­ges of ri­tu­al gre­eting phra­ses, Lilly Ha­le twin­k­led, so ob­vi­o­usly si­zing him up it was im­pos­sib­le to ta­ke of­fen­se, and sa­id, “I ex­pect you’re a very use­ful yo­ung man.”