He’s in her bed now. It’s late afternoon and the sheets are twined around their legs. She runs a nail across his shoulder, leaving an angry red line, and he catches her hand and brings it to his lips. From the waist up he is the color of sand, the color of the iced coffee he brings her each morning. His thighs and ass are glaringly white, as if someone had highlighted these parts to capture her attention.
He releases her hand and traces his finger across her collarbone, moving so slowly Andie shivers. She’d like to keep him here for the rest of the day, but in a few moments he’ll start to look for his clothes, kissing her as he pulls them on. He’ll tug her down the stairs with him and they’ll kiss beside the front door until her lips are swollen. When he steps outside, he’ll hold her hand until the last possible second. When he walks down the path to his truck, she’ll turn the radio up, run the water, anything so she doesn’t hear him leave.
Sex with Cort is refreshingly uncomplicated. He’s not afraid to show how much he wants her, and he wants her pretty much all the time. There’s no pretense, and Andie can’t help but respond. She feels as vulnerable as if she’s sixteen and in love for the first time, like a cut with a scab peeled off, all open and aching just when she thought she was healed.
He stretches and rolls over, putting his feet on the floor. She gazes at the long length of his back and can’t help but touch it, running her finger up and down his spine.
“Hey, cut that out. Some of us have to go back to work,” he says, and twists to kiss her before standing up.
She raises an eyebrow. “Going back would imply you’d actually been, and I thought you were out gallivanting with your buddy Chris this morning,” she says.
“Good point. I almost forgot, he sent you these,” he says, retrieving a slightly crushed brown bag from the floor along with his jeans. He drops the bag next to Andie. “He seems to think you need fattening up.”
Andie peers inside. There are two small muffins, studded with tiny pieces of strawberries. The smell of sugar and corn reminds her that she hasn’t had breakfast, and all at once she’s ravenous. She pops a piece of muffin in her mouth. It’s delicious, so much so that as soon as she finishes eating the first she polishes off the second one.
Cort laughs. “So can I tell him you liked them?” His pants are on, but he’s on his hands and knees, searching for his shirt beneath the bed.
“I think it’s in the hall,” Andie says, and rises to help him look. “Just what were you guys up to today? Spreading fear and terror in the forest?”
“Nah, it’s not hunting season yet. The deer are safe from us.” He pauses, plainly distracted by the sight of her bare breasts. She tosses him his shirt, which she found puddled in a heap just outside the bedroom door, and it almost hits him in the face before he grabs it.
He pulls his head through the neck opening, and Andie quickly tugs on her own shirt, sans bra. She’s buttoning it up as Cort comes over and slides his hands up her stomach, cupping her breasts and backing her up against the wall.
They kiss, standing up, until her labia are swollen and chafed from the friction of Cort’s jeans and the hard mound of his erection. She pulls at his waistband, fumbling with the button, and he lets go of her long enough to undo his pants. She tugs his jeans and then his boxers over the round muscles of his ass, pushing them down so they puddle around his ankles.
She’s reaching for him when he presses her back against the wall. He leaves a soft, slow trail of kisses along her neck, then tongues her nipple through the thin cotton of her shirt. Andie moans. She wants him inside her, but he moves his head lower, pushing aside her shirt and blowing gently on her belly, her pubic mound, and finally her clitoris. She arches herself toward him, and he cups his hands under her, holding her still. He brushes against her with just his lips, then the tip of his tongue, pressure so light Andie can barely feel it. She squirms and digs her fingers into his hair, urging him closer, but he gently holds her away. He waits until she’s almost frantic before settling into a steady, firm rhythm, and Andie leans into him so hard she almost knocks him over. She comes in a matter of seconds, gripping his shoulders to hold herself steady.
After the last spasm she’s limp, a sponge wrung dry, but Cort stands and picks her up. He helps her position her legs around his waist, and enters her with a single slow drive, rocking her back against the wall. She squirms in his grasp, trying to take him deeper.
“Jesus,” he gasps, burying his face in her neck. He bends and thrusts, bends and thrusts, clutching her so tightly when he comes, Andie’s certain he leaves bruises. There’s a slick of sweat pooling on their chests, and when Andie arches back to look at him, her skin comes away with a small sucking sound.
Cort staggers backward and collapses on the bed, still holding Andie to him. “Jesus,” he says again. “I’ve had fantasies about you since I was twelve, and I swear none of them were like this.”
“Luckily I can’t say the same,” Andie says drily, wriggling down the length of him and to her feet. She stands and begins searching once again for their clothing, now scattered about the room.
They dress, moving slowly in the summer heat and aftermath of physical effort, stopping to kiss, to touch. Cort tugs her close, stooping to rest his chin on her head.
“So what’s going on this afternoon for you?” he asks, gently rubbing her earlobe. Andie leans into his touch. She can’t help herself.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’ll check on Aunt Gert.”
“She okay?”
Since her dizzy spell in the bedroom two weeks ago, Aunt Gert has been scarce, coming to the big house only rarely, and never inside. Andie checks on her most afternoons and joins her for dinner when Cort can’t get away. Gert is always polite but vague about how she’s been spending her days, and seems to have no pressing need to resume cleaning out the house. Today, up early and restless without Cort’s presence, Andie spotted her aunt wandering through the far pasture, looking ghostly in the early morning mist. The scene, cool greens and grays, stayed with her even after the mist had burned off, so that she had to get it down on canvas. To get a better vantage point, she’s moved her easel up to the attic, where the round window frames the view of the meadow. The attic is cool in the early morning air, not hot as she expected, and the light is perfect, soft and golden. It’s the first time in months she’s been inspired to paint, and she finds she wants to keep the image of her aunt to herself, a secret even from Cort. She doesn’t tell him about her aunt’s wanderings.
“I think she’s fine. Maybe just a little tired from the heat,” she says instead. They walk downstairs and outside, arms wrapped about each other’s waists. Nina’s dozing in the shade of Cort’s truck, which is filled with rolls of fencing wire, posts, and what looks like feed buckets.
“How about you? Looks like your dad has an afternoon of slave labor planned,” Andie says, nodding toward the truck.
“Um, no, not really. It’s for a project for Chris,” he says.
Andie raises an eyebrow. “What, he’s building a corral to keep customers in?”
“No, not exactly.”
Andie waits, and after a pause he continues, looking sheepish. “Look, I haven’t been exactly straight with you,” he says, and the words are like ice to Andie’s heart. She’s learned the hard way that no good can come of a sentence that starts like that, especially when it comes from a man in her life. I didn’t want to tell you…I’ve been meaning to let you know…I haven’t been exactly straight with you. Dimly, she can hear Cort talking, but she’s too busy imagining the worst to listen. There’s another woman somewhere, and she’s been a fool. Again. Although how another woman ties in to the supplies in Cort’s truck, she can’t imagine. Maybe the woman has children—children!—and there’s an animal that needs a pen, a dog or a pony that Cort bought for them.
“Hey, are you all right?” Cort’s rubbing her shoulders, and she takes a step away from him, crosses her arms in front of her chest to soften the blow.
/> “Just tell me,” she says.
“You look angry already,” he says, and when she doesn’t reply, he sighs. “Look, I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“Wrong idea about what?” she asks. As if there’s a right way to look at it.
“About why I asked you out that day.”
It’s clear that she’s missed something. “Tell me again,” she says, and he does. He and Chris want to create a country inn with a five-star restaurant, the kind of place where guests can harvest carrots in the afternoon and be served them that evening at dinner.
The relief that washes through her must show on her face, because Cort leans over and gives her a kiss. “It’s a good idea, right?” he says, and Andie’s so happy she nods, although she’s not convinced. But she’ll listen as long as Cort wants to talk about designer vegetables for the garden and organic sheets on the bed, his plans for a gift shop with homemade jams and breads, although the idea strikes her as essentially flawed. She’s heard of tourists paying money to sleep at lighthouses, polishing the brass and cleaning floors in exchange for reduced rates. But there’s a difference between falling asleep to the sound of the ocean and waking up in the morning to the prospect of spreading fertilizer, or worse. There’s a reality to farming that just doesn’t lend itself to glossy vacation brochures.
“What happens when roasted chicken is on the menu?” she asks.
“It won’t be the total whole farm experience,” he admits. “But they could help bring in the eggs, milk the animals, churn butter, the works. We’re talking about having some pick-your-own fields, like berries, and some beehives. Maybe even some grapes for wine.”
“Sounds interesting,” she says. “I’m not sure why I couldn’t be trusted with the news, though.”
“It’s why I was looking around here, that first day. I didn’t want you to think…When you said you’d go to dinner with me, I mean, it didn’t have anything to do with this.” He waves an arm around to take in the house and land beyond, and she finally grasps his point.
“If you have designs on Evenfall, you’re seducing the wrong woman,” Andie says. “Everything here belongs to Aunt Gert.”
“Yeah, well, I like Gert and all, but she’s safe from me.” He pulls her close. “So you’re not mad?”
“No,” Andie says. “Not even a little bit.” She kisses him, just because she can, because he’s honest and belongs to no one but her. They kiss for a long while, and when they come up for air she opens her eyes and sees the posts and buckets in the back of the truck again.
“So does this mean you’ve found a place?” She nods at the truck.
“You mean one that we can afford in this market? Not yet, but Chris found some goats at a price he swears we can’t pass up. He wants to do goat milk and cheese, and somebody in Vermont is selling off their herd.” He rubs the back of his neck. “My dad’s going to have a fit when I bring them home. He hates goats—he’s always said that they’re for farmers too poor to buy a cow. He wouldn’t say that if he knew what I paid for them.”
“How many are you going to buy?”
“Two, for now. That’s about all I can afford.”
He looks so despondent, Andie can’t help herself. “Maybe you could keep them here, till you find a place.”
“Really?”
She thinks for a moment. It’s the kind of harebrained scheme her uncle would have loved, and in her head she can almost hear him egging her on. The farm is big enough that Gert might not even notice, if Cort puts the paddock far away enough from the house. It’s not as if she’s planning on keeping the goats a secret from her aunt forever. She’ll tell Gert—eventually. But saying yes means she’ll see Cort again this evening. And most likely, he’ll be shirtless. It’s this last image that sways her.
“Sure,” she says. “But just till you find a place, or till the end of summer. After that, they have to go.”
“No problem,” he promises. “Just let me run home and give dad a hand feeding and I’ll be right back to build the pen. And if I finish up early enough, I’ll even take you out to Johnny’s for pizza.”
“Right,” she says, although she already has other plans in mind for their evening. The phone is ringing again, but Andie pays no attention to it. Summer is short, she thinks, watching Cort drive away. She might as well make the most of it.
Gert
IT’S been years since Gert’s walked the meadow, but for the past two weeks, she hasn’t been able to stop. There’s plenty she should be doing instead. There are bills for Frank’s estate that need to be paid, insurance questions that ought to be looked into, a meeting with the assessor to be arranged. But each morning, she comes out just after dawn, when the sun is up enough to light her steps but before the heat of the day begins. This morning the tall grass moves in the wind like the glossy coat of an animal. Mist floats above the ground, a wispy reminder of the departing night’s cool air.
Ahead, she can just make out the tip of Buddy’s black tail, twitching determinedly as he makes his way through the field. The cat keeps a few steps in front like an advance scout. He’ll lead anywhere, stopping only when he comes to the deep end of the creek. There he crouches, hissing, as if at memories of his own.
For Gert, the meadow’s open space is surprisingly peaceful. Her cottage has come to feel too small, a skin she’s outgrown, and she no longer finds solace in its order. In the big house, there’s a pressure, a weight that makes it hard to breathe. Only out here, in the rustle of the grass and the feel of the breeze, is there room for memories.
The milestones of her life have always been present, shaping her path like the bumps and hills that contour this land. But lately other memories, events she hasn’t thought of in years, are coming back with a clarity that’s frightening. This morning, for example, she awoke with the face of a boy she’d treated more than fifty years ago in her mind, his image as clear as though he were standing before her.
For hours she’s been trying to recall his name, but it hides in the dark recesses just out of reach. The boy was southern, she remembers that. His words had a honeyed drawl she’d found soothing after a lifetime of clipped New England syllables. His face was dark with stubble, and when she took his boots off he’d groaned in relief. He’d asked her how such a pretty girl had wound up in such poor company. His ward mates shook their heads, told him not to waste his time.
“That one’s got ice water for blood,” the man in the next bed said, pretending to shiver.
She took the southerner’s pulse, and he placed his own hot fingers gently against her wrist. “Naw, she’s just spent too many years north with you Yankees is all,” he said, and smiled up at her. “A few days down south would warm her up just fine.”
Instead of the steady, reassuring beat she wanted, his pulse fluttered. She pulled down the blankets to look at his wound.
“What do you southerners do for fun?” she asked. The bullet had grazed his groin, the wound still covered by a field dressing; the bandage was clotted with blood and speckled with dirt and grass.
“Oh, we know how to show visitors a good time,” he said, white-faced as she carefully pulled the bandage away. Bits of dirt and shreds of fabric from his trousers were buried deep in the soft tissue, and a bubble of blood rose in the corner. She swabbed it gently and the boy bit his lip to keep from crying out.
“Is that right?” she prompted. She stopped her work long enough to give his hand a light squeeze, low, by the side of the bed, where his buddies wouldn’t see.
He smiled weakly, grateful for the distraction. “Oh, yes, ma’am. Come Saturdays, we get some of the finest bands around playing at the church hall. You can dance all night if you’ve a mind to.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve danced,” Gert said, scribbling a note on the boy’s chart.
“You come down to Georgia, then, anytime. Summer’s best, though. There’s an old stone quarry we use to cool off in after a high time. The
water feels so good, you wouldn’t believe it.” He closed his eyes and Gert moved on to the next bed.
She’d been with the Army for a year, in Italy for a month, paying off her tuition debt to Uncle Sam with bad dreams and sleepless nights. Not even working in Boston’s emergency room prepared her. Her first week, she cut off the mask of her long hair, scissored away the strands that dying boys grasped at, that tangled in blood no matter how many pins she used to put it up. The short bob left her little to hide behind, but it didn’t matter. She’d stripped away everything that wasn’t useful: emotions, longing, hope.
The physical hardship wasn’t the problem. In Hartman, growing up, she’d spent the first years of her life in a house without running water, crouching in the one-holed outhouse and pouring in lime to keep the stink down. Bathing out of her helmet, using the leftover liquid to sponge a stranger’s blood out of her uniform was no worse. At least someone else hauled the water, she told the girls who complained, and they looked at her curiously. Behind her back she knew they called her “the Boston Brahmin,” mocked her reserve, wondered how a woman they believed meant for a life of oysters and little black dresses wound up eating chipped beef on toast and wearing olive drab.
Gert let them wonder. A year before, she might have been amused by their assumptions. Two years ago, terrified they’d find her out. But now when she looked in the piece of polished tin that served as mirror in her tent, the face that stared back had ice-sharp cheekbones and a gaze cool as death. Whether the other nurses thought she was aloof because of background or breeding didn’t matter, so long as they left her alone.
Kenneth, that was the boy’s name. It comes to her as suddenly as a blow, but her memory stalls before she recalls his fate. Dead, most likely, but from that wound or another, she doesn’t know.
She’s crossed the widest part of the meadow, and pauses for breath at the top of a knoll that marks the halfway point. A birch stump, the tree struck by lightning years ago, offers a resting spot. From here she can see the Wildermuth family cemetery, bone white stones rising from within a rough fieldstone wall. Volunteer saplings sprout along the wall’s edges and the grass is high.
Evenfall Page 10
