Before Duane could lean over the table and assault his twin, I added with my biggest, cheekiest smile, “Then we’ll go upstairs and be physically intimate until dinner is ready.”
I heard Billy choke on his laugh. Beau guffawed.
Duane glanced at me, his eyebrows half suspended between wonder and disapproval. I winked at him.
“That all sounds just dandy,” Cletus agreed, his tone level, as though I’d just said Duane and I were going inside to wash the floors. Then he added, “But work up an appetite, woman. Because you’ve never tasted fine meat until you’ve eaten my sausage.”
“CLETUS!”
* * *
We did unpack the groceries.
But other than a few quick kisses in the kitchen, we weren’t physically intimate and Duane didn’t take me upstairs.
I didn’t mind. I wanted to talk to him, make sure we were okay. Thankfully, things between us were easy and fun, leaving me feeling silly that I’d planned my elaborate dinner ambush. Looking back over the last few days of minimal contact, I realized I’d overreacted. I could have stopped in at the auto shop or called him after work.
I decided he hadn’t been avoiding me. I’d inflated the meaning of his lack of contact in my head.
After unpacking the groceries, he walked me to the woods surrounding their house and we used familiar trails to navigate the forest.
“This path leads to the creek,” he said, holding my hand in his and helping me over a felled log with unnecessary—but not unwelcome—solicitousness.
“The one that feeds the lake?”
“Yep.”
I grinned. “I haven’t been out there in…goodness, in years.”
“Want to go?”
I vehemently shook my head. “No. You’ll just push me in.”
He grinned briefly in response, the short smile quickly waning into a frown. “Ashley spent a good amount of time on these trails while she was here. Every now and then, when she wasn’t holed up inside the house, taking care of Momma, one of us would walk with her down to the creek.”
I glanced at Duane, saw his mood had turned introspective. “Do you miss your sister?”
He nodded, frowning at the path. “Of course. I missed her when she left the first time, and I miss her now she’s gone again.”
I stepped closer to him and squeezed his hand, giving his side a quick hug. “I bet she misses you, too.”
He nodded once, then turned his face away as though searching the trees to make sure we were on the right trail.
Then out of the blue, he asked, “Do you really need more than three restaurants?”
I faltered a half step, but then quickly recovered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Daisy’s place serves great breakfast and pie. The Front Porch makes a first-class prime rib. I don’t see why you need more restaurants.”
I realized he was making a reference to our conversation on Saturday, when I’d stated that Green Valley only had three restaurants.
“It’s not about the number of restaurants.”
“I know.” He frowned, shook his head. “I guess I don’t see what’s out there that’s so much better than what’s here. Is Green Valley so boring that all you can think about is escape?”
As I studied him I realized his question didn’t necessarily denote a change in subject. His sister Ashley had left home when she was eighteen and hadn’t returned until just recently. And then she’d stayed only long enough to take care of their dying mother during the last six weeks of her life. Ashley had left again on the day of the funeral, left Green Valley and her six brothers for her life in Chicago.
“There’s nothing bad about Green Valley—”
“But nothing great either? Nothing worth sticking around for?” Duane pulled us to a stop. His eyes pierced me and his gaze felt almost physical, like a beseeching touch. I knew he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad about my dreams. He was trying to understand both my motivations and perhaps the reason why his sister had left so many years ago, and kept leaving.
But I didn’t see Ashley’s desire to leave Green Valley as anything resembling my desire to see the world.
I sighed, my eyes skittering away so I could gather my thoughts. I didn’t know how to explain my longing to wander and how it had nothing to do with my hometown. If I’d been born in New York City or London or Paris, I would still want to leave. I wanted to explore and experience and know.
“Have you ever heard of the German words wanderlust or fernweh?”
“You used wanderlust on our first date. And I read a book some years ago about hiking, and the title had the word wanderlust in it. It was about people who love to hike and catalogued some of the great hiking trails around the world.”
“Wanderlust in German basically means to love hiking, but it’s been repurposed by English speakers to mean a love of wandering. I remember the first time I heard the word fernweh; in German it means farsickness. It’s like, some people have homesickness and that’s considered normal, acceptable. Missing one’s family and friends, what’s familiar, I think everyone can understand longing for home. But I realized that the strange anxiousness I’ve always felt to be elsewhere was called fernweh. I have fernweh. How most people long for the familiar, I’ve always longed for the unknown. Heck, if I could manage it, I’d love to see Mars. I love to explore. And don’t think it’s an easy concept to explain or, for people who don’t have the same desire, to grasp.”
Duane frowned and nodded, his eyes moving away from mine. He was lost in thoughtful contemplation, but I could see he didn’t really understand. Usually I accepted my friends and family’s lack of comprehension, wrote it off as me just being too nutty, too much of a circle surrounded by squares. But for some reason I felt a swelling, desperate need for Duane to understand. Therefore I grabbed his other hand and tugged on it until he was looking at me again.
“This desire, to explore, has nothing to do with where I am. It has everything to do with where I’m not.”
“So, it’s about newness? Being in a new place?”
I shook my head, carefully entwining our fingers. I found I needed to touch more of him, I needed the connection. “No. Not really. It’s like, here we are,” I glanced around the brilliance surrounding us, fading colors of autumn on the Smokey Mountain path, dusky blue sky overhead giving way to nightfall, “someplace awesome and spectacular. But, can you imagine? If you had the chance to see a thousand places that were equally spectacular? I want to see the Colosseum in Rome, and St. Peter’s. But I don’t want to go on a tour during a vacation. I want to live there, know the city, learn the people, eat the food. I want to sketch Michelangelo’s paintings—even though I’m no artist. Then after a time, maybe a year or more, I want to see the Yangtze River, see the Great Wall of China. And after that, the Redwood Forest. And after that, go diving in Fiji, or maybe visit castles in Ireland.”
I glanced at him and saw he was watching me openly. Duane’s frown had been replaced with not quite a smile, and his eyes held appreciation; however, it was the perceivable glimmer of understanding there that sent my pulse racing.
“I think I’m starting to get it. You’re more than curious about the world, and I see it calls to you.” His quiet voice was laced with empathy, and I saw he truly did get it.
I didn’t temper my heavy sigh of relief, or my immediate grin, or attempt to hide my pleasure. This pleasure was quickly followed by a sudden and deep sense of gratitude. I’d tried to explain this desire to my family and friends on more than one occasion. Invariably my parents would always ask, But what about a house and a nice car and nice clothes and a TV and a familiar bed?
They couldn’t fathom that I wanted to fill my life with experiences, not with things. I had their core values, but in so many ways we were completely different. They’d never understood my dramatic, wild side. Consequently, I’d spent my childhood trying to suppress or ignore it. But it was no use. I craved freedom, they craved structure. I didn’t know
why my dreams and goals were so different from my family’s. They just were.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how lonely I’d been, having no one to share my dreams with, and no one to understand. It was Duane’s understanding that pushed me over the edge. I stared into his brilliant eyes and knew with absolute certainty, I was in love with Duane Winston.
And it didn’t feel like a burden or a weight, something holding me down. Loving him made me feel paradoxically phenomenal and reckless and safe and strong and capable—because Duane was all of those things.
My big smile was beginning to hurt, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to hold on to this moment for as long as possible, because it was the first time—and maybe the only time in my life—I felt truly seen, known, and understood. And I wanted to give him everything in return. I wanted him to know I saw him. I knew him, too.
Duane’s almost smile turned wry and his eyes narrowed. “You, looking at me like that, makes me feel ten feet tall.”
“Aren’t you?”
He laughed. I laughed. We laughed together.
Duane tugged me forward and captured my lips for a quick kiss, sending a thrill of warmth to my toes, then whispered against my mouth, “I guess I am, when I’m with you.”
“You say sweet things.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. Like when you said I was a siren who doesn’t need to sing.” I imagined my expression mimicked the dazed and floaty feeling of my heart. “That was a sweet thing to say, even though it implied I sought your destruction by tempting you with my body.”
He shook his head, leaning away, one of his reluctant smiles teasing over his lips. Duane released me and pushed his fingers into my hair, his strong hands moving against my scalp and down to my neck. “That’s not what I meant when I said it.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Have you read the Odyssey?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yes. It was required reading in my house. Remember, we didn’t have a TV growing up. All we had were books and our imagination.”
“Lord help us all, the Winston boys left to their collective imaginations,” I teased lightly, enjoying my view because Duane was my view.
“How much do you know about the story?” His eyes studied me and he cocked his head to the side. “Do you know the basics?”
“Of the Odyssey? It was about Odysseus’s travels. His journey home.”
“What about the sirens in the Odyssey?”
“I know a bit. I know the sirens are beautiful. Their beauty and their song inspire lust in Odysseus’s men and tempt the sailors to crash their ship against the rocks, more or less.”
“Nope. That’s not what happens. It’s not lust they inspire that drives sailors toward their own destruction.”
I squinted at him. “Then what do the sailors feel?”
“The sirens are beautiful, yes. But their song and their beauty call to the soul, not to the body. The sirens don’t inspire lust. They inspire longing. A deep, wrenching longing. Bone deep, so the sailors would rather die than live without the siren.”
I stared at him as he stared at me. I could tell he was waiting for me to catch on to his meaning, it didn’t take me very long because he voluntarily filled in the blanks.
“Your wanderlust, or farfigneugan or whatever—that’s your siren’s song.” He tilted his head to one side then the other, as though studying me from different angles before adding, “I get that.”
Again my heart bloomed, and I wanted to give him a similar gift. So I asked, “And yours is going fast? Is speed your siren’s call?”
He shook his head and his smile fell away, even as he continued to study my face with his trademark intensity and focus.
“No, Jessica,” he whispered, gaining a step forward and pulling me into his arms.
“Then what is?” I lifted my chin.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed me.
* * *
Dinner was great. Cletus’s sausages were delicious, and the boys ate all of my apple pie.
But I was extremely cognizant of my 5:30 a.m. Friday morning alarm, so I had to leave much earlier than I would have liked. Duane asked Billy if we could use the truck, and when it was time for me to go, Billy, Cletus, and Beau stood on the front lawn and waved goodbye. It was actually really sweet, and a thought occurred to me as we pulled on to the main road, the Winston boys still visible in the truck’s rearview mirror: These boys needed a woman at the house.
They missed their momma. And they likely missed their sister. I decided I would make a habit of cooking with Duane every Thursday night.
Also, it wasn’t right that all five of Duane’s brothers were single. Goodness, they were a handsome and sweet bunch. Their collective singleton lifestyle was a crime against women everywhere. I further decided I would take it upon myself to find each of them suitable girlfriends over the next year.
“What are you plotting over there?”
I glanced at Duane in the driver’s seat. We were paused at a stop sign; he was studying me with knowing eyes.
I shrugged and tried to suppress my guilty smile. “Nothing much.”
“That’s a lie. You’re planning something.” Duane pulled through the intersection and I lamented the fact that our houses were so close.
“I just thought it would be nice for me to help you cook on Thursdays.” I turned in my seat and rested my elbow along the back of the truck’s bench seat so I could stare at his profile.
“Mmm hmm,” he said, like he didn’t believe me.
“And what do you mean by that ‘Mmm hmm,’ Duane Winston?”
“I can see the gears turning. You forget, I know your face by heart. You’re scheming.”
I laughed, loving everything he’d just said. “You know my face by heart?”
“Don’t change the subject.” Duane made an unexpected right on to a dirt and gravel road, just a half mile from his house. It appeared to be one of the unmaintained roads used by park rangers and hunters.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something, it’s why I borrowed the truck. Don’t worry, this won’t take long. I know you have to get up for work early in the morning.”
“Can you give me a hint?” We were swallowed up by trees and pitch black night on all sides.
“Sure. In fact I’ll just tell you. It’s a hunting cabin. Billy and I built it four summers ago. No one else knows about it.”
“Not even Beau?”
Duane shook his head. “No. Not even Beau. Billy…well, Billy suggested I keep it a secret.”
“Why?”
“Probably because both Billy and I aren’t as social as Beau or Jethro, or even Roscoe. We both used to have a habit of losing our tempers when kept in close quarters. At home. Cletus goes on long trips—boar hunting and whatnot—but Billy and I aren’t in that habit. He suggested we use it as a place to lay low, cool off.”
“Why don’t you stay there all the time?”
“It doesn’t have electricity, and it’s small. It’s got an outhouse and an outside well, but not plumbing.”
I studied as much of Duane’s profile as I could given the lack of light. “But you’re showing me now…?”
He nodded once. “That’s right.”
“Is this national park land? Or are we still on your family’s property?”
“My family’s property.”
“Basically, you and Billy share it?”
“More or less. He doesn’t use it much, since he works all the time. Our house, the big house, is really just a place for him to store his stuff and sleep.”
“So this cabin, it’s like your fortress of solitude.”
He shrugged, his eyes flickering to mine. “I like to think of it that way.”
A slow burning thrill gradually warmed my belly as my overactive imagination ran away, stripped naked doing wild cartwheels, and made salacious plans. This place meant privacy. Time we could spend together, just t
he two of us, sharing hopes and dreams. Maybe this place would be where I admitted how much I felt for him, how I loved him. Maybe we’d use it to make plans for our future beyond the next thirteen months.
He pulled the truck off the gravel road and took a path I would never have noticed. After another few minutes the truck’s headlights illuminated a roughhewn, stone staircase leading to a dark wooden cabin.
I didn’t wait for Duane to open my door. Instead, I jumped out of the truck as soon as he stopped, but before he’d engaged the emergency brake. He left the headlights on, and they were the only source of light.
Duane called after me, “Slow down, Jess. Those steps aren’t as solid as they look.”
I forced myself to pick my way more carefully, which allowed Duane to catch up and place a protective hand at my back. When we reached the door, I tried it and found it locked.
“I have keys,” he said gruffly, unlocking the door, and stopping me from bolting forward by gripping my upper arm. He waited until I was looking up at him before pressing the keys into my palm. “Here, these are for you.”
“For me?” I grinned. I couldn’t help it.
He laughed lightly and shook his head, walking past me into the cabin and disappearing into inky darkness. I hesitated at the door, listened to the sound of his boots scuffing on the floor, then the strike of a match. Pale illumination filled the small space as he lit a candle. I stepped in and closed the door behind me as Duane walked around the rectangular space, lighting wax candles as he went.
It was small. Really small. Maybe two hundred square feet. The walls were finished—which was surprising—but were painted plain white and held no photos or paintings. A stone wood-burning fireplace took up most of one wall, a small table with two chairs took up another, and a queen-sized bed ran along the third.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” I said on a sigh, imagining us spending countless days and nights here, enjoying each other’s company, sharing more of ourselves.
Finally, I lifted my eyes and met Duane’s schooled expression.
Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set Page 25
