River watched from the truck as Clay opened the door to what looked like a warehouse and disappeared inside. A minute later, she came back with a small leather bag. She slid it behind the seat before she got in.
“That’s very mysterious.” River joked.
“Not really, but I think you’ll like it.”
Now River was really intrigued, but patiently waited for this little mystery to reveal itself.
“Is that where you live?”
“Yeah, it used to be a peach packing warehouse.”
River was dying to see what the inside looked like. She imagined canvases and paints and sketches strewn about. The thought of it gave her chills. She was completely taken with the artistic process. She loved to see behind the scenes, the sketches, the color studies, reference materials, all of it. She was a process junkie. But she’d have to save that exploration for another time.
They drove for about fifteen minutes, taking two side roads off the highway, before Clay pulled off next to an old wooden one-lane bridge. The timbers were dark with creosote and age. The structure looked like one of the train crossings she’d seen in old movies. But there were no train tracks in view. River climbed out as Clay backed the truck up so that the cab faced away from the sinking sun. River stood at the footing of the bridge watching the wide, slow waterway. Bullfrogs sounded off in the distance, signaling the day’s end. She turned around when she heard Clay lower the truck’s creaky tailgate.
River eyed the distance from the ground to the tailgate.
“Want some help?”
River nodded. Clay put her hands at River’s waist and helped her hop backward up onto the gate, then Clay joined her. Her jean-clad thigh brushed River’s leg as they sat side-by-side. Clay had a small flask in her hand. She took a sip and offered it to River.
“Where did that come from?”
“I picked it up at the house.” Clay gave River a slow, heart-stopping smile. “It’s for emergencies.”
“Those seem to happen a lot around here.” River accepted the small silver flask and took a tiny sip. The whiskey was warm in her throat. She took a second swig hoping it would help unwind the nerves bundled in her stomach.
The sun sank further, now only a half visible red-orange orb. Color flamed across the smooth surface of the glassy water as if loosely painted with a dry brush.
“This is the Altamaha.” Clay seemed to sense her question before she asked it.
“It’s so…peaceful.”
“I love this river.” Clay seemed lost in thought. “This is what I missed the most when I was in New York.”
“I’ve been thinking about you and New York.”
“Have you?” Clay handed her the flask again.
“Yes.” River took a sip. “Don’t let anyone take New York away from you.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I know that Veronica is attractive, magnetic, persuasive, and that she uses people and then discards them. Whatever happened between you two, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I was naïve…and stupid.”
She could hear the recrimination in Clay’s voice. The last desperate light of the day reflected in her dark eyes. But Clay didn’t seem angry, the way she had at the diner when they’d first spoken about her painting. She looked relaxed, thoughtful. It was a good look.
“We’re all stupid sometimes.” River accepted the flask again. As her fingers brushed against Clay’s, she had the urge to reach for her, to entwine their fingers. Like a schoolgirl, she wanted so much just to hold Clay’s hand.
“I guess I was her type.”
“Success is Veronica’s type.”
That made Clay smile.
“You think my paintings are good?” Clay asked as if she really didn’t know.
“Yes, Clay, they’re very good.”
Clay hopped down and walked around to the cab of the truck. In this twilight hour, the dome light of the truck shined brightly, casting River’s shadow long and away until it was swallowed up by the dark. She wasn’t sure what Clay was doing until she heard music. Clay closed the door and darkness consumed them again; there remained only the faintest feather of light along the horizon where the sun had been lost.
River recognized the song. It was a classic, one of her favorites. She hopped down coming face-to-face with Clay just as Elvis began to croon, “Can’t Help Falling In Love.”
Clay took River’s hand and spun her around, softly singing the next line along with the song. “There’s nothing like a little Elvis to round out the day.”
In her head, River tried not to read into the lyrics, but the words still washed over her in a way she hadn’t expected. She shivered and Clay pulled her close.
“You know what I think?” Clay’s lips were so close, her words as soft as a caress.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re a country girl trapped in a city girl’s body.”
“Oh, you do, huh?”
“Yeah.” Clay’s hand was at the small of her back, keeping as little space between them as possible.
“What gave me away?” River draped her arms around Clay’s neck, closed her eyes, and brushed her forehead against Clay’s lips. The deepening darkness made her want to feel Clay against her skin.
“Your complete disdain for shoes and—”
She covered Clay’s mouth with hers, swallowing the words. River was finished with words for the moment. She wanted to taste Clay. River wanted Clay to feel what she’d been unable or unwilling to say.
Clay gave in to the kiss, she relaxed into it, drawing River close. The soft crush of River against her chest, her lips, her tongue. Clay swept her hand up the curve of River’s spine to the base of her neck as the kiss deepened. She felt River’s fingers in the short hair at the back of her head as she slid her other hand into Clay’s back pocket and squeezed.
The kiss subsided, but they continued to gently sway to the music. River leaned against Clay’s shoulder.
“Do you think the song is true?”
“What do you mean?”
“That it’s foolish to rush in.”
“Let’s find out.” Clay whispered. “Kiss me again.”
River smiled and pulled Clay down until their lips met, tenderly possessive, full of want and wishes. They slow-danced in the moonlight beside the lazy waterway; cicadas and tree frogs joined the melody offering their own summertime chorus.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday came and went almost as a daydream for River. She’d tried to sort things out in the gallery, to make some plan for what to do with all the remaining inventory, but she was so easily distracted. With each distraction, she was more anxious for time to pass so she could see Clay again. Clay had invited her out for dinner, but River didn’t know where they were going, only the time.
Her phone rang. Another distraction. This was hopeless. She crossed the gallery and reached for her phone.
“Hey, how’s your day going?” The soft cadence of Clay’s smooth drawl rippled through River’s stomach. River was fairly sure everything sounded sexier with a Southern accent.
“Slow.” River perched on the edge of the desk and absently twirled a paper clip.
“Well, I just called to tell you to wear jeans tonight.”
“You don’t like skirts?” River couldn’t help the flirtation.
“I love skirts.” Clay faltered. “I mean, not for myself, I wouldn’t wear one…but I love skirts on you.”
Her comment had caused satisfactory flustering on the other end of the line.
“Okay, but why am I wearing jeans?”
“Because it’s hard to ride a motorcycle in a skirt.”
“I see your point.” River thrilled at the thought of riding the bike with Clay. She was nervous and excited all at the same time.
“I’ll pick you up at six.” Clay paused. “And, River?”
“Yes.”
“Wear sensible shoes.”
“I’m not sure wha
t that even means, but I’ll try.” River clicked off, smiling.
Not really knowing how to anticipate what she’d need for the trip to Georgia, River had packed a little of everything in her giant rolling bag. Since she’d already stayed longer than she’d planned, this had turned out to be a good decision. For tonight’s ride she’d chosen a camisole under a sheer top in an attempt to dress up the jeans a little. She checked the full-length mirror one more time after she applied lipstick, deciding she liked the contrast of elegant and casual together. Now for shoes. What did sensible shoes look like other than running shoes, which she was absolutely not wearing on a date. She dug in her bag and pulled out a pair of pumps with a short, wide heel. That was as sensible as she was prepared to be.
About three minutes before six o’clock, River heard the distinct sound of a motorcycle. She pulled the drapes aside to check. Clay dismounted, but River dashed out the door before Clay made it all the way up the walkway.
Clay was dressed in a black dress shirt, dark jeans, and black boots with a buckle across the ankle. It was the first time she’d seen Clay in anything other than a T-shirt and work boots. She looked good, very good. She’d obviously also tried to tame her short hair with product. It mostly worked, however, the longer hair in front had broken free of the hold and fallen across one eyebrow in a sexy haphazard way.
Clay handed River a helmet as she walked up.
“You look great.” River accepted the shiny black head gear that had double white racing stripes across the curved surface.
“So do you.” Clay smiled broadly. “For the record, you look really good in jeans.”
“Thank you.” River cinched the chinstrap. “Now, where is it you’re taking me on this beast?”
Clay swung her leg over the bike and braced it with both feet flat on the ground so River could sit behind her. River had decided she wanted Clay between her legs, but she hadn’t expected this would be the way it would happen. The slant of the seat caused her to slide forward. She was flush against Clay’s back with her thighs touching Clay’s hips.
“We’re going to a place about twenty minutes away, toward Savannah. You’ll like it.” Clay turned partway so River could hear her. “It’s called Howard Station. It’s an old roadhouse that’s now a restaurant. Preston’s parents own it.”
River remembered Preston from the bakery.
“Hold on.” Clay cranked the bike, and they were off.
River tightened her arms around Clay’s waist and leaned into her. She was careful to mimic the angle of Clay’s body when they turned so their bodies became one unit, moving in unison, working to offset the torque and angle of the bike.
It was the quickest twenty minutes of her life and incredibly exhilarating. River decided it would be very easy to fall in love with a motorcycle. Especially if Clay Cahill came with the bike.
River whipped her hair back and ran her fingers through it after removing the helmet. After a few seconds, she realized Clay was watching her intently.
“What?” River stilled and looked at Clay.
Clay cleared her throat and shook her head. “Nothing.” As they walked up the front steps of the restaurant Clay reached to open the restaurant’s door for River. “It’s just that I think I could stand around and watch you take that helmet off all day.”
River stepped past her, smiling.
Howard Station was packed. Almost every table was full. Between the aged pine, tongue and groove paneling, hardwood floors, and the rough-hewn board and beam ceiling, there was very little to absorb the sound of all the chatter inside the restaurant.
“I called ahead and asked for a table on the back porch. It’ll be quieter out there.” Clay stood near the podium waiting for the hostess to return from seating a party of four near the large stone fireplace.
The hearth wasn’t lit, of course, it was too warm, but the smell of a wood fire lingered from past fires. River could image this was a very cozy spot to be when the weather cooled.
The back porch was open and airy, the tables adorned with blue Mason jars filled with fresh cut wildflowers. The porch had a high ceiling where equally spaced fans spun lazily. The hostess seated them at the far end of the porch, at a small table overlooking a large pasture bounded by hardwoods where several horses grazed. The bucolic scene reminded River of her grandparents’ farm, and for an instant, she felt a tinge of homesickness.
“Something wrong?”
Clay must have noticed her change of mood. She shook her head and smiled as she settled the napkin across her lap. “The view just reminded me of something, that’s all.”
“Something sad?”
“No, actually, something happy.”
Just then a young, cheerful woman showed up at the table.
“Hi, Clay, you haven’t been here in forever.” She turned to River. “Hello.”
“River, this is Preston’s baby sister, Gwen.”
Preston seemed to be close to their age, probably in his early thirties. Gwen looked much younger.
“I know what you’re thinking and it’s not true. I wasn’t an accident.” Gwen put her hand on her hip proudly. “Mama said she needed one more baby before she was too old to have one, so here I am.”
River still wasn’t used to the South, where people shared personal details whether you wanted to hear them or not and seemed to expect the same from you. Clay laughed.
“I’m sure River wasn’t gonna ask your age.”
“She was curious though. I could tell by the look on her face. Was I right?” She held a small spiral pad in one hand and pointed at River with the pen in her other.
“I admit I was curious.”
“See? Told ya.” She put pen to paper, poised to write. “Now, can I get y’all a drink?”
They ordered two glasses of red wine, and River let Clay order food for them. Clay knew the menu, and there were a couple of dishes she wanted River to try. She had the distinct feeling that sitting across the small table from Clay was going to dampen her appetite, but she agreed to sample whatever Clay ordered.
The black dress shirt was open just enough to reveal the occasional glimpse of Clay’s collarbone, and River thought more than once about how she’d love the chance to trail soft kisses down Clay’s neck to that delicious hollow space.
“So, tell me the story of River. I know so little about you that I’m beginning to wonder if you’re part of some witness protection program.” Clay smiled playfully at River over the rim of her wine glass. “You said earlier this place reminded you of something.”
Clay paid attention. She got extra points for that.
“I was reminded of my grandparents’ farm in upstate New York. They had a lot of land and horses. Although I wasn’t the best at riding them. I got thrown off quite a few times.” River looked out at the green field thinking back. “I don’t think they respected my authority as a rider.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“You seem very confident. I would definitely follow your directions. I take direction well.”
River’s cheeks heated. She was pretty sure Clay was no longer talking about horses.
“Now, I find that hard to believe.” River took a sip of water to cool off. “I would have figured you for the loner type, adverse to authority.”
“Not in all circumstances.”
Clay had the urge to pinch herself to confirm she wasn’t dreaming. She was trying not to flirt so obviously, but where River was concerned she couldn’t seem to help herself. River looked so damn sexy sitting across from her.
She leaned away from the table as a young man from the kitchen helped Gwen deliver several plates of food. Clay glanced up to see River’s wide-eyed appraisal of the culinary display and considered that maybe she’d ordered too much. She was nervous, and she’d probably overcompensated by ordering more than they could possibly eat.
“Where was their farm?” Clay served some food onto a share plate for River. Then did the
same for herself.
“I grew up in the North Country, just south of Canton. Are you familiar with northern New York State?”
“Not really. I never made it farther than upstate. I drove up to Syracuse once with a friend for a party at the university. My friend was dating a woman who was in grad school there.”
“Most people assume New York City is all there is to New York, but the city is at the very bottom corner of a huge state that is mostly rural. Beautiful green rolling hills, and then there’s also the Adirondacks. That area is really pretty.”
“How did you end up moving to the city?”
“I studied at NYU, and…well…I just sort of fell in love with the city and stayed. You said yourself that New York City is where you need to be if you want to immerse yourself in art.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Clay chewed for a moment. “Where does that leave me?”
“On sabbatical.”
Clay laughed.
“You’re an optimist.”
“Absolutely.” River reached for a second serving of fried green tomatoes.
“You like those, huh?”
“I didn’t expect to, but they’re really good.” River shook her head.
“What?”
“There are a lot of unexpected things to like about the South.”
River gazed intently at her from across the half-filled plates of food scattered around the small table. She held Clay with her eyes, causing warmth to flood her system.
“People from elsewhere are always making wrong assumptions about the South.”
“Well, as your friend Trip said, you don’t know until you know.”
Clay laughed, reminded of their first meal at the diner and River’s revelation about chicken fried steak.
“Tell me something else about yourself, River Hemsworth.”
It seemed River wasn’t the sort of woman to reveal personal details freely, but when asked, she shared openly. Clay liked River’s style. She was reserved initially, but open and friendly in conversation. River also didn’t try to act like she was perfect or that she knew everything—traits commonly attributed to Northerners by Southerners. Clay oft times felt like a cross-cultural ambassador because she’d lived in both worlds.
Take My Hand Page 12
