Beneath the Honeysuckle Vine

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “I’m fine,” Vivianna said, brushing tears from her cheeks. “I-I just need some fresh air.” Standing, she fled, visions of lice the size of plump wheat kernels gnawing at her mind.

  “Fresh air?” she heard Willy ask. “We’re outside, ain’t we? I swear…women!”

  “Vivianna!” she heard Johnny call after her. “Vivianna! Wait!”

  But she wouldn’t wait. The tears were streaming over her cheeks now, and she was humiliated—humiliated at having burst into tears in front of a man, a man who had endured so much and probably never shed a single tear for himself.

  “Oh, come on now, Vivianna,” Johnny rather growled at her heels. “I’m sorry.”

  Still, she couldn’t let him see her weakness. Justin, Caleb, and Johnny were soldiers—soldiers returned weathered and worn. They needed strength in women, not weakness.

  She was nearly back to the house—just near the arbor. Quickly, she slipped beneath the honeysuckle vine. Perhaps Johnny was far enough behind her not to see exactly which path she’d taken.

  “Vivi,” he said, entering a moment later, however. “I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would upset ya so to hear—”

  “To hear how tortured y’all were, Johnny?” she asked, spinning around to face him. “Of course it upsets me! How wouldn’t it? What kind of woman would I be if I enjoyed tales of torture and death?” She grimaced. “Lice races, Johnny? Lice races?”

  “Louse races…would be the correct way of sayin’ it…I suppose.” He smiled at her, an attempt to lighten her heart. But Vivianna wasn’t ready to smile. She still had imaginary lice chewing at her own flesh.

  “It’s not funny, Johnny,” she said, angrily brushing the tears from her cheeks.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

  Vivianna reached out, running her hand over the scars along Johnny’s arm—marked in one way or the other by Andersonville’s graybacks. “It’s a terrible story,” she whispered.

  “I know it,” he said. “But would ya rather the folks to come after us forget what this country endured for freedom? If we don’t tell the stories, Vivianna…people will forget. Maybe not us…maybe not those of us who lived it. But those to come will. Don’t you see that?”

  Vivianna nodded and caressed his scarred arm again. “Yes,” she whispered. “They’ll forget. How will they even own somethin’ to forget…if you don’t tell them?”

  “And anyway, I’m fine now.” Johnny looked at the scars on his arm—fisted his hand, causing the muscles in his upper arm to harden. “I don’t know if I’d say it’s a tree trunk,” he chuckled, “but it’s a start.”

  Vivianna felt his muscle tense under her hand—noted that his arms were indeed profoundly muscular. In fact, she unconsciously let her hand travel up over his shoulder—down over his chest. Yes, his body was healthier—larger—indeed very muscular. It was a world of difference from what it had been when he and Justin had first arrived home.

  How could she remain angry with him, after all he’d been through? Furthermore, he was right. The war could not be forgotten; it should not be. Certainly it could not be lingered upon, but history most assuredly needed to be remembered, even if it were only by way of a soldier telling stories to young boys.

  “It is important. You’re right. They’re young, and they well might forget…if they’re not told. Thank ya for tellin’ your stories to Nate and Willy,” Vivianna said, still caressing the breadth of his chest with one hand. She gazed up into the dark brown of his eyes. “And thank you for everything else, Johnny…for stayin’ on to help us…for bringin’ Justin home to us.”

  Something very deep, very strong, inside Vivianna was stirring. Not simply stirring—roaring! This man had done so much to preserve her hope of happiness, whether or not he owned a full understanding of it. How could she ever repay him? There was nothing she could offer a battered soldier—a strong, capable man.

  She remembered then the first day Johnny and Justin had returned—remembered putting Johnny to bed, thinking he might never wake up again. She’d kissed him that day—kissed him in wanting to offer her thanks—in wanting to make certain the man who had saved her lover did not die without having felt one last act of tenderness.

  Her attention was drawn to Johnny’s lips. She wondered how long it had been since he’d felt the soft press of a kiss to them—a real kiss, not the kind she’d given him when she feared he would pass away during the night but a kiss meant to bring him pleasure. There could be no harm in offering him her thanks once more—no harm in kissing him so very lightly in showing her gratitude. Could there?

  Vivianna pressed her palms to the firm warmth of his broad chest. Raising herself on the tips of her toes, she gently pressed her lips to Johnny Tabor’s. Instantly, the sense of the soft, intimate touch ignited an unfamiliar and blissful delight in her. For a moment, as her lips lingered in pressing his—as she sensed his pressing hers in return—Vivianna was breathless! Such a wave of goose pimples broke over her arms and legs that she quivered with unexpected pleasure.

  Thoroughly unsettled by the unfamiliar and intense sensations threatening to overwhelm her, Vivianna ended the affectionate exchange she’d instigated. She drew away from Johnny, feeling shy and knowing it was her cheeks that were now rosy with blushing. Tentatively she looked up—gazed into the smoldering depths of his dark eyes. He was so handsome, this soldier boy from Texas, and she could not help but smile at him. His hair was rather tousled, his nose quite perfectly sculpted. His jaw and chin were squared, and his lips—his perfect lips—held her attention, caused moisture to flood her mouth for the want of kissing him again!

  Though she knew she should turn, that she should leave him and seek out some task to distract her from thinking on his handsome countenance, Vivianna did not move. Rather she stood quite still before him. Even when his strong hands reached out to cradle her face, she did not move.

  It was then that Johnny Tabor kissed Vivianna. It was then that Vivianna allowed him to kiss her—even returned his tender, careful kiss. After all, didn’t the man who saved Justin’s life—the man who brought Justin home even for his own ill health and misery—didn’t such a man deserve at least this small allowance, one kiss from a grateful young woman?

  Johnny’s hands were strong, rough, and callused from hard labor yet careful and protective all the same. The feel of them against her face heated her flesh and caused a sense of safety to rush through her—a sense she had not felt since long before the war. His kiss was careful too—overwhelming to Vivianna’s mind and body, it was true—but careful. He pressed their kiss, blending the light moisture of their lips. Vivianna could scarcely remain standing. She felt weak, as if she burned, as if her entire body were aflame! Wild, unfamiliar, yet magnificent thoughts bounded through her mind—thoughts of what rapture she would know bound in Johnny Tabor’s arms, of how wonderful the touch of his smooth skin felt beneath her palms. She wanted more; she wanted to kiss him more thoroughly somehow! In the next moment, as if he’d heard her thoughts, Vivianna sighed as Johnny’s hands found her shoulders—slowly slid down her arms, caressing them—coming to rest at her waist. She felt his powerful hands tighten at her middle—trembled as his mouth began to coax her lips to parting.

  The fragrant scent of the honeysuckle vine sweetened the breeze suddenly, and Vivianna gasped. Stepping back from Johnny, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt and let her fingers caress the pages of Justin’s letter for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Vivi,” Johnny apologized at once. “Forgive me.”

  Vivianna saw the sudden frustration and self-loathing in his eyes, and she did not wish for him to worry—not over such a lovely thing as having kissed her. As she looked at him, she found her breath was still not drawn easily and that her heart was racing at an untamed pace.

  She would not cause him guilt, no matter her discomfort or delight. Thus, she smiled at him and said, “I kissed you first…remember?”

  He seemed little soothed, s
till frowning yet forcing a halfhearted grin.

  Vivianna placed a soft palm to his cheek and added, “It was all I could think of to offer you as my thanks…for bringin’ Justin home…for everything you do for us. Furthermore, don’t you dare to imagine that I would ever regret that you accepted my thanks.” She smiled at him, though the emotions his kiss had evoked within her frightened her to near terror. She could not let him know of the excitement he’d unleashed in her. She would only endeavor to soothe things between them.

  “Now wrap me in those tree trunks of yours, Johnny Tabor,” she teased, smiling at him, “so I know you’ve forgiven me for scoldin’ you in front of Nate and Willy.”

  Johnny chuckled. “I imagine any man could forgive you anything, Vivianna Bartholomew.”

  He did embrace her then, and Vivianna melted against the warmth of his strong body—allowed her hands to slip under his arms and travel up over his back until they came to rest at his shoulders. The feel of his skin against her cheek as she laid her head against his chest was warm and wonderful—somehow intoxicating.

  Such a feeling of security, of unfamiliar safety, washed over her then that she could not help but linger in his arms. Yet as her heart quickened its already mad beating pace, she drew away from him. She fancied he released her somewhat reluctantly and wondered if she’d been wise to offer affection to a man who had been so long without it. Certainly, she’d never shared such an affectionate exchange before—not even with Justin. Justin had never kissed her with such desire, in such an affecting manner. This realization disturbed her, but she would not think on it now.

  “Now…now you run on and tell your terrible tales to the boys,” she stammered, smiling at him. “But if they can’t sleep tonight for fear of lice crawlin’ all over them in bed…you’ll be the one to settle them down. You hear me?”

  Johnny smiled and chuckled, and the sight and sound caused Vivianna’s heart to leap.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He nodded to her, winked, and walked away.

  Vivianna fairly collapsed onto the old swing, overcome by the fragrance of the honeysuckle—or perhaps the lingering bliss Johnny Tabor’s kiss had drizzled over her.

  Desperately she drew Justin’s letter from her skirt pocket. Justin’s letter would settle her whirling emotions. Yet as she read, her mouth somehow continued to water for want of Johnny to kiss her again—the flesh of her arms, neck, and face still tingling with the lingering warmth of his skin.

  Still, as she read the words she so dearly cherished, she was soothed. Justin was healing just as Johnny had—just as Caleb had. Soon he would find his way back to being the man she loved. Soon he would fulfill his promise to kiss her beneath the honeysuckle vine as she’d never been kissed before. This thought caused Vivianna to gasp—to close her eyes and try to ignore the residual sensations of delight Johnny Tabor’s kiss had caused her to experience. Johnny Tabor had kissed her as she’d never been kissed before. He had! Though she fought to allow her mind and body to admit it, it was true.

  “Oh, Justin!” she cried in a whisper. “Don’t let our letters and promises to one another die. Through all we’ve endured…don’t let it all disappear! Please!”

  Yet even as she read Justin’s cherished letter, even as she attempted to force her thoughts to him, she could only think of Johnny Tabor—of his handsome face, his strong body, and his wonderful, wonderful kiss!

  Johnny Tabor angrily wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He hated Alabama! He hated feeling as if he were never completely dry. He hated the war, hated Andersonville. In that moment, he hated Justin Turner! Still, for all his hatred, the bulk of it—the greatest seething part of it—was heaped only on himself.

  What had he been thinking? He knew Vivianna loved Justin. He’d brought Justin home to her, for pity’s sake! The only reason he was lingering in this God-forsaken place was to make certain Justin was well enough to follow through with all the promises he’d made to the woman he loved. But Justin had changed. Johnny knew he’d changed; hadn’t he been with him when he had? Still, he’d hoped Justin would change again when he returned home—when he saw Vivianna and all she would offer him. But he hadn’t, and Johnny’s patience was wearing.

  He stopped for a moment and leaned against a tree in an effort to calm himself. The kiss she’d given him—her kiss of thanks—nothing had ever affected him so! Neither the first time she’d kissed him nor this! He’d nearly told her the truth—nearly dropped to his knees and confessed all his evil deeds. For a moment, he’d considered telling her who he really was, what horrible things he’d done. For just a moment, he’d considered that perhaps she would look past the devil he was, forgive him his sins, and transfer the boundless love she offered from Justin’s possession to his. Fortunately, the weak moment had passed. It passed the moment she pulled away from him rather than allowing him to deepen their kiss.

  He growled and moved on. Justin! Justin could never kiss Vivianna the way Johnny could! Justin didn’t have the passion in him. Justin owned a passion for nothing—even, Johnny feared, Vivianna. The girl deserved to be loved passionately, to be ravished with heated, demanding kisses.

  Johnny feared Justin was too tainted by the war, his soul too damaged by enduring misery, to allow his heart to be free. Maybe he should never have brought Justin home. Then Vivianna would’ve married Caleb. At least with Caleb, she would be respected. It was certain with Caleb she would never have known passion, but with Caleb she would have known respect and comfort. Still, the thought of her with Caleb sickened him as much as thoughts of her with Justin did.

  He knew he must hope—knew he had to linger. He had to stay on in the wretched humidity until he was certain all was as it should be with Justin and his family. He owed that much to the man who had saved his life.

  Furthermore, Johnny owned a sense of responsibility where Nate and Willy were concerned. They had no father to lead them into being good men. Yet even in owning two older brothers, they were neglected where a man’s influence and guidance were concerned. In all the time he’d been with the Turners, he’d never once seen Justin take an interest in Nate or Willy. Certainly Caleb attempted to please them with gifts of animal bones and pats on the head. But neither Caleb nor Justin spent much time in council with them—or in play. Their mother cared for them—loved them as deeply as any good mother would—it was obvious. Vivianna loved them too. It was many times, near every day, Johnny would see Vivianna playing at marbles or watching pollywogs with Nate and Willy. She slathered them with reassuring affections—pinching their cheeks, hugging them, and placing tender kisses on their foreheads. Thus, Johnny knew the younger Turner boys were not lacking in female nurturing and attention. Still, boys needed a father, or at least brothers who would teach them, and Johnny felt the burden heavy upon his own shoulders—a profound duty to Nate and Willy. No, he could not leave, not until he knew he’d well repaid his debt to Justin Turner. Not until he knew Vivianna Bartholomew was happy in having her love returned.

  Johnny’s stomach heaved a moment. It sickened him that Justin should own Vivianna’s heart when he did not deserve it. It sickened him that he himself was such a devil, such a liar. Yet repentance through recompense was his only hope—recompense and secrecy. Some secrets must be kept in order to protect those a body loved. Johnny could never reveal to another living soul that he had fallen in love with Vivianna. He would harbor the secret forever—own a broken heart and aching soul for all eternity. Yet he deserved nothing else.

  As he stepped into the meadow, he thought that at least he’d known her kiss. At least he would journey through life and then to his grave with the memory of Vivianna’s kiss in his heart—that she had kissed him willingly.

  “Johnny!” Nate hollered, scattering Johnny’s thoughts. “Look here! Look what we found!”

  A certain anxiety began to rise in his chest. It seemed any time the young Turner boys found something, it was more often than not a gruesome find. Still, they were boys, and boys were drawn
to the gruesome.

  “What’s that?” he asked as he strode toward them.

  “Right here! On Floydie Maggee’s tombstone!” Willy exclaimed. “What does it look like to you, Johnny?”

  As Johnny neared the boys, his heart began to hammer. Somehow, he feared he knew what the boys had found. Somehow he feared what they stood over Floydie Maggee’s tombstone studying was more gruesome than most things they happened upon.

  He frowned and looked down at the top and backside of Floydie Maggee’s tombstone—at the dark red stain drizzled there.

  “Looks like blood to me,” Johnny mumbled.

  “Blood!” Nate exclaimed, lowering his voice. “That’s what we think too! Don’t it look just like dry blood?”

  “Where do ya think it came from, Johnny?” Willy asked in a whisper.

  Johnny shook his head and said, “I don’t know.” Still, a vision entered his mind: a vision of Zachary Powell lying cold and dead in the woods just beyond the cemetery, lying cold and dead with the back of his head bashed in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Johnny was sullen at supper. Vivianna worried, for it was obvious something was gnawing at his thoughts. She wondered if it were the kiss they’d shared beneath the honeysuckle. Still, it seemed to be a different sort of distraction that held him captive, and it unsettled her.

  She was likewise unsettled by her own thoughts. From the moment she and Johnny had parted earlier in the day, Vivianna’s mind had been awhirl with confusion, fear, self-loathing—and delight. Her confusion was borne of her desire toward Johnny. How could she be so thoroughly attracted to a man she hardly knew? How could her mind, heart, and body be so disloyal to Justin? Her fear was borne of the strength of her want to be in Johnny’s arms—to know his kiss again. Such feelings and desires were dangerous—dangerous to her peace of mind, dangerous to the happiness she’d always planned to know with Justin. It was as if Johnny Tabor had somehow stolen her heart from Justin’s clasp, the way Justin had begun to steal it from Caleb’s the day they left for the war. Thus, her fear led her to an overwhelming sense of self-loathing. How could she even think on Johnny after all she and Justin had shared, after all the beautiful promises they’d made to one another in their letters? She thought of Tilly Winder—of her fickle nature and easy manner with men. She would not be such a woman, swayed by any man who offered her affection. She knew she was not such a woman as Tilly and never would be.