by Peggy Webb
“You look mighty pretty in that party dress, Margaret Leigh. All bright and shiny like a brand new Christmas ornament.”
He flashed his winning smile at her.
“I love Christmas,” she said.
“So do I.” He reached across the seat and caressed the shimmery blue material over her thigh. “Nice. What's that fabric called?”
“Taffeta.”
“You'll have to speak up, pretty one. I'm used to bird dogs baying all the time. I guess my hearing's going bad.”
“Taffeta!”
“Taffeta. It has a nice ring. Like something good to eat.”
They stopped at a traffic light, and mercifully his rusty old brakes covered the sound of her nervous breathing. She made herself do a slow count to ten. Think of him as another Harry Cox, she told herself, the safest, dullest man in all of Tupelo. He never even held her hand without permission.
“Why don't you scoot a little closer?”
She jerked out of her semi-trance.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Scoot a little closer, Margaret Leigh.”
“I'm comfortable, thank you.”
“For me?” He gave her a heart-tugging smile. “My reputation is going to be ruined if folks see me going down the street with enough room to put a kindergarten class between me and my date.”
He looked so innocent, she gave in and inched a little closer.
“That's better.”
He slid his arm along the back of the seat and draped it over her shoulders. She'd never known that a man's arm could feel so alive, as if it were plugged into an electrical socket.
“Don't you think that's better?”
“Well... it's closer.”
Andrew laughed. It was a big, hearty sound that seemed to make the whole truck vibrate.
“You're a treat, Margaret Leigh. With those big purple eyes and that soft shiny hair and that pretty shy smile, I don't know why some man hasn't snatched you off the streets long before this. Why is that?”
“Some men don't appreciate the serious type.”
She was beginning to feel a little better. She hadn't done anything to disgrace herself. Not yet, anyhow. She certainly had the intelligence to carry on a conversation. She was even discovering the freedom to speak her mind. And it felt wonderful.
“Are you the serious type?” he asked.
“I've never really thought about what type I am. Have you?”
“I guess I'm a lewd and lascivious scoundrel.
“I probably shouldn't have said those things. That was very ungracious of me.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“You did? Why?”
“I've discovered that few people speak their minds. Most of them play word games, saying only what they think a person wants to hear. It's refreshing to hear the truth.”
“You are a puzzle, Andrew McGill.”
He turned toward her, and in the flash of the streetlights she saw a serious expression on his face.
“Solve me.”
He had to be kidding, of course. Why would a man like Andrew want a woman like her to delve deep enough to know the mysteries of his mind, the complexities of his spirit?
“Is that a new line? A way for men to keep a woman interested?”
He roared with laughter. “By George, Margaret Leigh, you have spunk.”
“On occasion.” She smiled at him. She was beginning to enjoy her date.
“I’ll see what I can do to make those occasions happen more frequently.”
“Why?”
“You're a pretty woman.”
“I'm not all that pretty. And I'm certainly not stupid. I'm not dumb enough to believe that a worldly man like you has more than a passing curiosity for a woman like me.”
“Curiosity leads to great discoveries. Columbus exploring America.”
“I'm not a new continent. And I'm not about to be explored.”
He laughed so hard, he almost rear-ended the car in front of them.
“If you'll scoot just a little closer, I promise that I won't try to explore you. At least, not yet.”
“Why do you want me to sit closer? I've already scooted over once.”
“Because we'll be at the Pirates' Den in about five minutes, and if I know Hooter and James Johnson, they'll be out in the parking lot, sitting on the tailgate of Hooter's truck, watching to see who's coming to the Saturday-night dance.”
“And your reputation will be ruined if they see enough room to stuff a balloon between us?”
“Right.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don't care what other people say. I just like to brag. I like to say that all women find me irresistible.”
She did. In the last fifteen minutes she'd found him totally irresistible, and she couldn't have said why any more than she could have flown to the moon without wings.
She was already close enough to feel his body heat, but what was the harm in moving closer? His arm tightened at the same time she made some slight movement. She found herself thigh to thigh with him, pressed tightly as a skin on summer sausage. Her heart thumped hard against her ribcage, and she imagined that he heard.
“Look over yonder.” As he pulled into the Pirates' Den, he nodded toward a sleek black Chevrolet truck. “Perched like two jaybirds on a limb. Hooter and James, the town's bad boys... except for me.”
Her heart did a quick fandango. She'd suspected it, and now he'd confirmed it. She was on a date with Tupelo's bad boy. Margaret Leigh Jones, the most inexperienced woman this side of the Mississippi, was set to enter the Pirate's Den with a man she couldn't handle if she had a whip and a chair.
She lifted her chin in a small gesture of determination. She'd just have to keep her wits about her, that was all.
“Well, looka here!” The voice echoed across the parking lot as she and Andrew got out of the truck.
“Hooter,” Andrew whispered in her ear.
“Looka what Andrew's got. Where'd you get that beauty, boy?”
“I don't tell trade secrets, Hooter.”
“It's ain't right not to share, Andy.” The gruff voice belonged to James.
“Look but don't touch, boys.”
Keeping his arm around her, Andrew quickly drew her into the nightclub. The encounter in the parking lot was nothing compared to the shock of entering the Pirates' Den. Smoke fogged the room, circling the naked bulbs like blue vultures. Skin was showing everywhere. Women with naked shoulders and skirts hiked up to show their mesh-stockinged legs were sitting at tiny tables with men wearing cowboy hats and snakeskin boots and smoking big, ugly cigars.
The loud music and loud voices combined in a roar that filled the club. There was a small parquet dance floor, but it was so crowded, a toothpick wouldn't have fit between the dancers.
“Do you like it?” Andrew had to yell in her ear to be heard.
“It's... different.”
“From what, pretty one?”
“From professional reading.”
Laughing, he wove his way through the crowd, keeping her safely tucked against him. By some miracle, he found a table about the size of six large postage stamps in a far corner of the room. She slid into a chair, bumping two people on her descent.
“Excuse me,” she said. They didn't even look her way.
“It happens all the time.” Andrew sat across from her. His legs got all tangled up with hers. She tried to move away, but there was nowhere to move. So she sat at the crowded table with her knees between Andrew's and her thighs pressing against his as if she were some shady lady of the evening. She supposed it was indecent, but it didn't feel that way. It felt slightly naughty and almost comfortable and ever so exhilarating.
Andrew reached across the table and linked his hands with hers.
“How about a good tall glass of root beer to cool things off.”
“Root beer?”
“You don't like it?” He looked crestfallen, as if she'd just said she didn't like his grandm
other.
“Yes, I like it. It's just that I never imagined a man like you drinking root beer instead of Old Crow.”
“You keep saying 'a man like you,' as if I'm from some other planet. I'm just an ordinary bird-dog trainer, living in the woods and getting my kicks by dancing with pretty women on Saturday nights.”
“You're far from ordinary, Andrew McGill.”
“Tell me more.” He leaned so close, she had the sensation of falling into his eyes for the second time that day. “Like all human beings, I love to hear good things about myself.” He squeezed her hand. “You will say good things, won't you, Margaret Leigh?”
“If you call bold to the point of swaggering good, I suppose I will.”
“Swagger. I like that term. Do I swagger?” He was as pleased as a little boy by the prospect.
“You could out-swagger Bluebeard the Pirate.”
“You have quite a turn with words.”
“I suppose that's because I read all the time.”
“A pretty woman like you... with that soft pearly skin.” He ran the back of his hand lightly down her cheek. “You should be making love all the time.”
She wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. Think. Change the subject.
“Actually, I should be good with words. I'm surrounded by books.”
“Where?”
“In the library. I'm the cataloguer.”
“A librarian.”
“You make me sound like a museum piece.”
“No. I think it's great.” He traced her cheek again. “A lovely librarian in a shiny Christmas dress... and you're all mine.”
“Actually, I'm not all yours. I'm a woman of independent means making something of myself and living a quiet, decent life on Allen Street with a poodle named Christine and an aunt named Bertha.”
As always, his laughter came quickly. Margaret Leigh liked that about him, his quick laughter. She liked it almost as much as she did his extraordinary blue eyes.
“Woman of independent means, may I have this dance?”
The band was playing a slow bluesy tune, the kind that got into your heart and made you want to weep without knowing why.
“Yes.”
He maneuvered his big body out of the small space behind the table and scooted out her chair, in the manner of a real gentleman. Aunt Bertha would have approved. Sliding one arm around her shoulders, Andrew squeezed them into an opening about the size of a rake handle.
Pressed against him chest to knees, Margaret Leigh discovered that he was as solid as an oak tree and as inviting as a warm fire on a cold day. And rhythm! Although she hadn't danced in many years, she had no trouble following Andrew's lead.
This was the way it should be, she thought. A man and a woman moving in close embrace and perfect harmony, surrounded by dim smoky lights and sweet blues. For the first time in all her thirty-two years, she felt sad for all the things she'd missed—the Saturday-night dances, the sunshine and pine needles smell of a man's skin, the rough-soft feel of his cheek against hers, the heart-thumping thrill of his hand low on her back.
“You were born to be held, Maggie.”
Who do you respond to a thing like that? Nobody ever said such lovely, suggestive things to her.
And nobody ever called her Maggie except Tess, bold Tess, who could do and say anything and still make people love her.
When Andrew pulled her so close, she was almost in his pocket, she figured that it didn’t matter whether or not she talked. Or danced, either, for that matter. What they were doing in the small space wasn't really dancing anyhow. It was more like making love standing up.
At least, she supposed that's what it was like. Tess had told her. And of course she'd read her share of books and seen her share of television and movies. Nothing much was left to the imagination anymore. All the mystery was gone.
Except for Margaret Leigh. For her, there was still the mystery of the unknown. And the glory. What would it feel like? What would it sound like? Smell like?
Curiosity leads to great discoveries. She heard Andrew's voice as clearly as if he had spoken. Land sakes, what had gotten into her? Curiosity also lead to things like hasty marriages and nasty divorce and bitter feelings.
If she had forgotten that, all she had to do was pick up the telephone and call Tess. Tess would tell her.
She'd do well to stick to her dancing and forget about exploring the male continent.
Chapter Three
Andrew was having a good time.
That didn't come as any surprise to him. He always managed to have a good time. What surprised him was that he liked Margaret Leigh Jones, really liked her. She was soft and sweet-smelling and feminine in addition to being quick witted. He liked a woman with wit.
By George, sometimes his impulses paid off. If he hadn't taken on that spoiled poodle, he wouldn't be at the Pirates' Den with Margaret Leigh. Life was just full of unexpected pleasures.
“Put your head on my shoulder, pretty one.”
He cupped the back of her head, enjoying the feel of her silky hair, and settled her against his shoulder. She was a little stiff and uncomfortable, but she fit very well.
“You know what I love about this place?”
He had to lean close and speak directly in her ear so she could hear him. It gave him the advantage of feeling her soft hair against his cheek and smelling her fragrance.
“No. Tell me.”
She twisted slightly, and he found his mouth only inches from hers. Funny, he had never noticed her mouth before. It was full and beautifully defined. Lush. The prim librarian had a lush mouth.
Her body felt good too. He ran his hand experimentally down her back, enjoying the feel of her blue taffeta dress and the shiver that went through her.
When he'd seen her in that dress, he'd felt some long-lost innocence bubble up inside him. He hadn't seen a girl put on a party dress to go dancing since his college days. Nowadays, they opted for comfort, mostly old blue jeans and baggy sweaters and sneakers. But Margaret Leigh had worn blue taffeta for him. Somehow that made him feel good.
He leaned a fraction closer so that his lips were almost touching hers.
“What I like, Margaret Leigh, is being in the middle of a crowd and feeling entirely alone. It's a strange kind of privacy.”
Her eyes widened, and a soft flush came into her cheeks. .She’s afraid I’m going to kiss her. He would have if she had been any other woman. But she was Margaret Leigh Jones, wearing a dress of blue taffeta and a cloak of innocence. And so he decided to wait. He had all the time in the world. He wasn't out for a conquest. He was just after a little variety.
“Sometimes you say the most wonderful things,” she said.
“That's wonderful?”
“Yes.” Her smile was shy and beautiful. “Comparing my dress to Christmas... that's poetic.”
“Thank you.”
“You could have laughed, you know.”
“Why?”
She glanced down at his jeans, T-shirt, and leather jacket. “It appears that I'm terribly overdressed.”
“I figure a man is never overdressed if he's comfortable. Are you comfortable?”
“This dress puts me in a party mood. It makes me feel sparkly and sort of young. So yes, I guess you could say I'm comfortable.”
“Then relax a little more. I don't bite.” He pressed her head against his shoulder once more. “Here. Let me massage your back. Is that better?”
“Yes.”
He knew she was lying. She was stiff all the way down to her toes. And that made him feel like a king as well as a scoundrel. He'd have to spend all day tomorrow walking in the woods and trying to figure that out. He wasn't accustomed to ambiguities in his life. Simplicity was more his style.
He kept her on the dance floor for nearly an hour. The band was in a mellow mood and played nothing but slow jazzy tunes that were nice for cuddling. And there was nothing he enjoyed more than cuddling, unless it was lying in the sunshine liste
ning to his birddogs bay.
When they finally sat down, Margaret Leigh was dewy-faced and wide-eyed. Looking at her through the haze of blue smoke, Andrew felt invigorated.
“How about that root beer now?”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll go and get it. Stay right here.”
“Where would I go?”
He kept an eye on her as he edged through the crowd toward the bar. When he was halfway across the room, he saw Hooter making his way toward Margaret Leigh. He was torn between going back to the table and going on to the bar.
Finally he decided to go for the root beer. Margaret Leigh was a grown woman. He didn't want to insult her by acting as If he thought she didn't have enough gumption to take care of herself.
He leaned across the bar, ordered quickly, then turned around so he could see what Hooter was doing. As far as Andrew knew, he was harmless, but he did have a way of leering that scared the wits out of some women.
Hooter was standing close to Margaret Leigh, too darned close for Andrew's liking—and he was laughing his head off. He'd probably made some fool joke that he thought was funny. Or perhaps Margaret Leigh had said something witty. Hooter leaned over and cut off Andrew's view of their table.
For the first time in his life he felt impatient. “Is that root beer about ready?”
“Coming right up.”
He slapped the money on the bar, then quickly took the frosty glasses across the room, sloshing some of the amber liquid onto the wooden bar. Margaret Leigh was sitting serenely at their table with her hands folded, and Hooter was in full retreat.
“You had company while I was gone.” Andrew plopped the glasses on the table.
“Yes. Mr. Hooter.”
“Mister!” Andrew laughed. “He must have loved that.”
“He hated it.” She took a sip of her root beer, made only a small face, then took another sip.
“Well...” Andrew left the word hanging.
“Well, what?”
“Aren't you going to tell me what Hooter wanted?”
“To dance.”
“That's all he wanted, to dance? Then why did he leave in such a hurry?”
