Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

“I suppose it's because I told him I'm a one-man woman, and you'd already put your mark on me and there was no telling what you'd do if I strayed.” She gave him a guileless look. “Do you think lying's a sin, Andrew?”

  He took a long while answering. A flip answer might have been suitable for a teasing question, but Margaret Leigh's question had been completely artless. He'd bet on that.

  “I think it depends on the circumstances. It seems to me that at times a well-meaning lie is kinder than the truth.”

  She smiled. “I believe you're a nice man, Andrew McGill.”

  “Promise not to tell.”

  “I was thinking of putting it on little stickers and pasting them in all the library books.”

  They sipped their root beer and laughed and talked of inconsequential things and studied each other on the sly.

  He thought she was the most unusual woman he'd ever met, and she thought he was the most complex man she'd ever known.

  He marveled at her innocence, and she marveled at his boldness.

  He thought she'd really be beautiful if she'd let her hair down and loosen up and smile more often, and she thought he'd be a fine catch if he tried harder to make something of himself.

  In the midst of a discussion about movies, he leaned forward and caught her hand. “Margaret Leigh, which part did you lie about? Your being a one-man woman or me putting my mark on you?”

  “Both,” she said. Neither, she thought.

  “Good.” He wasn't above telling a lie himself. “Playing the field makes life more interesting, don't you think?”

  “Definitely.” She had no idea.

  “I'm glad we think alike.”

  He thought she lied with grace and charm, and she thought how she should have known you could never judge a book by its cover.

  The band struck up another slow tune, and Andrew escorted her to the dance floor once more. They surprised themselves at how much they liked dancing together. And midnight surprised them both.

  When Margaret Leigh looked up at the big clock on the wall, glowing with red and blue neon, she couldn't believe it. “Gracious, it's getting late.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Midnight's the shank of the evening, but it did come fast.”

  “I have to go home.”

  “I can promise you my pickup doesn't turn into a pumpkin.”

  “I don't like to leave Aunt Bertha alone too long. She's old and she does have a few health problems.”

  It was the first time he'd ever left the Pirates' Den before two o'clock. Hooter and James yelled something he didn't hear when he passed their way. It was just as well. What they had said wasn't fit for a lady's ears anyhow.

  He helped Margaret Leigh into his truck, got behind the wheel, and headed back to Allen Street. He'd thought she would be more relaxed going home than she had been coming, but she wasn't. It didn't take him long to figure out why. She expected him to make his move.

  He whistled a tune under his breath and thought about his move. He wanted to kiss her. That much was definite. He'd been wanting to ever since he noticed her lush lips.

  He surprised himself by discovering he wanted more, too. Holding her close had been a powerful aphrodisiac. Move with caution, he warned himself. She's unschooled in the ways of courtship and love.

  He parked his truck in the shadow of an old oak tree and walked her to her door, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back. He felt a tremor run through her when they mounted the steps. It heightened his anticipation. He could almost feel her lips under his, hesitant and shy at first, then open and hungry as he stoked the fires he knew were there.

  At the front door, he turned her lightly in his arms. The porch light caught the brightness in her red-brown hair and the fear in her eyes.

  He'd expected nervousness, but not fear. It took him aback.

  “Well,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  She bit her trembling lower lip, and he knew he couldn't do it, at least not the way he had planned.

  “Thank you, Margaret Leigh.”

  He retreated a step feeling noble and self-sacrificing as he bent over her hand. Brushing his lips across her palm, he caught the scent of her skin. It was an old-fashioned fragrance, a mixture of roses and the lilacs he remembered growing around the gazebo at his grandmother's house. He lingered a while longer, then straightened and released her.

  “It was my pleasure to have the prettiest girl at the Saturday-night dance.”

  “You're teasing.”

  “No. I'm bragging.” He gave a crooked grin and a smart salute. “We’ll dance again. Good night, pretty one.”

  He left her porch and went down her sidewalk, whistling. He was inordinately proud of himself. He felt like a missionary on an errand of mercy. Or a scientist working on a secret formula. Or Pygmalion bringing a statue to life.

  But Margaret Leigh was no stone statue. She was flesh and blood and roses and lilacs. She was porcelain skin and shy glances. She was a project. His project.

  He climbed into his truck and headed home to his dogs.

  o0o

  Margaret Leigh let herself quietly inside and leaned against the door. Outside she could hear the engine sputtering and backfiring. She put her hand over her heart. She knew just how that old engine felt. She was sputtering and backfiring herself. She had been scared, and he'd known it.

  He must think she was the silliest woman who ever drew breath. Lord, what a mess. She closed her eyes. But that didn't help a bit. She still saw Andrew, big and handsome and virile, and looking at her as if he planned to eat her for breakfast. He probably had all the women he wanted for breakfast. Why in the devil did she think he wanted to add her to his diet?

  Experience. There had been one time back in college when she'd decided to experiment, to defy her upbringing, to ignore all Aunt Bertha's dire warnings and find out for herself. It had been Halloween, an evening as crisp and clear as polished red apples. Her date had been a blind date arranged by Barb, the dorm's most popular girl.

  It hadn't taken him long to maneuver her away from the party and into his car. He'd mentioned the bluff, and she'd nodded, knowing what was coming next, terrified but anxious to get it over with.

  He had been all hands, clumsy and sweaty and grasping. And in the end she had fought, using her elbows and her knees and her fingernails. Fortunately for both of them, her date had finally been too wise to press the matter. He'd brought her home with her stockings torn and her virtue intact.

  She'd never tried to experiment again. Not that she had had the time. Her father, a life-long diabetic, had become an invalid her last year of graduate school. She'd cared for him until his death two years before, staying in the old family home, working at the library during the day and sitting with her father during the evenings. But she hadn't regretted it. Not much, at least. Not until tonight.

  At the thought of Andrew McGill's arms around her and his body pressed closed to hers, she was filled with longing, longing to be the kind of woman who kissed as naturally as she breathed, the kind of woman who encouraged a man's embrace and knew what to do once she was in his arms.

  “Aunt Bertha,” she whispered, “what have you done to me? Why?”

  She pulled off her shoes and tiptoed up the stairs to her safe attic bedroom.

  o0o

  “Good morning, Aunt Bertha.”

  Bertha jumped and slammed her diary shut at the same time. “Lord, child, you scared me to death. What are you doing up so early?” Pushing her straggly hair back from her face, she looked up at Margaret Leigh standing in the doorway. Her color was higher than usual. A hard lump of fear settled in Bertha's stomach.

  “It's not early, Aunt Bertha. It's almost time for church.” Margaret Leigh came into the room. “You look peaked. Didn't you sleep well?”

  “Actually, I didn't. I was too worried to sleep.”

  Margaret Leigh came into the downstairs bedroom, which had become Aunt Bertha's since her advent, and sat on the edge o
f the bed.

  “I hope you're not worried about a place to stay. My home is yours for as long as you like.”

  “I don't like to keep imposing on you and Tess.”

  “It's not an imposition. You've been a mother to us. We want to take care of you. You deserve that.”

  'There are some in the family who would disagree with you.”

  “Who?”

  “Grace.”

  At the mention of her mother's younger sister, Margaret Leigh wrinkled her nose. There had been three Adams sisters—Bertha, the oldest and, judging by old photographs, the prettiest; Margaret, the only one who had married; and Grace, the baby, with a build like a grizzly bear and a temper to match.

  If fate had to decree the death of the gentle Margaret Adams Jones, Margaret Leigh was thankful that at least Bertha and not Grace had been left in charge. Aunt Bertha had been strict, too strict Tess always said; but Aunt Grace would have been impossible. She considered it her duty to tell the entire family what to do. Aunt Bertha even remarked that if Grace weren't so scared of hell fire and damnation, she'd tell God how to run the world.

  “Don't pay any attention to what Aunt Grace says.”

  “She says I ought to get a little apartment of my own and leave you girls to yourselves.”

  Margaret Leigh felt guilty that she had sometimes thought the same thing. She crossed the room and put her arms around her aunt's shoulders.

  “Put that thought right out of your head. I’ll take care of you.” She smoothed her aunt's straggly gray hair back from her face. It was not like Aunt Bertha to neglect combing her hair. “I don't want you worrying another minute.”

  Bertha's eyes were watery when she looked up at Margaret Leigh.

  “That dog trainer. He didn't do anything to you, did he?”

  Margaret Leigh squelched her irritation. If Aunt Bertha acted as if she and Tess were still sixteen instead of over thirty, it was only because she loved them. And she was getting old.

  “We danced. Aunt Bertha. That's all.”

  “He seemed the wild type to me. Maybe you shouldn't see him again, honey.”

  “Don't worry, Aunt Bertha. I'm plenty old enough to take care of myself.”

  “Still and all...”

  “Anyhow, chances are very good he’ll never ask me for another date. I don't think I'm his type.”

  “Don't look so crestfallen over it, honey.” Patting Margaret Leigh's hand, she added, “Someday the right man will come along, a real proper gentleman. Just you wait and see.”

  Margaret Leigh wanted to say if she waited much longer, she'd be too old to care, but she didn't. Instead she kissed the top of her aunt's head and went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

  That Sunday Margaret Leigh did everything in her usual way. She went to church and afterward took her aunt to lunch. Then she went with her Sunday-school class to Traceway Manor to visit the shut-ins. When she got home, she put a roast into the oven for supper and settled onto the sofa with the Sunday paper.

  But she didn't feel usual at all. She kept having breathless moments, and every now and then her cheeks got hot. She knew what was the matter with her. Andrew McGill. He'd made her feel pretty. Even desirable. She was very close to being smitten.

  She folded the paper in her lap and stared into space. What was he doing now? Was he thinking about the previous night? Was he remembering how it felt to stand so close on the dance floor, pressed up against her so he could hardly tell where one body left off and the other began?

  “Don't be foolish, Margaret Leigh.”

  The sound of her own voice brought her back to her senses. What was she thinking of? Even if by some miracle he did ask her out again, what in the world would she ever do with a man like him? A man who lived in the woods with his bird dogs. Everybody on both sides of her family tried to make something of themselves. There was even a governor on her mother's side. It wouldn't do for her to fall in love with a vagabond like Andrew.

  She opened her paper and turned to the arts section. She'd be better off if she quit mooning and stuck to book reviews. She was well into a review of Stephen King's latest when she realized that she wasn't going to spend the rest of the afternoon reading. For once in her life, she was going to be daring.

  Almost in a trace, she laid the paper aside and went upstairs. She freshened her lipstick and turned to get her purse. On second thought, she took the pins from her French twist and brushed out her hair. It hung heavy and silky around her cheeks, and she felt young and giddy. Grabbing her coat and purse, she went downstairs.

  Bertha was sitting beside the window in her bedroom, still wearing her Sunday hat. Margaret Leigh quickly crossed the room and slid an arm around her shoulders.

  “Aunt Bertha, what in the world are you doing?”

  “Watching the birds.”

  Margaret Leigh started to comment on the hat. Instead, she removed it and gently smoothed her aunt's hair.

  “It's a nice afternoon for bird watching.”

  Aunt Bertha slowly turned from the window. The first thing she saw was Margaret Leigh's hair. The next thing she saw was the purse.

  “Are you going somewhere, honey?”

  For the first time in her life, Margaret Leigh lied to Aunt Bertha—to spare her any needless worry, she told herself. “Just on an errand. Will you watch the pot roast while I'm gone?”

  “Certainly.” Aunt Bertha caught her hand. “Be careful.”

  Margaret Leigh deliberately misunderstood the warning.

  “I always drive carefully.”

  o0o

  It was almost sunset by the time she got to Boguefala Bottom. She parked her car beside Andrew's red truck and mounted the cabin steps. Her knock was timid at first, and then bolder when she failed to rouse anybody. By the fourth knock she decided no one was home.

  She turned and started back down the steps.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Andrew was standing in the doorway, chest bare, jeans snug over his hips, and a guitar dangling from his hands. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off his chest. Fascinated, she studied each muscle separately, as if they were rare museum pieces. The setting sun spotlighted him, tangling in his gold chest hairs, so that every inch of him shimmered.

  “Would you like to take a bite, Margaret Leigh?”

  Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

  He crossed the porch, took her hand, and dragged her into his cabin.

  “I do love it when a woman looks at me like that.” He pulled her inside and kicked the door shut behind them. “Yessir, there's nothing to liven up a good Sunday evening like a woman who wants to have me for supper.”

  Chapter Four

  Andrew was delighted with the turn of events.

  He'd spent all Sunday congratulating himself on moving with caution. He'd never set out to reform a woman before, but he guessed it was best done slowly. There she was, though, at his cabin in Bougefala Bottom with that certain look in her eyes that he knew so well; the look of a woman who wanted a man.

  “Yessir. This is an unexpected pleasure. Have a seat, Margaret Leigh.” He released her, and she made her way to a rocking chair. “No, not way over there. Sit over here on the couch by me. It's friendlier that way.”

  She caught the back of the rocking chair like a seasick sailor clinging to a lifeboat.

  “I'm not here to be friendly.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Or to have you for supper.”

  “A pity. You would have liked it.”

  “Is it this place that makes you so crude?” Color smudged her cheeks and anger brightened her eyes. “Last night you were a perfect gentleman. I almost thought there was hope for you.”

  “Hope for me. I’m perfectly happy with who I am.”

  Andrew had been all set to show her a good time, and she was acting as if he'd committed a felony. Maybe she was beyond his help. Right now she was cased in ice so thick, it would have taken a blowtorch to thaw her out.

  “Who d
o you think you are, Andrew McGill? God's gift to women?”

  “A few women have said so.”

  “Well, you're not. You're just a... a...” She touched her hands to her hot cheeks, and finally sank into the rocking chair. “Dear me. All I did was come to see about my dog.”

  Andrew could have kicked himself. She wasn't a project. She was a human being, a shy, vulnerable woman who had apparently broken all her rigid rules in coming to his cabin. And he was acting the arrogant ass, treating her like an object.

  He moved quickly, crossing the room and squatting beside her before she could bolt and run.

  “I'm sorry, Margaret Leigh.” He tipped her face up with one hand. “Look at me.” With his other hand he smoothed her hair back. “You wore your hair down.”

  She nodded, never taking her eyes from his face.

  “I like it like that.”

  “Thank you.”

  Always the proper lady. He felt a great well of protectiveness rise in him.

  “You won't leave until I apologize, will you?”

  “You've already done that.” Her smile was his reward.

  “No, I haven't. You came to see about your dog, and I assumed you were after my lithe, tan body.”

  “It is lithe and tan.” Her gaze raked his chest, then she blushed.

  “Thank you.” Nobody had ever blushed at the sight of his chest. It made him feel good and noble. He sat back on his heels and smiled at her, out to prove that gallantly in the Southern male was not dead. He needed to redeem himself.

  “I was sitting here playing my guitar with nothing but bird dogs for company, and then you walked in the door. For a minute I lost my head. It just went right out of my mind that you're a proper lady who would never come to a man's house for anything more than a neighborly visit.”

  Margaret Leigh suspected he was making all that up for her benefit. Her heart melted. Andrew McGill was a puzzle, a wickedly innocent man who maddened her and teased her and intrigued her as no man ever had. And he was taking all the blame for their misunderstanding on himself. She couldn't let him do that.

  “Actually, I didn't just come to see Christine.”

  “You didn't?” His smile felt like sunshine on a chilly day.