Saturday Mornings (The Mississippi McGills)

by Peggy Webb

“I'm going to sin.”

  “Wait. Let me explain.”

  Margaret Leigh ran out the door and down the front steps. Blindly, she climbed into her car and turned the key. She was Bertha Adam's bastard. Conceived in sin. Born in secret. She didn't need any explanations. She didn't want any excuses. Lies. Everything in her life had been lies. She wasn't even Margaret Leigh Jones. She was an Adams. And Lord only knew what else.

  She gunned the engine and drove away from the house. It didn't even seem like her house anymore. Nothing seemed real. Where had all her virtue gotten her? Nowhere. Like mother, like daughter. She might as well go out and vamp the whole damned town.

  Her knuckles turned white on the wheel, and she found herself heading out of town. Where did a woman go to sin? She supposed most women knew at least a dozen places, a dozen ways, a dozen men. But she knew only one—Andrew McGill.

  o0o

  His house was dark when she arrived. She didn't care. She walked up the steps and knocked on his door. She didn't wait for an answer but knocked and knocked until her knuckles were bleeding.

  Suddenly the door opened, and Andrew was there in bare feet and tight jeans, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

  “Margaret Leigh. What in the devil...?” Her eyes were huge. She just stood on his front porch, gazing at him with those purple eyes. He took her elbow and gently drew her into the cabin. “Is someone sick? Is it your aunt?”

  Margaret Leigh blinked at him slowly, and then she smiled. “My aunt? My aunt!”

  She threw back her head and laughed. The sound sent shivers down Andrew's spine.

  “Come over here, Margaret Leigh, and sit down.” He led her to the sofa and drew her down, keeping his arm around her shoulders. One hand massaged her upper arm, back and forth, up and down, over and over, touching, comforting.

  “Where's your coat? Did you forget your coat, sweetheart?”

  “No. I didn't forget anything.”

  Her breathing was shallow, and she stared straight ahead as if she were seeing something that he could not.

  “I'm glad you came to me.”

  He moved his hand to her back, keeping up the massage, kneading the stiff muscles in her shoulders, caressing the tense line of her back.

  “I'm a good listener, and I'm a pretty good fixer.” Silence from Margaret Leigh. “I have a sister and a brother, you know. Rick was always an independent cuss, but Jo Beth was a little blond slip of girl who was always getting into trouble.”

  A shudder went through Margaret Leigh. Andrew kept talking and caressing.

  “One time she climbed into the orchard next door to our house and stole some little green apples. She ate until she got sick. I took the punishment for her. I marched next door, holding my baseball cap in my hands, looking contrite, and I apologized to old man Clifford for stealing his apples.”

  A soft sigh from Margaret Leigh. A slight relaxing. Andrew rubbed and talked, keeping his voice low and singsong, like music.

  “He was a mean old cuss. Always looking over the fence and threatening to tell on us. Of course, Jo Beth and I deserved to be told on. We were always getting into mischief.”

  Margaret Leigh slumped against him, letting her head loll on his shoulder.

  “She's married now, married to a doctor in San Francisco. Colter Gray Wolf. He's Apache, a terrific athlete, and a fine horseman. We don't see them much. They'll come, though, after the babies are born. She's pregnant. Twins, the doctor says. They're trying to catch up with Rick and his wife, Martha Ann. They have two sets of triplets, three boys and three girls.”

  Margaret Leigh burrowed closer to him, circling her arm over his chest. He held her tighter. “Any day now I'll be an uncle again. Always an uncle, never a father.”

  Margaret Leigh stirred. Slowly she sat up. Her eyes were bright and her face was flushed.

  “I’ll make you a father.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I'll make you a father. I'll have your baby.”

  “Good Lord! What in the devil are you talking about?”

  Her lips trembled. “You don't want me?”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. Something was going on. And he was going to find out.

  “What are we talking about here? Marriage or sex?”

  “Sex.”

  He didn't blink an eye. He sat on the sofa pretending that the prim Miss Margaret Leigh Jones talked about sex every morning before breakfast and three times a day thereafter.

  “You want to make love?” She didn't move. “Is that why you came out here, Margaret Leigh? To make love with me?”

  She took a deep breath. “It's not love I want to make. It's lust.” She leaned closer. “Say you want me, Andrew.”

  “I want you.”

  “Then take me.”

  “Do you know what you're asking?”

  “I'm not asking for the moon, just a little old-fashioned sin.”

  “Loving is not a sin.”

  “The way I plan to do it, it is.”

  She looped one arm around his neck and drew his head down to hers. Her lips were hot on his, burning, seeking, eager. Some sane part of his mind told him to pull away. Alarm bells sounded throughout his system. But with Margaret Leigh's mouth on his, he couldn't think rationally.

  She was inexperienced. He could tell that. But she was willing to learn. No. More than willing. Desperate.

  He fitted Margaret Leigh against him, kissing her deep and long and hard, doing what he'd wanted to do since the night she'd gone dancing in her blue taffeta dress. She was limp and pliant in his arms—too limp, too pliant.

  He pressed his hands tightly against her back, and he could feel the slight tremors that ran through her. Gentling her with his hands, his mouth, he sought to comfort with touch, to heal with kisses.

  He had no intention of taking her into his bedroom. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Not that she wasn't desirable. Not that he didn't want her. But he had a certain code of honor he lived by, tarnished though it might be. When he was with a woman, he did it out of love, not lust.

  That didn't mean he was altar bound with every woman he took to his bed. But he did feel a certain kind of love, a compelling need.

  Margaret Leigh clung to him, her mouth open and receptive. She was sweet, sweeter than he'd imagined. With the smell of roses and lilacs in her hair and the taste of honey in her mouth, she was a tempting morsel. He felt himself drifting toward the edge of no return.

  He broke contact and lifted his head. Her face was wet with tears.

  “You're crying.” He touched her cheek gently, as if too much handling would shatter her.

  She snuffled and tried to smile. “I don't care. Kiss me.”

  He brushed his lips across her cheek.

  “Not like that.” She grabbed his upper arms, her fingernails biting into his flesh.

  His gaze swung from her face to her hands.

  “Good Lord. You're bleeding.”

  He pried one of her hands loose and held it, examining her knuckles. The skin was scratched and torn, bloody in places.

  “What in the hell have you done?”

  “You're cussing. I’ve never heard you cuss.”

  “It's cussing time.” He grabbed her other hand. It was the same, battered and bleeding. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

  “I didn't come here to talk.” Her hands clenched into tight fists. “I don't want to talk.”

  He studied her closely then, examined the bright glazed eyes, noticed the shallow breathing. Discreetly he slid two fingers over her wrist. Her pulse was racing. He was no doctor, but he'd heard enough medical talk from his brother-in-law to guess that Margaret Leigh was close to shock.

  What do you do for somebody in shock? Keep them warm and quiet, he decided. But first he needed to take care of her hands.

  “Wait right here, Margaret Leigh.”

  He put a sofa pillow behind her back and propped her up like a
broken doll. All the life seemed to have gone out of her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get bandages for your hands.” He stood up, keeping his movements easy and his voice low. “Stay right here. Don't move. I'll be right back.”

  He hurried into his bathroom, gathering what he needed as quickly as possible. When he returned Margaret Leigh was exactly as he had left her, propped on the pillows, one hand on her knee and one lying on the sofa.

  Her eyes flickered when he sat down beside her, but she didn't seem to be seeing him. He cleansed her wounds, then applied antibiotic salve and bandages, handling her as he would a newborn puppy. She was just about as helpless.

  When he had finished, he set the supplies aside and took her hands in his.

  “Margaret Leigh, I don't think you should drive. I'm going to take you home.”

  “No!” She bolted from the sofa and began to pace. “I'm not going home. I can't go back. I don't even have a home. Not anymore. I can't go.... I can't face her.... I can't—”

  “All right. It's okay.” Andrew went to her and pulled her into his arms, pressing her trembling body close against him.

  “There now. Shh. It's all right.” He stroked her back, her hair, her arms, over and over. “You don't have to go. You can stay here. Shh. It's all right now.”

  Gradually she began to relax. With a sigh, she leaned into his embrace.

  “I have an extra bedroom. You can sleep there.”

  She nodded, and he kept up the tender massage. Who did she not want to face? What had happened to make her think she no longer had a home? He approached the subject with caution.

  “Is there anyone you want to call?”

  “No.”

  Her vehement answer shook him. He remembered Saturday night and her request to leave the dance early in order to see about Aunt Bertha. Nothing added up. But it was the wrong time to find answers.

  “It's getting late,” he said. “Why don't we go to bed? Sometimes a good night's sleep lends perspective to problems.”

  She allowed herself to be led to his spare bedroom like a trusting child.

  “I think I have an old T-shirt around here that will do for a nightgown. I’ll be right back.

  He went across the hall and dug in his closet for an oversized T-shirt with a Mississippi State logo, a big maroon bulldog snarling against a white background. At least it used to be white. Age and too many careless washings had turned the shirt a dingy yellow. It wasn't pretty, but it was soft and warm and serviceable.

  When he reentered the bedroom, she was standing exactly where he had left her. She was like a statue. Wherever he placed her, that's where she stayed.

  He held the shirt out to her.

  “Margaret Leigh, here's your nightshirt.” She made absolutely no response. He tossed the shirt onto the bed. “Turn around, sweetheart. I'm going to unzip your dress.”

  She did—slowly, as if she were performing a chore she had almost forgotten how to do. He lowered her zipper and slid her dress down her shoulders. Her skin had the fair and tender look of never having been exposed to the sun. Andrew resisted the temptation to run his hands down the length of that soft, inviting expanse of skin.

  Think of her as your sister, he told himself. The admonition helped, but not much.

  He guided the dress downward, over her flat stomach, down her slender legs, until it pooled like wine at her feet. Underneath, she was wearing a peach-colored silk slip. No lace, no fancy trimmings, just a simple garment that hugged her body in all the right places.

  She had an elegant body, the kind that went with long legs and an Audrey Hepburn neck. Another time he'd have lingered over it; he'd have appreciated it with his hands and his lips as well as his eyes.

  Tonight he merely took note.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  There was no reply. A shudder passed through Margaret Leigh, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head, but he wasn't sure whether what he had said had registered with her. He thought of picking her up and tucking her into bed as she was, but he knew enough about women's lingerie to know that sleeping in a bra would be uncomfortable.

  “I'm going to take off your slip now, Margaret Leigh.”

  She looked at her dress on the floor with the same curious detachment she might have given a passing bug. It didn't seem to have any connection with her.

  Andrew felt another shiver run through her when he put his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was warm to his touch. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver, he decided. It was fear.

  “What are you afraid of, Margaret Leigh? I'm not going to hurt you.”

  She lifted wounded violet eyes to his, but still she said nothing. He had seen that look on the face of mothers with sick children, and on widows. Without another word, he circled his arms around her and held her close. It was a warm and friendly embrace, a hug of affirmation, a touch of compassion.

  She stood stiffly in his arms, and then she leaned her cheek against his bare shoulder. He cupped the back of her head, sinking his fingers into the heavy silk of her hair.

  “Do you want to tell me about it, sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  He could barely hear her, even in the silence of the room.

  “That's all right. I’ll be here all night, just across the hall. If you need me, all you have to do is give a yell. I'm well trained. I’ll come running.”

  She made a quiet sound, like the whisper of wind through willows. Then she gave a small nod.

  Everything about her was fragile, her cheek against his chest, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, her emotions. He didn't know what would happen if he finished undressing her. And now was not the time to find out.

  Comfort would have to take a backseat to common sense. And common sense told him to get her into bed, settled and warm, as quickly as possible.

  “I'm going to put you to bed now, Margaret Leigh.”

  She nodded again, a small motion that caused her silky hair to brush against his cheek. He held onto her with one hand and reached for the nightshirt with the other.

  “Lift your arms.” She did as she was told. He slid the shirt over her head, working her hands and arms through the armholes. Her arms stayed stiffly in the air until he caught her wrists and lowered them to her sides.

  “There. That should keep you warm and comfortable.”

  He kept up a steady, reassuring stream of chatter as he picked her up. She was limp and lifeless, without resistance, almost without a will.

  “This bed has an old feather mattress. I used to love these things when I was a kid. Still do.”

  He braced one knee on the bed, and the bed-springs squeaked. Margaret Leigh clung to him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He started to lower her to the bed, then he noticed the bedcovers weren't turned back. He didn't want to disturb her by putting her down again. Balancing her with one free arm and his knee, he managed the covers with his free hand.

  It was awkward, but it worked. He lowered her gently to the sheets. She sank into the feather mattress, sighing. He arranged the covers over her with great care, tucking the blanket around her legs and snuggling it closely under her chin. When he had finished, he bent down and kissed her forehead.

  “Sleep tight, pretty one.”

  Margaret Leigh's gaze held him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and huge with pain. He tenderly brushed her hair back from her forehead.

  “Everything will be all right, Margaret Leigh. Just you wait and see.”

  “Thank you, Andrew.” He could barely hear her whisper.

  “You're more than welcome.”

  He left her bed and moved quietly about the room, doing small things that would make the bedroom a haven for her. He got a night-light off the closet shelf and plugged it in. Then he picked her dress off the floor, smoothed it down, and draped it neatly over the back of a chair. After he had done all that, he
flicked the light off, left the room, and closed the door.

  He stood outside her door for a long while, listening for any sound. When he was satisfied that she wasn't going to try to leave, he went across the hall to his own bedroom. Leaving his own door open, he stripped quickly and climbed into bed. The sheets felt cool and crisp.

  He punched his pillow twice, an old habit of his, and was just turning onto his stomach for a good night's sleep when he remembered his nakedness. What if he had to rush across the hall in the middle of the night? It wouldn't do to rescue Margaret Leigh buck naked. She was a lady, even if she had tried to seduce him.

  He climbed out of bed and slipped back into his shorts. He felt as bundled up and restricted as if he were wearing an expedition outfit for the North Pole, but he was willing to make the sacrifice. After all, it wasn't every evening a man was called on to be a hero.

  He laced his hands behind his head and lay back on his pillow, staring into the dark. There was something heroic about being the one Margaret Leigh had turned to in her time of trouble. He felt about ten feet tall.

  What in the devil was bothering her? What had sent her flying into the night?

  His mind tried to latch onto some clue she had dropped, but he found himself drifting into sleep, lulled by the sound of pines whispering outside his window and the far-off call of a whippoorwill.

  o0o

  The sobs woke Andrew up. At first he was disoriented, then he came fully alert. He leaped out of bed and raced across the hall.

  Margaret Leigh was huddled in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms around her legs, as she rocked back and forth and cried.

  “Margaret Leigh,” he called from the door.

  She made no answer. In fact, she didn't even look his way.

  “I heard you crying.” He approached the bed with caution. He didn't want to say or do anything to upset her even more. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I want the world to come to an end.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “Can you bring the world to an end, Andrew?”

  Andrew McGill was a man of action. Furthermore, he knew that drastic need called for drastic measures. He threw back the covers and climbed into bed with her.

  He pried her hands away from her legs and unfolded her like a pretzel. Then he wrapped her in his strong embrace and lay down with her.