by Pamela Morsi
"Yes!" she pleaded, and raised her hips to meet him.
The kiss was much like others he had given her, teeth and tongue and a lot of gentle sucking pressure. Its pleasurable effect, however, was much more intense.
Pru buried her hands in her hair, pulling at it like a wild woman as her head flailed side to side. She was incapable of coherent speech, but repeated his name a thousand times.
When he ended the kiss, she reached for him intent upon protest. He clasped her hand in his own and brought it to his erection.
"Put me inside you," he told her.
Eagerly, she obeyed his command.
This time there was no difficulty, no discomfort. He eased inside her like a hot knife in warm butter.
"This time you will know how selfish I was before," he promised. Within a few short moments, she did.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Henrietta Pauling awakened late—an unusual occurrence for her in her fifty years of life. But as she wandered into the kitchen to fix a cup of morning coffee, she was not disturbed by it. What did she have to get up for after all? Her niece? Prudence was a grown woman and could well take care of herself. Her garden? Roses might require tending, but flowers were pretty much on their own in this world. Her home? The little place was far more than what was necessary for two spinster women. And it had so many things, so many doilies and knickknacks and furniture. A person had no need of all those things.
Her niece was nowhere to be seen. Henrietta had peeked into her bedroom as she'd passed. It was neat as a pin, hardly looked slept in at all. The back door was as wide open now as when Henrietta had gone up to bed last night. Clearly Prudence was long since up and gone.
That was just as well. Truly, she didn't wish to have to carry on a conversation with anyone this morning, not even her beloved niece.
Henrietta stoked the coals in the firebox and added a small piece of wood before setting the water on the stove. Normally she would wash and dress while the coffee boiled. This morning, however, she simply sat down at the table and stared off into nothingness. A scrubbed face and fresh clothes seemed infinitely more trouble than they were worth.
There were chores she could be at, work that should be done. In her heart none of it mattered. Today, like yesterday and the day before, Peer Chavis was no longer in the world. And today, like tomorrow and a hundred years thereafter, Henrietta saw nothing on her horizon to look forward to.
In her mind's eye he was as vivid and real as he had ever been. She could recall the handsomeness of his youth, as well as the decline of the last few weeks. She had loved him all her life. Loving him was her life. How did a woman go on beyond that?
"One foot in front of the other," she admonished herself aloud.
But her heart was not in the words. Every step she made without him, every moment she lived, every breath she took was wrenching and painful. She no longer wanted to go on. The struggle to do so was hardly worth it.
Widows were pitiable. Everyone knew that. Even the Bible urged visiting them, along with the sick and injured. Henrietta was the widow who never was. In life she had been too proud to let her heart be known. In death she had been relegated to standing among the crowd. Holding back tears of grief and moans of agony by sheer force of will. Her secret forever safe. Her heart forever broken.
She had so much wanted just another moment alone with the body. A chance to say one last goodbye. To give one last kiss upon those cold, still lips.
But a neighbor could not request such a thing. It would have created a tremendous scandal.
Scandal. The word that scarred her life. If she had not been so afraid of looking the fool and facing the scandal, she would have been Peer's bride twenty years ago.
She wasn't afraid of scandal now. She wasn't afraid of anything. Except having to get up sunrise after sunrise after sunrise to a world where there was no point, no purpose, and no one to love.
Her life seemed to be behind her now. All of her mundane motivations, quiet daydreams, and unspoken hopes had been buried yesterday on Cemetery Hill. She could not get them back. And it hurt too much to try to move forward without them.
Henrietta glanced up at the coffeepot. It was just beginning to boil. She stared at it for a very long moment. Then she rose to her feet. She retrieved her favorite cup from the shelf. It was hand painted with a bright pink Old Blush rose, a long ago birthday gift from Peer.
She held it in her hand lovingly and ran her thumb over the delicate little painting. He had always been so attentive. For all those many years never a holiday or occasion was allowed to pass without the discreet arrival of some token of his affection to mark the day.
She had so often sat among the ladies and heard wife after wife complain that her husband could not be depended upon to recall birthdays or anniversaries, and she had held her tongue. Silently pleased, knowing how very cherished she was.
The sting of tears clouded her eyes, but she held her gaze steady. Peer Chavis was gone. In the past, in her most bitter and woebegone moments, she had thought herself alone. She had thought herself lonely.
Until now she had not known the meaning of the word.
Henrietta poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table once more. The sorrow and grief weighed upon her like a darkness she could not dispel. Deliberately, earnestly, she sought the light.
She remembered Peer. She recalled the sight of him young and strong in his uniform, full of heart and hope. She saw him despondent and determined as he picked of the pieces of his life after the war. He said goodbye to his family and his dreams as he forged ahead to make something fine and purposeful. She saw him as she had known him so often. Hardworking, casually generous, a proud father trying not to spoil a privileged child, and a bulwark of dependable strength for a whole community. And she saw him as only she had known him, tenderly romantic and, after the dissolution of his unfortunate marriage, enduringly faithful.
As tears stained her hollow cheeks she closed her eyes and tried for the hundredth time to pray.
"Dear God," she whispered, "why could you not give us more time together?"
God did not answer. He would not answer. The earth where she lived, where she loved was a place with sunshine, flowers, rainclouds, and weeds. It was not a place with answers.
She opened her eyes and brought the cup of coffee to her lips once more. She gazed at the hand painted rose for a long moment and kissed it tenderly.
"God," she said, addressing the emptiness of the kitchen aloud. "I know that you have plans for our lives. And you know that I had plans for our lives. I know that I have to go along with your plans." She raised her chin mutinously. "But you must know that I don't have to like it."
She looked lovingly at the Old Blush rose on her cup once more.
"I don't have to like it, but I do have to go on."
Determinedly she got to her feet.
There were flowers to tend, chores to be done, friends to visit, a community that needed her. And there were two young people whom she loved dearly who might very likely make the same foolish mistake that she had made herself.
She went to the sink, washed her face, tidied her hair and set forth to make a new place for herself in the world that Peer Chavis had left behind.
At the back step she was startled to see a young boy waiting, elbows on knees his hair still tousled from sleep.
Sharpy Kilroy jumped to his feet, looking somewhat grimy and a good bit guilty.
"What do you want here?" Henrietta asked him.
"I'm not doing nothing, ma'am," the little boy said. "I'm just sitting here waiting."
"What on earth are you waiting for?"
He seemed hesitant to speak. "I ain't had no breakfast this morning, and I'm powerful hungry."
Henrietta was surprised at his words.
A bit uncertainly he glanced out at the old milk shed behind the house.
"Miss Pru, she usually feeds me," he said. "But... well I ain't seen her this morning. If you ain't got
nothing for me, I can ask along the street until somebody does."
"Prudence usually feeds you?" Henrietta asked, puzzled.
The little boy nodded. "Yes'um. I... well I stay around here most nights, and she usually feeds me supper and breakfast, but I ain't had neither. I ain't had nothing since yesterday morning."
"You stay around here?"
Sharpy nodded.
"Where on earth do you sleep?"
Once more the little boy glanced rather guiltily at the milk shed.
"Well, last night I slept on that bench in your garden," he said.
Henrietta stared at the youngster incredulously for a long moment.
"Well for mercy's sake," she said finally. "That is the most fool nonsense I've ever heard in my life. Get in here, boy, and I'll fry some bacon and stir up a mess of grits. Do you like biscuits?"
"Oh yes, ma'am," he assured her. "I love biscuits."
"I can make up a batch in just a shake," she said. "But you'll need to wash up. Go draw some water from the well. I'll need to see your hands and face clean. And don't forget to wash behind your ears."
"I never do, ma'am," he assured her.
Enthusiastically, he started out the door.
"You'll be needing a towel," she said, stopping him in his tracks.
She went to the linen drawer to get him one. When she turned back around he was standing by the table staring at her china coffee cup.
"Don't touch that!" she said rather sharply.
The little fellow appeared thoroughly chastised.
"I wasn't going to, ma'am," he assured her. "I just never seen anything so pretty as that. It looks almost like a real rose."
Henrietta picked up the cup and allowed him to examine it more closely.
"It's not a real rose," she told him. "It never was, and it never will be. But you are right, it's very beautiful. We can always admire it for what it is."
The little boy eyed her with questions. She smiled down at him and patted him on the head.
"Go wash up while I fix the biscuits," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered eagerly.
"And you don't have to call me ma'am," she told him. "The young ones all call me Aunt Hen. I suppose that will do for you as well."
'Thanks ma—, thanks Aunt Hen," he said hurrying out the door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gidry awakened slowly, his position cramped and his muscles aching. It was a miracle that anyone could sleep in such a cramped space. But after the long night of such sweet passion who could not sleep.
Lying against his shoulder, snoring ever so daintily, was Prudence Belmont. He sighed with delighted pleasure. She was everything a man could want in a mate, Gidry decided. She was discreet and ladylike in public, thrilling in bed, and interesting in conversation. A man would be greedy to want more. Of course, he did. He wanted a long life together, several well behaved children—there was still time—and a much better bed!
"Pru," he whispered, "it's morning, better wake up."
She gave a little moan of protest and snuggled more closely against him.
He didn't allow himself so much as one thought of dalliance. In a milk shed in broad daylight! They were both too old and wise for such behavior.
"Sweetheart," he said more firmly. "I want you to get your rest, but it sure will be embarrassing if we have visitors."
She snuggled more determinedly and then as if suddenly realizing that things were not as they should be, her eyes opened and she stared up at him in wonder.
"Good morning," he said, smiling down at her. "Is this going to be my fate? A bride who's a lazy, slug-a-bed and can't get up until nearly noon?"
Her reaction was excessive. She rolled out of the bed in one moment and hastily began to drag on her clothing. In the light of day she seemed embarrassed about her nakedness, so Gidry did not tease her further. Their love was so new, so precious, it was natural to be a little overwhelmed at first.
Gidry began to dress as well. For the first time he actually took note of his surroundings. The place was neat and relatively clean, very much so for a deserted shed. It had a lived-in look about it. There were no clothes or toiletries, but the bed had fresh linens, the floor was swept, and a towel was hung to dry on a hook. There was such a myriad of things in storage. And it appeared to be somebody's hideaway. And Gidry didn't like the idea one bit. He had promised himself never to mention her lover nor reproach her on her behavior. But he could not stem his curiosity. What man had bedded her so frequently and yet taught her so little about lovemaking? Perhaps their affair was quite new. Still Gidry knew it had been going on since the night he arrived home. He had taught her more last night than she had learned in all those weeks with another man. And she was so wondrously tight.
He clamped down on that direction of his thoughts. They were trying to get out of here. Allowing himself the pleasure of reliving the night before would have him too big for his britches, literally, and this was not the time or place for that.
Besides, it didn't matter. He'd had enough experience to know that whether a woman was tight or not, had much more to do with her physical build than with her virtue. A narrow vagina was no more guarantee of inexperience than a large penis was the calling card of a great lover.
Gidry was fully clothed and Prudence was hiding in the far corner. With her back to him, she had one leg raised, her foot resting upon a crate as she pulled on her stockings. Gidry momentarily imagined himself lying on the floor beneath her. Ah... what a pretty picture. After they were wed, he determined, after they were wed ... everything.
She turned back to face him, showing surprise to catch him watching her. Hastily she averted her eyes and found her shoes. She sat down in the chair next to the table and slipped them on. Without a buttonhook, the task of securing them to her feet was not an easy one. The tiny buttons were not so easily fitted into the small slits in the leather shoe. Gidry gladly knelt in front of her and pushed her hands away, eager to be of service.
"I'm supposed to meet with Judge Ramey today about my father's will," Gidry told her as he worked.
She made no comment.
"I don't know yet what matter of paperwork may be involved in the transfer of my fathers property."
Pru maintained her silence as he finished the left shoe.
"I won't have to make a claim through the court," he continued. "The judge said that except for some small bequests, he specifically left everything to me."
Still she had nothing to say.
"My father made the will up several years ago," Gidry told her. "He said when I left that he was disinheriting me. So he must have forgiven me long before I came home."
He finished the right shoe and sat back on his heels to look up at her. She seemed unwilling to meet his eyes.
"He left Aunt Hen her house and a very generous income to maintain it," he said. "You and I, of course, would have always taken care of her. But he couldn't know that we would end up together at last."
Pru finally looked at him then. Her expression was unfathomable.
Gidry's brow furrowed.
"Did you not understand that?" he asked her. "Did I not make myself very plain? With the funeral just yesterday, it is probably the thing for us to wait. But not more than a month or six weeks. If we have a very small, simple wedding, I think it can be very soon. I don't believe it would show disrespect, and Papa would understand. More than understand, Papa is probably looking down on us and cheering."
He grinned mischievously.
"I hope he wasn't looking down on us last night," he teased. "He would have gotten more of an eyeful than is comfortable for me."
Gidry laughed and cocked his head to one side to look at her puzzled.
"Where is your sense of humor this morning?" he asked. "I hope you are not feeling that what we did was unseemly on the night my father was buried. I talked to him a lot about you. Believe me, he wanted us to be together from the very first."
"Gidry, stop it!"
"I am not sorry for what happened last night," she said firmly.
"Nor I," he agreed.
"You needed comfort and I was ... I was very willing to give it," she said.
Gidry's brow furrowed. At first he had needed comfort, he had begged her for comfort. But that first, hurried, selfish coupling did not at all reflect their long night of passion together.
"Pru, I..."
She held up her hand, not allowing him to speak.
"I am not sorry for anything that happened between us, Gidry," she said. "I will, well, I will treasure it always. But there will be no repeat of it."
He was thoughtful for a moment and nodded slowly.
"All right," he agreed. 'That is probably for the best. We wouldn't want our first child to come early and set tongues to wagging. I don't relish the idea of waiting, but I can take cold baths until after the wedding."
"There will be no wedding," she declared adamantly. "What happened last night happened. I am not sorry, but it is in the past now and best forgotten."
"What?"
"It is in the past and ..."
"I heard what you said," he interrupted. "I just can't believe you are saying it."
"I told you the night of the Harvest Moon Dance that I would not marry you," she said. "I have not changed my mind."
"But surely ..."
"Surely everyone remembers your treatment of me eight years ago as if it were yesterday," she said. "I have no intention of putting myself up for public discussion once again."
"Up for public discussion? What about marrying me would be up for public discussion?"
She raised her chin defiantly, fortifying her resolve.
"They would remember how I made a fool of myself over you. How I wore my heart on my sleeve," she said. “They would remember how you rejected me.
"But I'm not rejecting you now."
"Oh no," she agreed with heavy sarcasm. "What was it you said at the dance? Now that you've got all the youth and freedom out of your system, you are willing to settle down. Don't you think I know, don't you think everyone will know that what you mean is that you are willing to settle."
