SWNOVELS : Chapter 19
The smile grew, allowing her a glimpse of excellent white teeth. “I don’t think you could, my dear.”
GEORGETTE HEYER, The Corinthian
Sugar Beth looked like a diet Pepsi ad, one of those TV commercials shot at a gas station in the desert. As she sauntered toward his car in her pipe-stem jeans, bare midriff top, and straw cowboy hat, she led with her hips, a gorgeous genetic freak of a woman, too tall, too thin, too leggy. Her straight blond hair floated in slow motion at her shoulders. Her arms swung in graceful arcs at her sides, and a denim jacket dangled from her fingertips. Long before they’d reached the depot, he’d started to sweat.
“You’re quiet this morning.”
“Not a bloody thing to say.” He slammed the car into park, climbed out, and stalked across the crumbling asphalt toward the door, where—since she had the key—he had to stand cooling his heels while he watched the whole thing all over again. The careless, undulating walk, leggy grace, lithesome tilt. Her stretchy top rode up as she hit the steps; the waistband of her jeans dipped and played peekaboo with her navel. By the time she opened the lock, he’d been swept up in a conflagration of lust. “Let me do that!”
“Jeez, what’s eating you?”
Since every reply that sprang to mind was salacious, he ignored the question. Instead, he slapped a pair of work gloves into her hands and pointed toward the rear of the depot. “We’re going to do this systematically, starting in the back.”
“Whatever you say.”
When she’d arrived in Parrish, she’d looked worn out, but she didn’t look that way now. Her complexion had regained its glow, her hair its bounce. He wanted to believe his lovemaking had revitalized her, that he’d filled her with a magic elixir that had restored her bloom. He could almost hear her scoff at the notion. The lies you men tell yourselves.
“Are you gonna stand there all day, Your Grace, or could you help me move this crate?”
“Damn it, Sugar Beth, I’m concentrating!”
“On what? You’ve been staring at that wall for five minutes. Either tear the son of a bitch down or come over here and help me.”
“You curse far too much.”
“ ‘Son of a bitch’ isn’t a curse. It’s a figure of speech.”
Colin had been sullen all morning, but since he understood buildings and construction, Sugar Beth couldn’t let him off the hook. She needed him to find what had eluded her, and if they came up empty today, then she needed his sarcasm to console her.
“This place isn’t as bad as it looks.” He pushed the crate to the side. “It needs a new roof, and there’s water damage, but the structure’s basically sound. Tallulah was right. Someone should restore it.”
“Don’t look at me. I can’t even afford to get the dent taken out of my fender.”
“Why don’t you talk to Winnie about the depot? The planning council should at least consider it.”
“I’m the last person the planning council would listen to.”
“Restoring it would take serious money, that’s for certain.”
“It’s a mess.” But even as the words left her mouth, a picture sprang into her mind of a children’s bookstore, complete with a miniature caboose, model trains, signal lights, and a trunkful of dress-up costumes. She sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wish Jewel cared more about selling kids’ books. Wouldn’t this make a fantastic children’s bookstore? Not that she could afford to renovate it even if she were interested.”
“It’s a great location. But it has more square footage than a specialty bookstore needs.”
“Not with a coffee shop next door.” She didn’t know where the idea had come from, and his eyebrows rose as he studied her more closely. She turned away and headed for the back. Some things were too impractical even for daydreams.
Colin tapped walls, investigated storage areas, and took every opportunity to snarl at her. Eventually, he announced that he was going up into the loft.
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“Exactly what did you think was above the ceiling?” he inquired with the same scathing tone she remembered from high school. “Did you imagine you would absorb this information through osmosis, Miss Carey, or could you open your text?”
She followed him into the ticket office, where he climbed up on the old desk and pushed aside a splintery access panel above his head. As she watched how effortlessly he pulled himself through the opening, a rush of desire swept through her. First his chest disappeared, then the rest of him, all in one effortless motion. She wanted to feel that strength pressed against her once more, inside her. She stepped away.
He reemerged five minutes later, looking dirtier and more withdrawn. “Nothing. Let’s get out of here.”
She’d hoped Winnie would be at the carriage house to act as a buffer while they searched its rooms, but only Gordon greeted them at the door. Colin continued to snap her head off, and by the time they reached the studio, she’d lost patience with him. “Forget it! I’ll do the rest myself.”
“Right. Since you’ve done so well already.” He pulled away the plastic. She gritted her teeth and watched. He moved the ladder to the side, looked under the drop cloth, and studied a pair of paint-splattered cracked leather boots she’d found during an earlier exploration.
“He wouldn’t have left them here if he hadn’t planned to come back,” she said.
“Who knows?”
As he returned the boots to their place under the workbench, Sugar Beth thought of Tallulah and the bitterness that came over women who defined their lives only through their relationships with men.
Finally, there was no place left to look, nothing to do but lock up. “I’m sorry, Sugar Beth.”
She’d been counting on his sarcasm to sustain her, and now she had to fight to keep her composure. “C’est la vie, I guess.”
“Give me a couple of days,” he said, more softly. “I’ll think of something.”
“It’s my problem, not yours.”
“Nevertheless.”
She didn’t hang around any longer. Instead, she left him standing on the path and made her way back into the house. As she shut the door, she reminded herself that finding the painting today had always been a long shot. She shouldn’t have let herself hope.
Barely five minutes passed before Winnie appeared, her arms full of grocery bags. Gordon snarled at her as she sidestepped him. “Is that dog dangerous?”
Sugar Beth mustered the energy to reply. “So far, you and I are the only ones he doesn’t like.”
“Why would you keep an animal like that around?”
“A lesson in humility.”
Winnie glared down at Gordon, who was still growling. “Stop it right now.”
He backed away just far enough to block the doorway to the kitchen so that she had to climb over him. “I picked up some groceries,” she said. “I told Gigi to come over for lunch. I hope that’s all right.”
“Sure. I like Gigi.”
The implication didn’t bother Winnie one bit. She hummed as she began unpacking the groceries. Sugar Beth surveyed what she’d bought. All that green stuff and not a carton of mint chocolate chip in sight. She emptied the wastebasket, then lined it with a new trash bag.
“You look upset,” Winnie said.
“Broken fingernail.”
“It’s the painting, isn’t it? Colin said he was going to help you look for it today. You must not have found anything.”
“Not unless you count spiders.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Talk to Tallulah’s canasta club again, maybe. Try to figure out if she had any other confidantes.”
“Not that I know of. She was so critical most people avoided her. I can’t believe someone like Lincoln Ash could have fallen in love with such a sourpuss.”
“I don’t think she was always like that. My father said she was funny when she was a girl.”
“Our father. Just once, Sugar Beth, I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Maybe you’d better check the weather report. Last time I looked, hell hadn’t frozen over.”
“Doesn’t being a bitch get exhausting after a while?”
“You tell me.”
“I believe in deferring to the experts.”
They continued like that for a while, trading insults and, in general, keeping themselves entertained, which was a welcome distraction after Sugar Beth’s dismal morning. So many years of being a respectable, law-abiding citizen made Winnie’s jabs clumsier than Sugar Beth’s, but she compensated by delivering them with the zeal of the newly converted. Eventually, however, she calmed down and concentrated on her salad.
Sugar Beth went upstairs to wash off the dirt and phone Delilah. Afterward she gazed over at Frenchman’s Bride. Colin had said he intended to write today, but he was outside working on his wall.
When she returned downstairs, she heard the humming of a happy little kitchen elf. “Orzo.” Winnie gazed cheerfully into Tallulah’s spongeware bowl. “Hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, pine nuts, an avocado coming up. Gigi’s going to love this salad.”
Sugar Beth decided to distract herself by picking another fight. “It wouldn’t kill you to thank me for what I did last night. If I hadn’t gone that extra mile, you’d still think your husband was nuts about me.”
But Winnie chose her own battle turf and struck back with a zinger. “You’re sleeping with Colin, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of information I’m gonna share with my worst enemy.”
“I knew there was something going on between the two of you the night of the cocktail party. But you’ve met your match. Colin is one man who has his head screwed on straight.”
“Right now, mine is screwed on a lot straighter than his.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Winnie stabbed a tomato. “No matter how you try to manipulate him, he’ll never marry you.”
“I don’t want him to.”
“If that man dangled a diamond in front of you, you’d rip his arm off to get to it.”
Sugar Beth shrugged. “Whatever you want to believe.”
By turning serious, she seemed to have taken the fun out of the game. Winnie set down the tomato, wiped her hands on a paper towel, and leaned against the counter. “You mean it, don’t you?”
She nodded.
But if she’d expected Winnie to back off, she was mistaken because real anger flashed in her eyes. “You’re trying to collect another scalp. You don’t care about hurting him. You just want to add him to your collection. And he’s so smitten he doesn’t see what’s coming.”
“He sees it, all right. I’ve been trying to dump him since Tuesday night, but he won’t stay dumped.”
That threw Winnie off stride. “I don’t believe you. Why would you want to dump him? He’s rich, successful . . . brilliant. He owns Frenchman’s Bride. And except for Ryan, he’s the sexiest man in Parrish. Colin Byrne has more character than all of your ex-husbands put together.”
“Two of them, anyway. When did you say Gigi would be getting here?”
“Don’t try to tell me you’re not attracted to him. I’ve seen the way the two of you behave when you’re together.”
“Just drop it, okay.”
“My, my. Have I hit a tender spot?”
All Sugar Beth could do was nod.
That gave Winnie something to think about, and she turned away to concentrate on the salad. Sugar Beth took a sip of cold coffee. A minute ticked by, and then another. Finally, Winnie set down her knife. “I got pregnant with Gigi on purpose.”
Sugar Beth nearly choked on her coffee. “That’s definitely not something you should share with your worst enemy.”
“Probably not.” She cracked a hard-boiled egg against the side of the bowl. “I spent fourteen years trying to make it up to him. I didn’t think he knew, but he did. And he never said anything. He just let his resentment eat away.” A piece of eggshell fell to the floor, but she didn’t notice. “What a pair we’ve been. He suffered in noble silence, and I fed my guilt by overcompensating. Then I blamed you for everything that was wrong in our marriage. So when it comes to you and me, Sugar Beth, which one of us is the biggest sinner?”
“Beats me. I’m not good at making moral judgments.”
“You seem to have made a few about yourself.”
“Yeah, but that’s easy.”
Winnie fished a piece of eggshell from the bowl, a distant expression on her face. “Gigi would say that I gave up my power.”
“You’re doing one heck of a job getting it back.”
Winnie smiled. “Ryan asked me out to dinner tonight.”
“Just because a boy buys you a steak doesn’t mean you have to put out for him.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Gordon began to bark as Gigi arrived. This time she wore jeans and an Ole Miss T-shirt. “Dad’s really mad at Sugar Beth again. He didn’t want me to come down here. What’d you do?”
“Come see what I’ve got in the salad,” Winnie said before Sugar Beth could reply.
Gigi patted Gordon, who was worshiping at her feet, then walked over to examine the salad. “Orzo! That’s so cool. And avocado. Don’t put any chicken in, okay.” She plucked out a piece of tomato with dog-slobber fingers and nearly gave Winnie apoplexy.
Sugar Beth rinsed out her coffee mug. “I’ll leave the two of you to your own devices.”
“Don’t go,” Gigi said.
“I have things to do.” She was trying to give them some time alone together, but Winnie got her snippy look.
“Now you can see exactly how inconsiderate your aunt really is, Gigi. I’ve made a nice lunch for us, but does she care? No, she doesn’t.”
Sugar Beth didn’t want Winnie to guess how good it felt to be included. “Okay, but I’m going to switch plates at the last minute, so don’t try any funny stuff with food poisoning.”
“You guys act so weird.”
Ten minutes later they were settled at the drop-leaf cherry table in the living room with the salad, rolls, and Tallulah’s pressed-glass tumblers filled with sweet tea.
“Did you decide what you’re going to wear on your date tonight?” Gigi asked her mother.
“It’s not a date. Your father and I are having dinner together, that’s all.”
“I think you should borrow something from Sugar Beth.”
“I’m not meeting your father in Sugar Beth’s clothes!”
“Just a blouse or something. He won’t know. Hers are sexier than yours.”
“Good idea,” Sugar Beth said. “I’ll trade you a slinky little number I bought at Target last winter for that Neiman’s cashmere sweater set I saw you in last week.”
“She’s trying to get you upset again, Mom.”
Sugar Beth hid a smile. “If you keep spoiling my fun, kid, you’re out of here.”
Gigi leaned closer. “He’s picking her up at seven. Do her makeup, Sugar Beth.”
“I’ll do my own makeup,” Winnie retorted.
“Sugar Beth does better eyes.”
“That’s true. I do know my eyes.” She gazed at Gigi. “Hair, too. What do you say I even up your new do a little?”
“I guess.”
Their conversation moved on to other things, and without planning it, Sugar Beth found herself telling them about Delilah, leaving out only the financial troubles her stepdaughter was causing.
Gigi wrinkled her nose. “It’s sort of gross, isn’t it? Having a stepdaughter that old?”
Winnie smiled and touched the back of her daughter’s hand. “Love’s a strange thing, Gigi. You never quite know exactly when it’s going to hit or how hard it’ll strike.”
On this, at least, Sugar Beth and her evil half sister were in total agreement.
Colin sat with his back to the wall of the lobby bar of the Peabody Memphis Hotel, trying to stave off his guilt by going about the business of getting seriously drunk. Southerners said that the Mississippi delta began in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel, but the place was best known for its ducks. For more than seventy-five years, a small group of mallards had marched along a red carpet at eleven o’clock every morning to the sound of Sousa’s “King Cotton March” and spent the day splashing in the lobby’s travertine marble fountain. But it was evening now. The ducks had retired for the night, and the subdued lighting cast a sepia glow over the grandeur of the Italian Renaissance lobby with its marble floors, stained glass ceiling, and elegant, Old World furnishings. Driving sixty-five miles for the sole purpose of getting drunk wasn’t something he’d normally do, but he’d always loved the Peabody, and after he’d spent a frustrating afternoon laying stone instead of writing, this had seemed as good a destination as any, so he’d packed an overnight bag and left Frenchman’s Bride behind.
“Colin?”
He’d been so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he hadn’t noticed the attractive redhead approaching. Carolyn Bradmond was one of those high-powered, low-maintenance women whose company he should most enjoy. She was intelligent, sophisticated, and too involved in her career to be emotionally demanding. Colin Byrne’s ideal woman . . . So why hadn’t she crossed his mind since he’d last seen her five months ago?
He rose to greet her. “Hello, Carolyn. How are you?”
“Couldn’t be better. How’s the new book coming along?”
It was one of the two questions people most frequently asked writers, and if he invited her to join him, it wouldn’t take her long to get around to the other one. “I’ve always wanted to know, Colin. Where do you authors get your ideas?”
We steal them.
From extraterrestrials.
There’s a warehouse outside Tulsa . . .
He had no energy for such a conversation, so he stayed on his feet and chatted with her until she took the hint and left. As the pianist at the bar’s baby grand switched to Gershwin, he finished his third whiskey and ordered a fourth. Before Sugar Beth had come banging on his front door, he’d taken pride in the way he’d confined his romantic inclinations to the printed page. But how did a man distance himself from a woman like her?
He couldn’t let her leave Parrish. Not yet. Not until they’d had a chance to work through this bloody train wreck of a relationship. They needed time, but she didn’t want to give it to them. Instead, she’d made up her mind to run as soon as she got the chance. And it was wrong.
He remembered her wistful expression as she’d gazed around at the depot and talked about making it into a children’s bookstore. She belonged in Parrish. She was part of this town. Part of him.
His guilt settled in deeper. The pianist abandoned Gershwin for Hoagy Carmichael. Colin finished his drink, but the alcohol didn’t offer the absolution he craved.
Today, he’d found Sugar Beth’s painting, and he hadn’t said a word.
Ryan had never been more attentive. He asked Winnie a dozen questions about the shop and seemed genuinely interested in her responses. He complimented her on her hair, on her posture, on her jewelry, on her teeth, for goodness’ sakes. He didn’t compliment her on her clothes, which interested her, since she was wearing Sugar Beth’s trashy black stretch lace crisscross top and a midnight blue skirt that—in a moment of madness—she’d chopped off and hemmed to midthigh. There was a certain novelty in looking like a hooker, but she didn’t necessarily want to look like this again, and she was glad he seemed just the slightest bit displeased with her plunging neckline and short skirt.
Considering his attentiveness, she should probably have been happier with the evening, but she wasn’t, because the elephant still sat at the table between them, that beast created by her deceit and his resentment. Ryan ignored the animal, acting as if the angry, pent-up words he’d assaulted her with last week at the shop had never been spoken. And she was tired of always being their emotional archaeologist, so she didn’t bring it up.
“Are your scallops good?” he asked.
“Delicious.”
After what he’d said to Sugar Beth last night, she wanted emotion from him, passion, but he chatted with the waiter, waved to Bob Vorhees across the room, remarked on the wine, and talked to her about everything that didn’t matter. Even worse, he didn’t seem to be struck by any of those stunning little volts of sexual electricity that had begun plaguing her at the most unexpected times—when she heard his voice on the phone or caught sight of him behind the wheel of his car, or at church this morning when his arm had brushed hers during the doxology. And what should she make of that shocking, limb-melting rush of desire that had overcome her last night when he’d rejected Sugar Beth’s enticement?
All you ever think about is sex!
They finished their dinner and ordered coffee. Someday she’d have to tell him that Sugar Beth had set him up, but not just yet.
He paid the bill, and the elephant followed them to his car. She’d known the patterns of their marriage were too deeply etched for easy changes, and she shouldn’t have pinned so many hopes on tonight. She was always to be the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. She the adorer, Ryan the object of her adoration. But she’d lost the will to play her part.
He took a corner too sharply, and she realized they were headed toward the southern edge of town instead of Mockingbird Lane. “I want to go back to the carriage house.”
He responded by hitting the automatic door locks.
She couldn’t have been much more shocked if he’d slapped her. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t reply.
His gesture was symbolic. She would hardly jump out of a moving car. She started to ask him what he hoped to accomplish with his theatrics, but something about the tough set of his jaw made her decide to wait.
As they reached the highway, a blade of light thrown by the headlights of a passing car slicked across his face, and another jolt of lust shot through her. “I want to go back,” she said, not meaning it.
He didn’t reply. Courteous, accommodating Ryan Galantine ignored her, just as if she hadn’t spoken.
They were heading toward the lake, but it was only March, and the season hadn’t kicked in yet. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited to see what would happen. It felt odd to be so passive.
He drove past the road that led to Amy and Clint’s cottage, then passed the entrance to Spruce Beach, where they all swam and picnicked. The bait shops were still closed for the winter. He ignored the boat launch and the Lakehouse. Ten minutes ticked by. They were approaching the less-populated southern side of the lake. She seldom came this far, but he seemed to know the road by heart.
She didn’t see the narrow, unmarked lane until he’d begun to turn into it. She couldn’t imagine where they were—
Allister’s Point. This was the place where the Seawillows used to go with their boyfriends during high school to drink beer and make out.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
She’d driven out here by herself not long after she’d gotten her driver’s license, just to see what it looked like, but she’d never been here with a boy. She could hardly breathe.
The lane ended at a small promontory, which was protected on three sides by trees, with the open end overlooking the lake. At some point, the county had thrown down a little gravel, but not much of it was left. He turned off the ignition. She swallowed and gazed straight ahead. Moonlight dripped down the center of the lake like spilled milk.
“I tripped the safety locks,” he reminded her.
She licked her dry lips and looked over at him. “I’m gonna tell my mom.”
“No, you won’t,” he replied, leaning back into the seat and regarding her with cocky, half-lidded eyes. “She’ll ask you what you were doing out here. How are you going to tell her you were lettin’ Ryan Galantine feel you up?”
“Is that what I’m going to do?”
“I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” He slipped his finger under the plunging stretchy black lace neckline. “Don’t wear Sugar Beth’s clothes again.”
“You recognize this?”
“I’m not entirely unobservant. I was hoping for your blue silk blouse, the one that matches your eyes. Or that pink yarn sweater you can see your bra through. Or maybe the yellow dress you wore the last time we went to Memphis. I like the way your legs look in it.”
The fact that he’d ever noticed anything she wore left her speechless, let alone how her legs looked in her yellow dress. He slid his arm behind her shoulders, leaned forward, and gave her a deep soul kiss.
Everything inside her melted. A few weeks ago she’d felt as though she’d never experience desire again. Now, she wanted to rip off her clothes and attack him.
Always the aggressor. Never the pursued.
“Take me home,” she said. “I’m not going all the way with you.”
“No?” He trailed his index finger from the base of her throat to the black lace. “You really think you can stop me?”
Her short skirt had ridden up on her thighs, and she did nothing to pull it back down. “I could scream if I wanted to.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure you don’t want to.” He hooked his finger deeper under the lace neckline, picked up a bra strap, and drew them both down, exposing one breast. His hair brushed her cheek as he leaned forward and sank his teeth into a spot just above her nipple. She let out a tiny exclamation of pain. He sucked hard on the place he’d bitten and blew softly. “Tell me something, Winnie Davis. How are you going to explain that to your mamma?”
She was going to die right here, dissolve into a steaming pool of lust. Her legs inched apart. Her breasts ached; her panties were wet. “If you don’t stop that . . .”
“Oh, I’m not gonna stop.”
He began kissing her again. Not married kisses, but deep, sloppy make-out kisses with spit and tongue. Her panty hose disappeared. Her panties. He was sweating under his shirt. The windows had fogged up. He grabbed one of her ankles, propped her foot on the dashboard, pushed his finger inside her. She moaned. He dipped his head. Feasted on her. Sent her thundering to her orgasm.
For a horny teenage boy, he knew his way around a woman’s body, and the second time he sent her crashing with the heel of his hand. When she recovered, she drew her foot down from the dashboard and gazed over at him. He was breathing hard.
And he didn’t even have his pants unzipped.
She made no move to change that. Instead, she pulled her skirt down. What a bitch she was. A tease.
The door locks snapped open, and his voice was hoarse. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
After what he’d just done for her—what she hadn’t done for him—she should be agreeable. “It’s too cold.”
“You can have my sports coat. Believe me, I don’t need it.”
“I guess.”
He leaned across her and pulled a flashlight from the glove compartment.
“You Boy Scouts,” she said, doing her best to sound bored.
He climbed out. She had no panty hose, no panties. She slipped her bare feet into her shoes and waited like the good Southern girl she wasn’t for him to open her door. As he did, she gazed directly at his bulging crotch. Poor baby.
He draped his jacket around her shoulders and took her arm. She was wearing heels and the ground was soft, so she balanced her weight on the balls of her feet. He drew her toward the woods. She smelled pine and the dankness of the lake.
He switched on the flashlight and played it over the trunks of the trees. “It’s around here somewhere.”
Under her skirt, the cool air tickled her bare bottom. If she kept on like this, she’d develop a reputation. Slutty Winnie Davis.
“Wait here.”
He moved off without her, flashlight in hand, inspecting the tree trunks like some horny forest ranger. Finally, he found what he wanted. “Over here.”
He’d stopped at the base of a big oak. She waddled over—high heels, short skirt, bare bottom, all-around bimbo.
He dropped the flashlight to his side, illuminating the toe of one of his loafers. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
He raised his arm and shined the light on the trunk in front of him.
She saw it then, the dim outline of a heart carved into the bark. The letters had grown gray and weathered by time, but they were still legible:
She reached out and traced the R with her finger.
“We heard a rumor that these oaks could live for a thousand years,” he said, “and we believed it. Sugar Beth said that as long as our initials were in this tree, we’d love each other forever.”
“Forever’s a long time.”
“Not so long.” He smiled and drew out his pocketknife. With the flashlight in one hand and his knife in the other, he chipped away the S and the B and incised a deep W in their place. Then he turned the C into a D. The crooked letters of her freshly carved name stood out in the old wood. What a goof he was. She no longer cared about the initials two teenagers had gouged in a tree sixteen years ago, but he did, and that was nice.
He slipped his knife back into his pocket and caressed her cheek. “I’m not sorry for all those ugly things I said to you last week. Not one of them is true anymore, but they were true once, and I’m glad I said them.”
“You should have said them fourteen years ago.”
“I was afraid. You always seemed so fragile.”
“Not too fragile to figure out how to trap you. I didn’t have much self-respect.”
“We were kids.”
“I was needy and desperate, not a nice thing to remember.”
“I remember that you were the sweetest girl I’d ever known.”
She turned her face into his hand and kissed the palm. “A woman shouldn’t idolize the man she marries.”
That made him smile. “We sure don’t have that problem now.” With no warning, he took her hands and said the most astonishing thing. “Winnie Davis, will you marry me? I’d get down on one knee, but I don’t want you fussin’ at me for getting mud on my good slacks.”
She laughed. “You’re proposing to me?”
“I am. Of my own free will.”
Blossoms of happiness unfurled inside her, and her smile took over her face. “Do I have to give you an answer right now?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“You’re just doing this so I’ll let you go all the way, aren’t you?”
“Partly. You set me on fire, love.”
She laughed again, looped her arms around his neck, and the flashlight fell to the ground as she kissed him.
He slipped his hands under her skirt and cradled her bottom. “I love you, sweetheart. You’re everything to me. Please tell me you believe that.”
“Convince me.”
“Can I convince you naked, or do I have to write a poem or something?”
“Naked will do for right now, but a poem would be nice in the future.”
He laughed, let her go, and headed back to the car where he retrieved a blanket. As he returned to her, she said, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“Not like this. Not ever like this.”
At that moment, standing in the damp leaves and matted pine needles with the smell of the lake in her nostrils, she felt the full force of his love for her. The elephant had disappeared; the ghosts had gone off to haunt someone else. They had a love that could be counted on. A love that wouldn’t disappear at the sight of a less-than-perfect meal or fade away under the onslaught of a cranky mood. A love that could even handle a good fight.
She reached for the zipper of her skirt, then stopped. “Sometimes I don’t feel like making love. Sometimes I just want to be by myself, to take a bath and read a magazine.”
“All right.” The corners of his mouth curled. “But please tell me this isn’t one of those times.”
She smiled and let her skirt fall.