Blue Willow (27 page)

Lily slapped a hand on the fountain. The eerie echo underscored her furious voice. “I don’t blame you. I did before, but not now. You’re not responsible for what happens to me.”

He flung his hands out. “I held you before your own mother did. I named you.”

“You named Fred the calf too. Fred grew up and became somebody’s steak dinner.”

She had a way of coloring things in the most absurd way. He stared at her. A sharp, disgusted laugh burst from him. Artemas exhaled wearily and shook his head. Lily’s angry attention darted to the floor near his feet. She lunged down, scooped something into her hands, then straightened and held out her cupped palms. A tiny green lizard sat there, frozen in fear. “I thought you might want to name it,” she said sarcastically. “So you can own it.”

No one but Lily could provoke him this way. Artemas picked the lizard up by its tail. “Bob,” he said. Then he dropped it on her shoulder. It fled under the neck of her T-shirt.

Her mouth dropped open. She didn’t scream—a lizard was just a lizard, and she’d had dozens of them for pets. But it was scurrying into the valley between her breasts. She snatched at the front of her shirt, flapping the material. The lizard’s tickling path continued along the inner curve of her right breast and came to stop near her nipple. She shivered in defeat. “He’s in my bra. Thanks a
lot.
”

The look that came over Artemas’s face was priceless—he wanted to laugh or curse, she couldn’t tell which. He looked painfully amused. Lily hissed at him and turned her back. Her face burned. Embarrassment, but also the tingling fire of his gaze on her back, made her muscles suddenly feel limp. She pulled her shirt up as demurely as she could and felt underneath. The lizard made
a ridge under the tight pink rayon cup. Her underwear was plain and sturdy, nothing she thought Artemas would enjoy catching a glimpse of.

She edged her fingertips under the cup. The lizard crept on top of her nipple and sat there, as if clinging to the stub of a tree branch. Cursing silently, mortified, she jerked the cup above her breast and tried to catch him. He skittered down her bare stomach, heading straight for the escape path between her skin and the waistband of her jeans.

Dilemma overcame decorum. “
Catch him
”, she ordered, swinging toward Artemas, clutching her T-shirt over her breasts, her stomach exposed. “I’m not taking my jeans off!”

Artemas cupped a hand over the lizard as it reached her navel. Everything came to a stop. The lizard was trapped in her navel. Artemas’s broad, rugged hand lay intimately on her stomach, riding the unstable surface, which flexed rhythmically with her short, shallow breaths.

He was bent beside her, his cheeks ruddy, his expression tense. There was no shyness in
him
, though, because he looked at her drolly and said, “I don’t have time to check. Are you an innie or an outie?”

She wanted to strangle him. But she wanted the pressure of his fingers, the fire on her skin, to stay. “Just catch the lizard. Try not to hurt him. I
like
lizards.”

He curled his fingers inward. They drew lines of sensation, meeting over the center of her body. He pulled his hand away. “Got him.” His voice was ragged. Lily couldn’t look at him. From the corner of her eye she saw him stoop and release the lizard. “Good-bye,
Bob
,” he said dryly. “You’ll have a helluva story to tell your grandchildren.”

He straightened. The silence and the tension were a tangible force. Her hands were still clenched over her breasts. She couldn’t breathe. Wanting his touch made her drunk and angry. She faced him, tugging her shirt and the bra up to her armpits. Cool air kissed her naked breasts. “Look at me,” she urged huskily. She met his eyes. They glowed like silver above the flat, warning line of his
mouth. “You can’t tell me I’m not a grown woman, or that I don’t know what I want.” His gaze moved down slowly, an explicit, dangerous caress.

“You’re beautiful. You deserve the best. I didn’t have to see your body to know that. I knew it before I ever saw a picture of you.” He turned and walked swiftly toward the opening in the court’s wall, his shoulders squared and back straight.

Lily bit her lip. Her head dropped. She rearranged her clothes and followed him.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows by the time they emerged from the woods at the end of the MacKenzie road. Lily glanced back sadly at the rutted Jeep trail disappearing into the old-growth forest. It ran for nearly two miles through enormous oaks and sourwoods and maples, and it had always linked the estate’s main grounds and her family’s land. Before the MacKenzies and Colebrooks had arrived, it had been part of a Cherokee hunting path. Grandpa had given her a collection of arrowheads he’d found along the creek.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” Artemas said, and she realized he’d been watching her face. “History,” she answered, her throat aching. The raw throb of grief surfaced, and she couldn’t say anything else. She halted in the middle of the gravel road, frantically noticing everything, bombarded by vivid details. The tiny blue violets growing along the road’s ditches, the hog-wire fences and rolling pasture opening up on the other side of the road, the meandering red-clay driveway cutting through them, and farther away, the willows and orchards clustered around the house.

I’ll die without it. I’ll die without Artemas
, she thought. Those were cowardly ideas, and she kicked them out. Her people had endurance and courage and faith—everything she was looking at proclaimed it. Artemas would leave soon. She would pack her things and leave here herself a few days from now. She’d survive, learn, prosper. And
she’d hope for a future when he wouldn’t choose his other life over this one, and her.

They stayed up most of the night, talking. About quiet, innocent things that wove a gentler fabric between them—music, books, movies, food. The way it felt to watch a sunset. The taste of the air after a rain. He played the old upright, out-of-tune piano in the living room. Lily had never known that his grandmother had taught him. He was an encyclopedia of the music from her heyday as a Ziegfeld Girl. Funny old songs, most of them familiar—“Tea for Two” and “My Blue Heaven.”

“Ol’ Man River” and “Stardust.”

Later they sat in darkness on the porch, listening to screech owls, catching a glimpse of a deer, watching a raccoon steal across the edge of the flower beds. She told him how to judge good garden soil from bad, how to coax a hen to set, and how to find ginseng in the forest. He was interested. Not just faking it to be polite either.

“I know how to do a lot of things that aren’t very important outside these hills,” she said pensively. “The kind of stuff only the old-timers care about—them and the back-to-nature types who move up here from Atlanta with their collections of
Mother Earth
magazines and electric woks.”

Artemas said with a low riff of amusement in his voice, “You don’t have any patience for outsiders.”

“Most of them think they’re coming to save us from our own backwardness. They think they’re gonna find a bunch of Daisy Maes and Li’l Abners—or else something that’s a cross between
Deliverance
and a Norman Rockwell painting.”

“How do you want them to see you?”

He might as well have asked,
How do you want me to see you
?—because she realized she was trying to make some small connection between his life and hers. When she’d gone to New York, she’d seen the differences. They made a gap as wide as the moon.

“Remember that mushy-mouthed saint Sandra Dee
played in those
Tammy
movies? And all that southern-belle crap you see on TV shows? Well, that’s not me. I’ve been known to drink a few beers. I smoked pot once at a party, and it made me feel stupid, so I won’t do that again. I’ve never met a boy around here I couldn’t do without, so I’ve … done without. So far. I started working at Friedman’s Nursery and Greenhouses when I was fourteen—after school and on weekends, summers, holidays—I’ve worked every spare minute. I’ve got a knack for landscaping, and I know more about fertilizer than anybody’d care to hear. That’s my life.” She snapped a slight nod at him, for emphasis.

“That’s a good life. I mean it.”

Not good enough to keep you here, she thought. “Aw, let’s talk about something else,” she said, leaning back on a porch post and staring at his large, dark silhouette with an empty throb of longing.
That woman of yours, Let’s talk about her
.

And ruin everything. No. “Your parents,” he said softly. “Do you want to talk about them?”

“No.” She curled a hand over her chest. Chills ran up her spine. “They’re inside me, all the time. If I try to say anything, it feels like they’re easing out of me, that I’m losing them. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but—”

“I understand.” Artemas was glad she couldn’t see his face.
I understand because that’s how I feel when I try to talk about the bond between you and me
. He suspected the way he was looking at her right now would have drawn her to him.

He got up and went back inside, to the piano. She followed and lay down on the couch behind him. Shortly before dawn Lily fell asleep on the couch, listening to him play the piano again, some haunting, bittersweet old tune. Her last awareness was of him easing a quilt over her, then the light caress of his hand on her hair.

Maybe Little Sis’s prediction was right. It was only a matter of time.

Fourteen

He smelled coffee. Right under his nose, steaming, pungent, like sharp chocolate. Artemas woke to find Lily sitting on the porch steps near his head, wafting the aroma toward him from the mug in her hand. He had taken a pillow and quilt from her bedroom and lain down outside, where he could look in the screened door to the living room and watch her sleep on the couch.

“It’s late morning,” she said, studying him with her head tilted to one side and her bright red hair streaming over one shoulder. She wore a pretty shirtwaist dress with tiny blue stripes on a white background and flat white shoes. He’d never seen her in a dress before, and he rose to one elbow, somberly enjoying the graceful sight. She glanced down at herself with a scowl. “I figured I’d shock you. And maybe impress Mr. Estes. I called Aunt Maude. She says he’s back at his store.”

Artemas nodded and took the mug as she held it out. His stomach was raw; he had no appetite for anything but getting this place back for her.

Negotiating with the man who’d bought Lily’s farm would just be a matter of sweetening the original deal. No one could turn down an easy profit. Money would solve the problem.

After that he’d help Lily unpack and return the house to order, and talk to her about her plans for college. He’d set up a fund for her—of course, he’d have to call it a loan, because otherwise she’d never agree. And after he returned to New York he’d work out some discreet way to make certain she was safe here, alone. Perhaps hiring a caretaker for the old estate would be wisest—someone who would have an excuse to visit her, make certain she was all right, and report on her progress to Artemas.

She’d be all right. He’d make certain. And somehow, he’d get on with his life, his goals. Artemas sipped the coffee, letting it burn his mouth, the sharp heat unnoticed, lost in the specter of a future he couldn’t control.

Lily inhaled raggedly and tried to think. She was glad they’d arrived at Mr. Estes’s place during a lull in business. The parking spaces were empty. One wooden door stood open behind its screen. Her heart was rattling in her chest.

“Mr. Estes has plenty of money,” she told Artemas. “He won’t be persuaded by offering him more than he paid. He’s got a big house and land outside town, and the rumor is that he made a bundle years ago running an auction house for farm machinery. He’s probably the richest man in MacKenzie.”

“Then there’s no good reason for him to keep your farm,” Artemas said, opening to door to her old Jeep and stabbing a cigarette into the ashtray. “He can take his money back and find another one for his son.”

Lily watched him with grim fascination. His tone was brusque, confident. The cigarette smoking was something he’d never mentioned in his letters. His face was already rugged for someone who was only twenty-six. The jeans and athletic jersey did not make him look like a college student, because he carried himself with a straight-backed, purposeful command that must have been hammered into him in military school. Mr. Estes’s status seemed of little consequence to him. He slammed the Jeep’s door and faced her. His face softened. “It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

“You better let me do the talking,” she said. “He won’t deal with an outsider.”

She caught the swift flash of Artemas’s smile. It was predatory, but admiring. “All right.”

They went inside. The store was huge, with tall, beamed ceilings dotted with slowly whirling fans. Merchandise filled a maze of freestanding shelves along wide aisles. There was a potbellied stove on a hearth along one side. Big windows festooned with advertisements let weird, unsymmetrical shadows fall on the floors. Toward the back were pallets stacked with bags of livestock feed. Bins lined the wall, neatly labeled to show their contents. Seeds of all kinds. Nails. Screws. Hinges.

Behind a big counter with a cash register was a towering door to the back storage rooms. Lily led the way to it and range the bell sitting next to a case displaying pocket-knives.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. Mr. Estes appeared, a notepad in one hand. He was neatly dressed in slacks and a plaid sports shirt, with pencils protruding from the breast pocket. But his peppery gray hair was ruffled and his jowly face had a pallor. He scowled from her to Artemas and back to her, his eyes hollow, red-rimmed, and impatient.

“Mr. Estes, are you okay?” Lily asked. She’d never seen him like this before. “I was sorry to hear from Aunt Maude that your wife’s in the hospital again.”

“Yeah. What can I do for you? Has Joe been pestering you to move faster? I told him to leave you alone till next week.”

“No, that’s not it.” She gestured toward Artemas, introduced him, and watched Mr. Estes’s brindled eyebrows flatten in scrutiny, as Artemas held out a hand. Mr. Estes knew who the Colebrooks were. All the old-timers knew about the Blue Willow estate and the Colebrooks. “You got a problem with my boy living in the middle of your woods?” he snapped, ignoring the proffered handshake.