Authors: More Than Memory
Dorothy Garlock (9 page)
“Oh, yes, please. If you have time,” she added after a moment’s hesitation, following closely behind when he went up the stairs. “This is the only room I use up here,” she said, as they approached an open door.
Lute’s eyes swept her bedroom, and she was glad it was neat. Her robe, a gauzy cotton, was flung over the foot of the bed, but everything else was in order. A tightness gripped her throat when his eyes settled on the framed picture of Rebecca on the table beside her bed. He picked it up and looked at it for a long while. His back was to her, and she couldn’t see the expression on his face.
Like one hypnotized, she watched him. When he replaced the picture, he turned and his eyes met hers. A startling thrill of desire coursed through her. Standing there, the sweat trickling down between her breasts, she felt more vulnerable than she had ever felt in her life.
It was heart-stopping to see this handsome man towering over her bed, the photo of the child they had created together between them. When his eyes dwelt for an inordinate amount of time on her mouth, she could almost taste his lips, feel his arms.
For what seemed an eternity they were held in suspended animation. Not daring to breathe, she drank him in with unquenchable eyes. Lute raised a hand—to touch her? she wondered fleetingly. She glimpsed the ring on his finger.
The spell was broken.
Reality returned like a kick in the teeth. She turned quickly and went down the stairs. The pain in her chest was almost more than she could endure, but she was not going to crumple in front of him. Damned if she would!
In the kitchen she turned on the light, suddenly realizing darkness was only a few minutes away. She bent over the sleeping dog, gently stroking his satiny head and hoping her bleak hurt was not visible in her eyes.
“He’ll be all right.” Lute was behind her. “Mind if I have a drink of water?”
Nelda stood quickly and moved to the sink. “I’m sorry. I’ll wash my hands and get some ice.” She
turned on the tap, letting it run full force. The cold water on her wrists and palms calmed her a little.
turned on the tap, letting it run full force. The cold water on her wrists and palms calmed her a little.
“Do you want me to put the pan back in the oven to keep your supper warm?”
“No, I’ll probably eat it cold.” She dried her hands and took two glasses to the refrigerator to fill with ice. “I’d invite you to stay for supper, but I’m sure your wife is expecting you home.” They were the most difficult words she’d ever had to say, and she tried fervently to keep her voice from betraying her desperation. Before she turned around, she asked, “Cola, ginger ale, or water?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned, a glass of ice in each hand. He was leaning against the counter, his eyes on her face. She felt her pulse beating frantically at the base of her throat. She stood waiting, leaving the refrigerator door open. He stepped forward, reached around her, took out a large bottle of cola, and shut the door. She moved to the cabinet and put the glasses down. He came up behind her and, reaching around her again, set the bottle on the counter.
“I’ve never had but one wife.”
Nelda didn’t expect the whispered words or the tenderness in his voice. She swallowed hard and tried to control the trembling that traveled from her knees up to her chin.
Was he saying that he wasn’t married?
She couldn’t turn and face him. She was incapable of moving.
Was he saying that he wasn’t married?
She couldn’t turn and face him. She was incapable of moving.
“But . . . the ring—” she whispered.
“I’ve worn it for almost nine years. I can’t get it off now. I sat in my truck, not ten minutes after
we were pronounced man and wife and put the ring on my finger. It’s not been off since. I had brought one for you, too, but I never had a chance to give it to you.”
we were pronounced man and wife and put the ring on my finger. It’s not been off since. I had brought one for you, too, but I never had a chance to give it to you.”
A dam seemed to burst inside her. She could no more hold back the cry that tore from her throat than she could have stopped a steamroller. She bent over the counter, her face in her arms, her body convulsing as she began to sob. All the harrowing tension of the day—Kelly’s accident, Lute’s unnerving presence, and now the knowledge that he didn’t belong to another woman after all—broke through all the barriers she’d been trying to erect.
A torrent of tears came roaring from deep within her, and she cried like a newborn, every vestige of self-control gone with the first sob.
Nelda knew that Lute’s eyes were on her back as sobs wrenched her body. His arms reached for her, turned her around, and pulled her up against him. Cradling her head with one large hand, he wrapped his arms around her. She nestled against him, her wet face pressed into the curve of his neck. The haven of his arms was a wonderful, safe cocoon, and minutes passed while he held her.
“Shhhh . . . shhhh—” he crooned softly. “Don’t cry, honey. Kelly will be all right.” He pushed his fingers through the riotous curls on the back of her head.
He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply the scent of her shampoo. He stroked her body from shoulder to behind, feeling each vertebra along her spine. She inhaled the male scent of him and tasted
the salt of her own tears. It had been so long . . . so damned long.
the salt of her own tears. It had been so long . . . so damned long.
Her sobs subsided, reason returned, and she tried to pull away, but his arms held her tightly. Embarrassment and shame at her loss of control almost started the tears again. She tried to turn her head so that he couldn’t see her blotchy, wet face, but it wasn’t to be. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward him.
“Please don’t look at me. I’m so ashamed.” She felt a tear escape over her lower lid and roll down her cheek.
“Is it Kelly? Gary said he’d be all right.” Lute’s face was as concerned as his voice.
“I don’t know what got into me. It was just . . . a lot of things coming all at once. I . . . was taking my clothes off the line . . . and then . . . Kelly—” Her throat hurt with the effort to control her voice.
“Is that all?” Lute laughed. She felt the movement of his chest against her breast. His voice was deep, humoring her.
His face was close, so terribly close that it was difficult to think of something to say. His blue eyes, half-shut, were within inches of her own, and his mouth, that firm-lipped mouth, was so near hers she could feel his breath on her lips.
Oh, Lord, I wish he’d kiss me . . . just once
. The thought raced repeatedly through her mind. His lips open, he seemed to hesitate, then he smiled.
Oh, Lord, I wish he’d kiss me . . . just once
. The thought raced repeatedly through her mind. His lips open, he seemed to hesitate, then he smiled.
“Go wash your face. You’d scare even Kelly if he woke up.” There was a huskiness to his tone, and he dropped his arms and gave her a gentle push
toward the bathroom. “When did you eat last?” His voice trailed her to the lavatory through the open door.
toward the bathroom. “When did you eat last?” His voice trailed her to the lavatory through the open door.
“This morning, I think.” She was hurrying to wash her face, irrationally afraid he might vanish if she was gone too long.
“You think?” He was filling the glasses with soda when she came out of the bathroom. Her eyes clung to the ring on his finger . . . her ring. He handed her a glass, picked up his own, and took a long swallow, poured in more cola, then returned the bottle to the refrigerator. “Drink your soda. It’ll help to get some sugar into you. Then we’ll go bring in your clothes.”
Nelda’s heart lurched. Lute’s face wavered in her vision. She felt precariously poised in a vacuum of weakness, lost in a fantasy that couldn’t possibly be happening. She followed him to the back porch, where he reached up and flipped a switch. A light on a pole lit the yard from the house to the barn.
“I didn’t know about that light.”
“I put it in when I was filling the corncrib. It’s darker than the bottom of a well out here at night.” He turned to look down at her. “Did Hutchinson tell you that I rent the land?”
“Yes, he told me.” She didn’t say that the lawyer hadn’t told her until she asked.
Nelda hurried to the end of the line that held her panties and bras.
“I’m starting at this end,” Lute teased. “You get the sheets and towels.”
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Nelda went down the line removing her intimate
garments as fast as she could and dropping them in the basket. Lute folded the two sets of sheets, neatly and swiftly and carried the basket to the porch while she carried the clothespin bag.
garments as fast as she could and dropping them in the basket. Lute folded the two sets of sheets, neatly and swiftly and carried the basket to the porch while she carried the clothespin bag.
“Put away your wash. I’ll make gravy to go with that roast. I’m starving.”
“Gravy?” she repeated incredulously. “I haven’t had roast gravy since Grandma used to make it.”
“Well, you’re back now, and you’ll have some. I’m a darn good cook, even if I do say so. Get moving, or I’ll eat without you.” It was the teasing, scolding tone he’d used long ago when he’d said, “Come on, slowpoke, we’ll be late for school.”
Nelda took a few sips of soda and hurried up the stairs with the clothes basket. The breeze coming in her bedroom windows cooled her hot face. She put the sheets and pillowcases in the chest in the hall, her underwear in her bureau drawers. Happiness played in her heart like a concerto.
She went back downstairs and stood silently in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Lute. He had lifted the meat onto a platter and placed a carving knife beside it. Now with sure, economical movements he was vigorously stirring the bubbling liquid in the roasting pan. She admired his efficiency—and the way his slim hips swiveled slightly as he stirred.
“I couldn’t find the cornstarch, so I used flour,” he said without turning around. She jumped, feeling every inch a spy at her own door, but he continued speaking conversationally as she entered the room. “Sometimes I get lumpy gravy with flour, never with cornstarch. Find me a bowl to put this in, and stick
some bread into the toaster, and set out the butter. I hate to spread hard butter.”
some bread into the toaster, and set out the butter. I hate to spread hard butter.”
Nelda went to check that Kelly was still sleeping before she sat down across the table from Lute. She was still amazed that he was really here. His hair was damp and combed. He must have done that while she was putting away the clothes. He pulled her plate toward him and filled it at the same time he filled his own; a potato, a slice of buttered toast, then an abundant layer of sliced beef topped with a ladle of streaming gravy.
“Try that. That’s a Hanson special.”
“Looks good.” Nelda laughed. It was really more like a giggle. “Maybe you should open up your own place and run the cafe uptown out of business.”
“Not a bad idea.” He got up between forkfuls and slipped two more slices of bread into the toaster.
She wanted to know so much about him but was afraid to ask, afraid he would go all icy as he had at the cemetery.
“This is good,” she complimented honestly. “I’ve never bought cornstarch. Is it just to make gravy?”
“You can use it for lots of things. White sauce, puddings, chafing—”
“Chafing?”
“In the place of talcum powder.”
“Well, thank you, Betty Crocker. Where did you pick up all this valuable information?”
“4-H.” When he grinned, her heart did a rapid flip-flop. “I was a leader for a couple of years. Even the boys learn to cook these days, so I learned right along with the kids and we picked up a few blue
ribbons at the fair.” The bread popped up, and he stood to pluck it from the toaster. Holding a slice out to her, he asked, “More?”
ribbons at the fair.” The bread popped up, and he stood to pluck it from the toaster. Holding a slice out to her, he asked, “More?”
“I believe I will,” she responded, surprised at her own appetite.
“Good. Hand me your plate and put more toast in for me. I’ve just gotten started.”
“I saw Linda Sharp the other day. She’s Linda Branson now. She was the best student in my homemaking class.”
“I can understand that. She did most of the cooking at home—plus taking care of her brother and sister.”
“Do you know her husband?”
“He’s a mechanic at the garage . . . when he isn’t drinking in one of the joints.”
“Poor Linda. I remember her going to the Town Pump after school to see if her mother was there.”
“There isn’t anything wrong with going to the Town Pump if you know when to leave. Linda’s folks spent more money on booze than they did on groceries.”
The conversation between them was impersonal and nonstop. Nelda finally got up the courage to risk a direct question.
“How many acres do you farm, Lute?” She quaked inwardly; it was her first inquiry about his personal life.
“A section, not counting yours. I also own the sale barn.” He smiled an endearing smile that lifted the corners of his mouth and spread a warm light into his eyes.
“Do you have help?”
“I have a hired man who lives with his family in our tenant house—and other help. Wouldn’t the captain be surprised to know that I didn’t end up in the gutter after all?” Although he was smiling when he started to speak, by the time he finished, the warmth in his eyes was replaced by a steely cold gleam.
Nelda hesitated. If she answered his jibe she would have to say that, yes, her father would be surprised. She could remember with clarity his words regarding Lute:
You’ve not got a pot to piss in, nor has your old man. All he knows how to do is scratch in the dirt out on that hardscrabble farm his daddy left him
. How galling it must have been for Lute!
You’ve not got a pot to piss in, nor has your old man. All he knows how to do is scratch in the dirt out on that hardscrabble farm his daddy left him
. How galling it must have been for Lute!
Lute gave her a sharp glance, and then lowered his eyes to his plate.
I never thought my daughter would stoop so low as to get herself knocked up by a rutting, wet-eared, hog-slopping hayseed
. The humiliating words her father uttered that day that would stay with him forever.
I never thought my daughter would stoop so low as to get herself knocked up by a rutting, wet-eared, hog-slopping hayseed
. The humiliating words her father uttered that day that would stay with him forever.
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