Hummingbird (47 page)

And suddenly he knew it could not possibly be any other way.

She swung around and he surprised her hand by capturing it in mid-air. For a moment the words stuck in his timid throat. The sawdust drifted around them like summer snow, settling here and there on their shoulders. It was silent and wood-scented and private. And he loved her very much.

"Abigail…"he said, then swallowed.

"Yes, David?"

"Abigail, may I… k… kiss you?" He had made so many blunders with her already that he thought it best to ask first.

She wished he had not asked. Jesse would not have asked. Afraid David might have read the unwanted thought, she lowered her lashes. Instead, he took it for her demure refusal and dropped her hand.

"I'm sorry…"he began.

Her eyes flew back up. "How can you be sorry?" she asked quickly. "You haven't done anything." It was unreasonable for her to feel piqued when all he meant to do was be polite, but enough was enough!

"I… do… don't…" he stammered, but her reply had confused him so, he didn't know what to do.

"Yes, you may kiss me, David."

But by now the situation had lost the grace that a spontaneous kiss would have lent. In spite of this, he took both of her hands and leaned toward her. There was a short piece of planking between their feet, but rather than move around it or step over it to take her in his arms, he leaned over the barrier and, with closed eyes, gently placed his lips over hers.

He had fine, soft, warm, shapely lips. And she thought, what a shame he does not know how to use them.

He laid them over hers for a wasting flight of seconds while Abigail felt absolutely nothing. The talk about how they should display the shoes had excited her more than his kiss. He straightened then and remained perfectly silent, as silent as his kiss had been. She gazed down at the sawdust beneath their feet, at the plank which separated them, thinking it might as well have been between their torsos as well as there on the floor for all the contact there'd been during that kiss. A kiss of the lips only, she determined, was a decidedly unsatisfying thing. So she raised her lips to David's again and dared to put her hand behind his neck for a brief moment. But the kiss was brief, and immediately afterward David said the appropriate thing.

"Shall we go?"

She wanted to say, "No, let's try that again without the plank between us. Let's try that again with a little tongue." But he finally came around the plank and took her elbow, leading her toward the nonexistent door. She could tell, though, that the kiss had flustered him, for he talked nervously all the way home, about how she was right and he'd immediately put in an order for boots so they would arrive in time for the planned October opening, about how there might even be snow by then and he'd better get his wood stacked in the back, and how they would plan a special announcement in the paper, even though everyone in town knew the store would open and when.

He refused to stay for supper, which he'd done quite often recently—indeed, suppers together had become the rule rather than the exception—but collected his materials and left, insisting that he'd better get started putting the order on paper.

That night she tried to analyze her feelings toward David Melcher, to sort out her reasons for encouraging him as she had today. By now she was sure that she was not pregnant, so the biggest potential obstacle to their relationship had been removed. Oddly enough, the overwhelming guilt she had once felt no longer riddled her. She had performed an immoral act, but she did not think she had to pay for it for the rest of her life. She did deserve some happiness, and if David Melcher offered it to her, she no longer believed she'd be deceiving him to take him up on it.

No, her problem with David was no longer a problem of morality, it was one of sexuality. She simply was not stimulated by him. She tried not to think of Jesse… oh, she really, really tried. But it did not work. Being kissed as she had been by David, it was impossible not to contrast his kisses with that of the practiced, the fiery, the tempting Jesse. Vivid memories came flooding back until they swept everything from her mind except her intimate knowledge of him. She knew every part of his body as well as she did her own, and it no longer seemed shameful to admit it. She thought of each part of it, wondering if the importance of sexual attraction would wane in time if she married David. Ah, but David had not asked her. Ah, but David would. It would take a little more time, but she was sure he would. And when he did, what would she say? No—I won't marry you because you don't make my blood run high like Jesse? Or yes—because in every other way we are compatible. She thought, as she lay awake into the wee hours, that if she could entice David into displaying more ardor, she might at least have a larger basis of comparison between him and Jesse DuFrayne.

The following evening David accepted her invitation to supper. It was a pleasant meal, shared at her kitchen table in the familiar way they had so often shared such meals. Over coffee, David was hugely complimentary, as he always was.

"What a delicious meal. Everything you make is always delicious. It warms more than a man's stomach."

If she was going to contrast the two men, then let her do it truthfully, and garner for herself an honest choice about them. She let the voice of Jesse echo back, with its infernal teasing, which at the time had so galled her but which now only tempted. "And what are you planning to poison me with this time, Abbie?"

She was unaware of the lingering smile the memory brought to her lips.

"Did I say something funny?" David asked, noting it.

"What?" She brought herself back to the present—regretfully.

"You were laughing just then. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't laughing."

"Well, your shoulders were moving as if you were laughing inside."

She shook her head. "It was nothing. I'm just glad you enjoyed your supper."

Her answer appeased him. He pushed his chair back from the table, suggesting, "I thought maybe we'd read some of your sonnets after supper. That's all it would take to make the evening perfect."

Why all of a sudden did sonnets sound as dry as his kisses had been?

"You always say the nicest things," she said to atone for the errant thought. I really must be more fair to him, she promised herself, for it was not he who had changed. It was she.

They read sonnets, he sitting on the settee and she sitting on a stiff side chair. The lamps were lit, they had nothing to do but enjoy the verses together. But he sensed an impatience, almost a relief, in her when they finally put the book aside. He puzzled once again at the change he sometimes sensed in her, a restlessness that continued to intrude upon the tranquility he loved and sought.

He kissed her good night. A chaste kiss, David thought. A dry kiss, Abbie thought.

Several days later they sat on the swing in the early evening.

September was upon them, the hint of winter not far behind it.

"Something has been… bo… bothering you, has… hasn't it?"

"Bothering me?" But her tone was sharp. She was working on the strips for the rugs, and her hands tore and rolled the rags almost frantically.

"I can tell that I displease you, but Id… don't know what it is that br… brings it on."

"Don't be silly, David," she said reprovingly. "You don't displease me at all. Quite the contrary."

She ripped a long strip of the cloth, her eyes never leaving it, and the harsh sound scraped on his nerves.

He wished that she would stop the rag work while they talked.

"There's no need for you to…'t… try to be kind by disguising it. I would only like't… to know what it is that bothers you."

"Nothing, I said!" Her hands were a blur, winding the strips up into a ball. How could she say that everyone in town was expecting the two of them to get married and that she'd give anything if only he would ask her, yet feared more each day that he would? Just how could she explain such a confusion of thoughts to him when she couldn't straighten it out for herself.

Quietly he reached out to lay a hand over hers, which were furiously rolling those rag strips into a tight, tight ball.

"Whatever it is that you call nothing is a very large lump of something. Much larger than I thought. You're winding those rags like you wish they were choking somebody. Is it me?"

She dropped the rag ball into her lap and her forehead onto the heel of her hand, but said not one word.

He sat staring down at the tattered red threads that lay all over her lap like a web. "It started that d…

day I asked if I could k… k… kiss you. I could tell you were disgusted w… with me. Is that it, Abigail?

Are you angry b… because Ik… kissed you?"

She tapped her fingers against her forehead and looked at her lap, not knowing what to say. She didn't know if she wanted him to pursue this subject or not. How could she tell after those two lackluster kisses?

"Oh, David…" She sighed heavily and looked away, across the yard.

"What is it? What have I done?" he asked pleadingly.

"You haven't done anything," she said, now wishing fervently that he would so she could know once and for all what she felt for him.

"Abigail, when I first came here I sensed a… a rapport between us. I thought you felt it too. I thought how we were the same k… kind of people, but… well, since I've been back you seem d… different."

It was time she admitted the truth.

"I am," she said tiredly.

"How?" he braved.

The tiredness left her and she jumped to her feet, snapping in irritation, "I don't like sonnets anymore."

The rag ball rolled onto the porch floor, untwining, but she paid it not the scantest attention. She crossed her arms over her ribs and left him to contemplate her erect shoulder blades.

He sat staring at them, thoroughly befuddled. In a moment she entered the parlor; slamming the screen door shut behind her He remained on the swing for some time, wondering just what she wanted out of him, wondering what sonnets had to do with anything. Finally he sighed, rose, and limped to the door He opened it quietly and entered to find her standing before the monstrous throne-shaped umbrella stand, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. As he watched she did a most curious thing. She raised a hand and pressed the backs of her fingers upward against the skin on her jaw, studying the movement in the glass.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She did not answer immediately, but continued pressing her chin. At last she dropped the hand as if she were very weary, then turned to him with a sad expression on her face, and answered almost dolefully,

"Wishing you might kiss me again."

His lips opened slightly and she could almost see his thoughts drift across his transparent face: he'd been worried for so long that he'd gone too far, kissing her in the store that day. He was relieved yet timid, perhaps a tiny bit shocked that she should ask him. But at last he moved toward her, and she read one last look in his face—awe that she should really, really want him.

This time there was no plank between them, but when he kissed her he still held her undemandingly, fragilely. It was like before, only worse, because now, without hindrance, he could have pulled her flush against him, but he didn't. He held her instead in a wan imitation of an embrace, afraid to believe his lips were on hers at last, and with her full consent.

Suddenly she needed to know about David Melcher, about herself. She lifted her arms and they swirled onto his shoulders as she raised up on tiptoe and offered her lips to him with feigned passion. She pressed her breasts against his vested chest, but rather than accepting her invitation he sucked in his breath, taking himself away from the touch of her, afraid the contact was too intimate yet.

"Abigail, I've thought about this for so long," he said, looking into her eyes. "I thought about you and the house and the store and everything, and it just seemed too good to be true to think that you might feel the same about me as I do about you."

"How do you feel, David?" she asked, trying to force the words from him.

He released her fully, properly, stepping back and holding her only by her upper arms. "I want to marry you and live here in this house and work in the store with you by my side."

She had the sinking feeling that he desired all three equally. She had the even more sinking feeling that she did, too.

"I love you," he said then, and added, "I guess I should have said that first."

What could she say to that? Yes, you should have? Tell me again and kiss me and pull me against you and touch my body here and here and inspire me to love you also? Touch my skin, touch my hair, touch my heart and make it race and touch my breast and make my blood pound and touch me beneath my skirt and show me you're as good at it as another man was before you?

But the cool fact was, none of these things happened. He did not kiss her passionately or pull her against him or touch her hair or heart or breast or any other part of her as Jesse had done. Instead, he drew back, gave her shoulders a loving squeeze, controlling all his body's urges with a will that she suddenly detested. He waited for her reply. She moved to him and kissed him, allowing her lips to grow lax, to be opened by his tongue should he choose. But his soft lips remained together, guarded by discretion.

But discretion was the last thing she yearned for. She longed to be reduced—no, heightened—by the ecstasy she knew could sluice through her body should he wield it in just the right way.

But standing in David's hands she thought, He's not Jesse. He'll never be Jesse.

But might that not cease to matter? Here he was, offering her safe keeping for life. One did not decline an offer of marriage simply because of the way a man kissed or didn't kiss. She ought to be flattered by his courtliness, not be insulted by it. But Jesse had managed to change her sense of values somewhere along the line.

"There's time enough for you to decide," David was saying. "You don't have to answer me tonight. After all, I know this is a bit sudden."

She had the awful urge to laugh aloud. She had known him over three months and her blouse buttons had never touched his vest, yet he thought his chaste kiss and this invitation sudden.