Mayday (19 page)

“Don't mind me,” Constance said, heading for the door. “I'm leaving. Have fun, kids.”

Wes gazed at Helen expectantly, and she couldn't resist him. Not the boyish charm, not the glint of mischief in his eyes. Not any part of him. She loved it all.

She reached out with both hands, grabbing him by the nape of his neck and dragging his head to hers. Their lips mashed together so hard she felt their teeth scraping. She didn't give a fuck. She needed him now, while she could still have him.

With a soothing murmur, he gentled the kiss. His mouth wooed hers, clung to it with sweet suction. His tongue explored her mouth, stroking with care. By the time he finally lifted his head, she was clutching him close and dizzy with pleasure.

He brushed his lips against hers one last time. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with heated intent. “I have to go oversee the crowning of the May King and Queen,” he said, his voice rough. “And, unfortunately, participate in the damn event too. Are you coming?”

“Soon,” she said. “Once I finish lunch.”

“Good. If I have to be put on display as one of the nominees, I want to make sure I have something pretty to look at.” He traced her cheek lightly with his forefinger.

She snorted. “I believe the May Queen nominees would serve that purpose.”

“Not for me,” he said, and rose to his feet. “Come as soon as you can. I missed you while you were dealing with the May Day crafts.”

A weak smile was all she could manage in response. He paused halfway to the door, eyeing her closely. A line appeared between his dark brows, as if he'd seen something on her face that concerned him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Just a little headache. I'll be fine once I've eaten and rested a few minutes.” It was a lie. But she didn't want to explain the conclusion she'd reached after seeing the basket and reading his poem. Not yet, anyway.

He came back and kissed her on her forehead. “Take your time, then. Do you need anything?”

She tried another smile, a more convincing one this time. “No, but thank you.”

When he finally left, she held herself perfectly still and stared at the basket. Clearly, she'd miscalculated. Her heart wouldn't last six more months. Hell, it wouldn't last six more days. She needed to get the fuck out of his life as soon as possible. Otherwise, she'd find herself clinging to a man who'd come to his senses and didn't want her anymore. Or, best case scenario, a man who was moving too far away for a real relationship. One who planned to keep moving for the foreseeable future.

He needed her now. But once May Day ended and Bea extended him an official offer, he'd get along fine without her. So that's when she'd do it. That's when she'd say good-bye.

They had one more day together. Maybe two. She'd support him as much as possible, make sure he got proper credit for his work from Bea and the Niceville community. She'd spend the night with him, because she wanted him so badly. She'd hoard each moment in his presence like a miser.

Then she'd let him go, for the sake of her foolish, fragile heart.

H
elen looked worried.

Not all the time. When she spoke with the other volunteers or greeted crowds of locals and tourists, she did so with a smile. When she watched the master of ceremonies offer faux-golden crowns to Wes and a local news anchor in honor of their designation as May King and Queen, she applauded along with the rest of the audience. When he made a fool of himself with the other Morris dancers, prancing around in ribbons and bells and knocking big sticks together in time with the music, she laughed just as hard as he'd intended.

Anytime she knew someone was watching her, she appeared calm. Happy. But then, when she thought she was unobserved, her sweet smile faded, those soft shoulders tensed, and she wrapped her arms around her middle as if trying to hold herself together.

He shook his head with a wry smile. Helen apparently hadn't yet realized that he was almost always watching her. Not because he didn't trust her. Not because he wanted to act like a creepy stalker boyfriend. Because he simply couldn't help himself. If he knew she was nearby, he orbited her like a cold, dark planet around the sun.

During his rare free moments that afternoon, he'd tried to probe discreetly for the source of her anxiety. According to her, her hand and arms didn't hurt. She wasn't tired. She didn't need a break from the hard work of making sure the May Day events ran smoothly. She was fine. Totally and utterly fine. And each time he'd questioned that claim of fineness, she'd thanked him for his concern with a brief kiss and shooed him away, telling him they both had work to do.

Three possible sources of her distress came to mind. Either their conversation with his parents was still bothering her, she was regretting her promise to spend the night with him, or she was concerned about the protest occurring on the outskirts of the square.

At the moment, he couldn't do much about those first two possibilities. But if the protest was bothering her, he could take care of it. Right now. Especially since it was bothering him too, and he could see Bea glancing that way every so often.

Setting his plastic crown in a hidden spot near the wooden platform, he strode over to the edge of the square. A dozen or so people were toting signs and marching in a ragged circle, led by Frank Skagway. The man wore his usual flannel shirt and down vest, and he was chanting with as much enthusiasm as he had last night. His carefully lettered sign urged onlookers to B
EWARE THE
P
ENILE
M
ENACE
.

Before approaching him, Wes took a minute to think. Apart from the removal of all phallic and vaginal objects from the May Day celebrations, what did Frank want?
Really
want?

To this point, Wes had only thought of the man as an obstacle, something blocking Wes from his goals. Someone to be ignored or outmaneuvered, depending on the situation. But Wes hadn't become mayor by treating his constituents that way, and he certainly hadn't persuaded the City Council to back his agenda by treating his opponents as mere obstacles. No, he'd tried to understand their perspectives, no matter how seemingly ridiculous. He'd tried to see beyond their words to their real desires and fears. Then he'd done his best to address their needs in a productive way, for the good of everyone.

Why hadn't he done that with Frank before now? Had he let the personal and professional importance of this weekend distract him? Had his preoccupation with Helen made him forget the lessons he'd learned over the past three years?

With new determination, he intercepted Frank near a booth selling cookies. “Mr. Skagway, do you have time to meet with me for a minute?”

The older man narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he passed his sign to another protester and followed Wes to a quiet corner of the square. When they reached a private spot, Frank planted his feet in the grass and gave Wes a challenging look.

Wes searched for the right words. “I know you're concerned about the May Day celebrations. Specifically, how certain traditional May Day customs may seem sexual.”

“I'm not stupid,” Frank said. “I know the history of these celebrations. Whether you and your volunteers admit it or not, that Maypole
is
a penis. Kind of a short one, to be honest, but a penis nonetheless.”

Wes fought the urge to defend the Maypole's manhood. “I don't necessarily agree with you. But even if I did, I'm not sure why the idea upsets you so much. Can you explain it to me?”

“I'm trying to save this town.” Frank braced his fists on his hips. “I've read my history. I know that sexual excess weakens a civilization's moral fiber. Look at ancient Rome. Do you want this city to fall? Do you want
barbarians
”—he pointed at the clusters of tourists standing near the band—“taking us over? Sullying our town's history?”

“But if we don't get more tourists here, our town will fall anyway,” Wes said. “We need people to visit here. Spend money here. Move here. If they don't, our city will die, no matter how sturdy our moral fiber is.”

“This sort of event isn't the right way to save our city,” Frank declared. “We don't need to celebrate sexual holidays to attract tourism. With your background, you may not know better, but I do.”

A deep breath helped calm Wes's instinctive need to justify himself and his past. “Okay. So if May Day isn't a good holiday for Niceville to celebrate, what would be?”

Frank's brow furrowed. “Fourth of July.”

“Phallic rockets.”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Turkey holes getting stuffed.”

Frank huffed out a breath. “Valentine's Day.”

“Arrows penetrating into people and making them fall in love?” Wes raised his brows. “Really?”

“Christmas,” Frank said, sounding increasingly desperate.

“A man sliding down a chimney and filling stockings,” Wes said.

Frank gave a reluctant bark of laughter and sat down on a nearby bench. “You've made your point, Mayor.”

Sitting next to the older man, Wes kept his voice gentle. “Here's the thing, Mr. Skagway. I understand that you don't want our town to become overly sexual. But my volunteers and I haven't mentioned penises or vaginas once. If townspeople or tourists have heard either word, they didn't hear it from us.”

He waited patiently, hoping Frank would draw the obvious conclusion.

“They heard it from me,” the man admitted with a sigh.

“We need to hold events like this in our city,” Wes said. “Not only to attract tourist dollars, but also to unite as a community. To remind ourselves that we share a common goal: making our city the best place it can be, for ourselves and our children. And pretty much any reason for a celebration will have elements that can seem sexual.”

Frank slanted him a skeptical look. “May Day more than most.”

“True,” Wes said. “I'm not denying that. But let's see how the weekend turns out. If it ends in a sexual free-for-all, I'll discourage the city from holding another May Day celebration. And I invite you to participate in the planning of all future events to make sure we're staying on the right track. I may not agree with everything you believe, but I value your opinion. I want to hear it.”

The two men sat in silence for a minute.

“I'm sorry I brought up your personal history in the newspaper column. That wasn't fair,” Frank said.

Wes shrugged. “If I took that sort of thing personally, I wouldn't have run for mayor. It comes with the job.”

The other man rose to his feet. “I'll call off the protest.”

“No need.” Wes got up too. “You have the right to protest. You're on public property.”

“Nah. I'll read about the rest of the celebration in the newspaper tomorrow. There'll be plenty of time to protest afterward, if necessary.” The man held out his hand. “Thanks for talking to me, Mayor. I appreciate it.”

Wes shook it. “You're welcome. I'm just sorry I didn't do it earlier.”

Frank's quick strides took him to the remaining protestors. The group huddled in a mass as their leader spoke to them. Then they gathered up their signs and supplies and headed for the parking lot. On his way out, Frank sketched Wes a quick salute and disappeared behind some bushes.

None too soon, either. Wes had a distinct feeling that after nightfall, the celebration might become significantly more packed with sexual innuendo. Especially since he knew Angie was attending. All of his sincere reassurances to Mr. Skagway notwithstanding, he'd rather not have the man present for any objectionable comments or actions. No need to borrow trouble, after all.

His scan of the crowd in the gathering darkness revealed Helen looking his way, her face creased with worry. He gave her a quick wave and headed in her direction. Before he got too far, though, a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

“I wanted to say good night,” Bea said. “I have some calls to make, so I'm heading back to my brother's house. But I'll be in touch tomorrow one way or another.”

Try as he might, he couldn't read her expression. “Were you listening to my conversation with Mr. Skagway?”

“Yes,” she said. And then, without elaborating, she left.

The opacity of her response probably should have worried him. It didn't, though. Instead, he felt like another weight had lifted from his shoulders when she departed. Other than making sure the rest of the evening ran smoothly, he couldn't do anything more to change Bea's opinion of him now. That meant he could focus his entire attention on the two most important things in his life: his city and his woman.

He set a course for Helen. If she was willing, it was time to start preparing her for Step Four in his Make Up for Previous Sucky Bedtime Performance Plan. And—with apologies to Mr. Skagway—he knew just the thing to set the mood: crowning a wooden penis with a flower vagina. He could hardly wait.

 

An hour later, all the worry had melted from Helen's face. Her dimples reappeared when the volunteers lit the bonfire, and she was giggling by the time Penny climbed on her fiancé's shoulders and placed the garland of flowers on top of the Maypole. Probably because, no matter how much Grant tried to dissuade her, Angie kept whispering, “Drop that pussy!” into Helen's ear.

Jack, Penny's fiancé, kept a firm grip on the slim librarian's feet as she straightened the circle of flowers. After a satisfied nod at a job well done, Penny let herself fall into his arms. He dipped his head and whispered something into her ear. The arm she'd wound around his neck drew his mouth to hers, and they exchanged a slow, heated kiss. Then, without a single glance at anyone other than the woman cradled to his chest, Jack carried Penny off to the parking lot amid cheers and hollered encouragement from the crowd.

“Horny hermits,” Angie muttered. “Couldn't even stay for the dancing.”

Helen giggled again, and Wes couldn't help smiling in response.

Pride swelled his chest as he looked at the garland-topped Maypole. It might have been short, but it was still impressive. The spotlight cast a soft glow over the sanded wood of the cherry tree trunk and made the silky ribbons shine bright. Those ribbons hung almost to the ground, creating vivid stripes of green, yellow, pink, blue, and white against the dark sky. Members of the orchestra that had been entertaining the crowd for an hour or so sat in chairs on and around the nearby platform, waiting to perform a special piece for the dancing.

Everything was ready. It was time to begin.

Wes turned to Helen and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Baby, I've got to make the announcement. Be right back.”

Climbing up onto the wooden platform, he grabbed a microphone. “If we picked your raffle number, please proceed to the Maypole. It's time for the dancing to begin!”

A quick jump brought him back down to Helen's side. “Let's go. I want to get a ribbon next to yours.”

Her brown eyes got big. “But I didn't enter the raffle.”

“May King's prerogative. I have to participate, and I get to choose my partner.” He held out his hand. “I choose you. Always.”

That smile he loved returned to her face, although it seemed oddly shadowed. Sad, almost. “After such a charming invitation, how can I refuse?” she said.

She took his hand and followed him to the Maypole, the crowd surging behind them.

He'd never seen so many people packed into Central Square. Families with small children had left around sundown, but the number of adult spectators had only swelled during the course of the evening. And as more and more people filled the square, all his worries about the effects of Frank Skagway's protest and proposed boycott faded away. In fact, from what he was hearing, Frank had proven the old adage true: There was no such thing as bad publicity.

“I want to see the penis pole,” one thirty-something woman confessed to the people near her.

“No joke,” her friend replied. “Discounted vibrators be damned. I came here to see people dancing around an enormous cock. Even though I'm not usually into that kind of thing.”

Wes took a quick look at the owner of that familiar voice. “Hi, Tasha,” he called as he walked past.

“Fine work you're doing, Mayor,” she called back.

“Arrrrr, that mast be firm and mighty, like a pirate's manhood,” a man with an eye patch said to Helen as she passed by him. “Mayhap I'll find a lassie willing to shiver
my
timber tonight!”

“Hey, Clarence! Good luck!” Helen waved at the thin man, and he grinned in reply.

Finally, Wes had a face to put next to the name so often featured in Helen's stories. Pretend Pirate Clarence, scourge of the seven seas and aficionado of swashbuckling erotica. Part of Wes—the morbidly curious bit—wanted to stop and talk to the man, but there was no time. He and Helen needed to get the dancing started.