Morning Glory (30 page)

Her heart beat like the wings of an eagle, taking her soaring as she spoke the words. “I love you, Will Parker.”

The sting hit his eyelids and he hung his head because nobody had prepared him for this, nobody had said, When it happens you’ll be resurrected. All that you were you will not
be. All that you weren’t, you are. He lunged against her, burying his face above her breasts, holding fast. “Oh, God,...” he groaned. “Oh, God.”

She held his head as if he were a child awakening from a bad dream.

“I love you,” she whispered against his hair, feeling her own tears build.

“Oh, Elly, I love you, too,” he uttered in a broken voice, “but I was so afraid nobody could love me. I thought maybe I was unlovable.”

“Oh no, Will... no... not you.” His bittersweet words filled her with the deep wish to heal, left her throat aching as she curled around him, held his head protectively and felt him breathe against her breasts. She threaded her hands through his hair and felt him grow still with pleasure. She raked her nails over his skull in long, slow sweeps... time... and time... and time again, lifting his scent, memorizing it, impressing it forever in her senses. His hair was thick, coarse, the color of dry grass. It had grown since she’d cut it, become shaggy at the neck where she brushed it up from his nape, then smoothed it before beginning another long, sensuous stroke at the crown of his head. He shivered and made a sound of gratification, deep in his throat.

His whole life he’d longed for someone to touch him this way, to touch the boy in him as well as the man, to soothe, reassure. The feel of her fingers in his hair brought back a measure of all he’d missed. He was parched earth, she fresh rain. He a waiting vessel, she rich wine. And in those moments of closeness she filled him, filled all the lacks endowed him by his shiftless, loner’s life, becoming at once all the things he’d needed—mother, father, friend, wife, and lover.

When he felt sated he lifted his head as if drunk with pleasure.

“I used to watch you touch the boys that way. I wanted to say, Touch me, too, like you touch them. Nobody ever did that to me before, Elly.”

“I’ll do it anytime you like. Wash your hair, comb it, rub your back, hold your hand—”

His mouth stopped her words. It seemed risky to accept too
much in this first, grand rush. He kissed her with gratitude changing swiftly to the lushness of fresh-sprung love. He braced higher and pushed her softly into the pillow, letting his hand rove over her neck and shoulder, suckling her mouth, spreading his fingers on her face, resting a thumb so near it almost became part of the kiss. His body beckoned to join more fully in this union. Realizing this was impossible, he broke the kiss but spanned her throat with his hand. Her pulsebeat matched the quickness of his own.

“You know how long I’ve loved you?”

“How long?”

“Since the day you threw the egg at me.”

“All that time and you never said anything. Oh, Will...”

A swift slew of possessiveness hit him. He claimed her mouth again, washing its interior with his tongue, holding her arms locked hard around his neck. He bit her lips. She bit back. He lifted a knee and pressed it high and hard between her legs. She opened them and squeezed his thigh. He circled her immense waist and held her as if forever.

“Tell me again,” he demanded insatiably.

“What?” she teased.

“You know. Tell me.”

“I love you.”

“Once more. I got to hear it more.”

“I love you.”

“Will you get tired of me asking you to say it?”

“You won’t have to ask.”

“Neither will you. I love you.” Another kiss—a hard, short stamp of possession, then a question filled with boyish impatience. “When did you know?”

“I don’t know. It just came upon me.”

“When we got married?”

“No.”

“When we bottled the honey?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, sure’s heck not when you threw that egg.”

She chuckled. “But I noticed your bare chest for the first time that day and I liked it.”

“My chest?”

“Aha.”

“You liked my chest before you liked me?”

“When you were washing, down by the well.”

“Touch it.” Jubilantly he flattened her hand against it. “Touch me anyplace. God, do you know how long it’s been since a woman touched me?”

“Will...” she chided timidly.

“Are you shy? Don’t be shy. I thought I was, too, but all of a sudden it seems like we got so much time to make up for. Touch me. No, wait. Get up. First I gotta see you.” He piled onto his knees and pulled her up to kneel before him, holding her hands out from her sides. “Mercy, are you a pretty sight. Let me look at you.” Her chin dropped shyly and he lifted it, pressed the tousled hair back from her temples, then fluffed it with his fingertips and arranged it on her collarbones. “You mean I don’t have to sneak anymore when I want to look at you? You got the greenest eyes. Green is my favorite color, but you knew that.”

She folded her hands between her knees, quite overcome by this exuberant, demonstrative Will.

“I used to think if I was ever lucky enough to have a woman of my own, she’d have to have green eyes. Now here you are. You and your green eyes... and your pink cheeks... and your pretty little mouth...” With his thumbs he touched its corners and let his hands trail down to her shoulders, to her upper arms where they stopped. “Elly,” he whispered, “don’t move.” He slipped his palms to the sides of her breasts and held them lightly while the blood rushed to her cheeks and she searched for a safe place to rest her gaze. The dim light shifted on the folds of her nightgown as he cupped a breast in each hand, his palms too narrow to contain their prenatal fullness. Gently, he reshaped and lifted, then released them to glide one hand down the fullest part of her belly. There it rested, fingers splayed. He watched the hand, soon joined by the other to smooth the cloth toward her hips where he held it taut, disclosing the impression of her distended navel. Bending, he kissed her. There. On the stomach she’d thought ugly enough to put him off.

“Will.” She found his chin and attempted to lift it. “I’m fat as a pumpkin. How can you kiss me there?”

He straightened. “You’re not fat, you’re only pregnant. And if I’m going to deliver that baby I’d better get to know him.”

“I thought I married a shy, quiet man.”

“I thought so too.”

He smiled for the length of three glad heartbeats, then laughed. And wondered if life would ever again be this good. And decided surely tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow it could only get better.

He was right. He’d never imagined happiness such as he knew in the days and nights that followed. To roll over in sleep and draw her back against him and drift off again in a cocoon of bliss. Or better yet, to roll the other way and feel her follow, then press close behind him. To feel her hand circle his waist, her feet beneath his, her breath on his back. To awaken and find her lying with an elbow beneath her cheek, studying him. To kiss her then in the buttery light of early morning and know that he could do so anytime. To leave her with a goodbye kiss and return anxious. To step into the kitchen and find her working at the sink, glancing shyly over her shoulder then down at her hands until he crossed the room and slipped both hands into her apron pockets and rested his chin on her shoulder. To kiss—over her shoulder—awaiting the exquisite moment when she’d turn and loop her arms up in a welcoming embrace. To eat cake from her fork, braid her hair, refill her coffee cup, watch her embroider. To lean over the sink and shiver while she washed his hair, then wilt on a kitchen chair while she dried, combed and cut it, and sometimes kissed his ear, and sometimes teased him when he dropped off and she had to awaken him with a kiss on the mouth. To walk down the driveway holding hands, pulling the boys in the wagon.

Only one thing disturbed him during those serene days. Lula Peak. It hadn’t taken her long to get the news that Will was the custodian at the library. One evening within a week of his starting she walked in the back door and found Will in
the storeroom gluing a loose chair rung. “Hey, sugar, where y’ been keepin’ yourself?”

Will jumped and swung around, startled by her voice.

“Library’s closed, ma’am.”

“Well now, I know that. So’s the cafe, ‘cause I just shut off the light. Thought I’d sashay on over and congratulate you on your new job.” She leaned against the doorframe, one arm crossing her waist, the other hand dangling near the white V of her uniform collar. “That’s the neighborly thing to do, i’nt it?”

“’Preciate it, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got work to do.”

He squatted again, turning his back, minding the chair. She moved into the windowless room and stood behind him with her knee against his back. “You thought any more about what I said, sugar?” She kneaded the side of his neck. “Man like you makes a girl lay awake nights. Figured maybe you lay awake, too, what with that wife o’ yours bein’ pregnant. No sense in both of us losin’ sleep now, is there?”

He spun to his feet, took her by the shoulders and pushed her back.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, I told you once before.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling soiled from touching her. “I’m a happily married man, Miss Peak. Now I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, ‘cause I got work to do.”

She let her eyes meander over him, from forehead to hips and back up. “You’re blushin’, sugar, you know that? Must mean you’re hot... let’s see.” She reached to touch his face but he grabbed her wrist and held it away, squeezing hard.

“Dammit, Lula, I said leave off!”

Her eyes took fire, radiating excitement. “Well, that’s an improvement. At least we’re on a first-name basis.”

“I don’t want you comin’ here again.”

“Some men don’t know what they want.” Like a cobra she struck, biting his knuckles and retreating in one flashing movement.

“Ouch, goddammit!” He nursed the hand and already saw blood.

“What’s it take, Parker, huh?” she challenged from the
doorway, shoulders thrown back, hands on hips, eyes glinting with demonic glee. “I know things that crazy wife of yours never dreamed of. You think about it.” She turned and ran.

He felt violated. And angry. And guilty. And powerless because she was a woman and he couldn’t level her with his fists as he had the men who’d tried to seduce him in prison. That night, returning to Elly, he held his feelings inside, afraid to tell her about Lula, afraid to jeopardize their new burgeoning closeness.

At the library he had always locked the front door. After Lula’s intrusion he locked the back, too. But she cornered him one night when he took the trash out to burn in the incinerator behind the building, slipping up behind him in the dark and touching him before he was aware of her presence. He shoved her harder this time, knocking her against the incinerator, cursing, raising his fist but halting himself just in time.

“Do it,” she goaded. “Do it, Parker,” and he realized she was sick, driven by some twisted need that scared him.

“Keep outa my way, Lula,” he growled, picked up his trash can and ran.

He tried to put the incident from his mind, but found himself looking over his shoulder every time he stepped out the library door, every time he locked it at the end of the night. He grew closer to Elly, appreciated her more, soothed himself with her goodness.

Nights, when he’d return home, she’d awaken and stretch and watch him shuck off his outerwear and slip in beside her. And her arms would open and they’d lie kissing and murmuring until the hour grew wee and the moon began its descent. Though they were husband and wife, their embraces remained chaste. Sometimes he caressed her breast, but as her time grew closer she’d flinch and he was smitten by a wave of guilt.

“Elly, honey, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“They’re always a little tender, late like this.”

After that he kissed and held her, but no more. She always wore her long white nightie and he knew she was shy about exposing her distorted body. Though he was tempted to do
more, he never pushed, but settled for kissing and lying with their limbs entwined, their hands safely removed from intimate territory.

Until one night in early December when he’d found a note from Lula on the back door as he left work. It was graphic, obscene, suggesting how she might thrill him when he finally broke down and accepted her invitation. That night he had a dream. He was walking through a dry wash in Texas. It was high noon and so hot the earth burned through the soles of his boots. His mouth felt parched and a dull ache bowed his shoulders. He labored up a rocky ridge, panting and tired, then halted in surprise at the sight beyond the crest. A layer of sky might have dropped from overhead, so brilliant was the valley below. Filled with Texas bluebonnets, it seemed to reflect the hard cobalt blue of the bowl overhead. A ribbon of sparkling water bisected the field as he wallowed through it in flowers as deep as a man’s boot tops. He knelt to drink, swashing his face and neck, dampening his collar and leather vest. He cupped his hand again, and as he knelt, sipping, a pair of feet waded into view beneath his nose. A gauzy yellow skirt floated on top of the water. He looked up into eyes as black as Apache tears, and hair to match.

“Hola, Weel—jew been lookin’ for me?” It was Carmelita, one of the women from the whorehouse in La Grange. She had Mexican blood, enough to make her skin dusky and her lips a ripe plum red.

He pushed himself onto his haunches and backhanded his mouth slowly, eyeing her as she caught her hands on both hips and rocked seductively. Her feet were widespread, thighs silhouetted through the yellow gauze skirt. She reached down and lazily wet her arms, bending forward until her breasts hung pendulously within the peasant-style blouse.

“’Ey, Weell Parker, wot jew lookin’ at, eh?” She straightened, still with legs spraddled, and wrung out her skirt, enticing him with a glimpse of bare skin and black pubic hair underneath. She laughed throatily and wallowed to the bank. Standing ankle-deep, she began washing his face with the wet skirt. He reached beneath it and gripped her bare hips. Immediately she shoved him away, scuttled backward into the
swifter water, laughing throatily. “Jew want Carmelita... come and get hur.” He was stripping off his vest before the words cleared her lips. Down to bare skin, he shucked, then plunged into the cold, rippling creek. She shrieked and ran, but he caught and spun her, took her down and himself, too, into the purling water that turned her clothes transparent. He bit her nipple through the wet gauze and she shrieked again, laughing, then squiggled away, fighting against the current while stripping off her dress and flinging it back in his face. He plunged after her, scraping the clinging gauze off his head, and tackled her as she scrambled up the bank, kissing her voluptuously while her wet black hair got between their tongues. His finger was inside her before their ripples disappeared downstream, and she bucked up lustily, chuckling in a rich contralto. They rolled wildly, collecting sand on their backs. When they stopped, breathless, she was on top, urging him with practiced hips.