Sleeping Beauty (15 page)
"Thanks, but I think I'll walk. I can use the exercise." And he didn't trust himself to spend another minute with her. But when she turned to get into the car, he reached out and caught the top of the door, stopping her. "Dinner tomorrow night?"
"Oh." Anne bit her lip, remembering her promise to her mother. "I'd like to but I—we—my brother Jack and I always have dinner at my parents' house on Sundays. Actually, my mother asked me if I'd invite you."
"Your mother?" Neill's brows rose, and Anne felt herself flushing.
"'She heard...I mean, I...ah...mentioned that we'd met, and she wanted to meet you." Her face felt as if it was on fire. She was so accustomed to the fact that her family—her mother—felt the right to oversee her life that it wasn't until she was offering the invitation that the strangeness of it struck her. This wasn't the way it was done in the real world, she thought. In the real world, a woman of twenty-five did not bring home a man she'd known less than a week for her parents to inspect.
Neill considered the invitation for a moment. Times might have changed a lot in recent years, but meeting a girl's parents still held an ominous ring of possible commitment. But he was curious, he realized. He'd told her all about his family, but Anne rarely spoke of hers. He'd met the brother. It might be interesting to meet her parents.
"Sure," he said slowly. " Sunday supper sounds good."
A week, Neill thought, staring out at the sporadic Sunday afternoon traffic going past the gas station. A week ago he'd been limping along a dusty road, fantasizing about hopping on the first plane that would take him a thousand miles from the nearest cornfield. Now he had only to turn his head to see the cornfields that hovered at a polite distance from the edge of town, and the view didn't bother him at all. He was even willing to concede that there was something rather majestic about the endless rows of dusty green leaves and golden tassels.
The air was hot and still, the sun beating down out of a cloudless sky. He'd spent a couple of evenings in one of the local bars, nursing a beer and listening to the regulars talk. There was some concern about rain—would they get enough of it and would it come at the right time? You couldn't discount the possibility of hail, either. 'Course the corn was nearly ready to harvest, so hail wouldn't be the disaster it would have been earlier in the season. He'd heard about Milt Bowdrie's prostate surgery and that it looked like the youngest Lewis girl had herself a scholarship to some fancy college back East, and had listened to idle speculation on the possibility that Sally Ann Weaver's recent trip to see her family in Bismark had been a cover-up for the fact that she was having breast implants.
Anyone who thought gossip was a woman's game should spend an afternoon in a pool hall, Neill thought, remembering. He watched a faded blue station wagon slow to let a shaggy gray mutt trot across the street and lifted a hand to return the driver's wave. He didn't have the slightest idea who she was and wondered if she thought she knew him or was just being friendly.
Contentment. That was what he was feeling right now. It wasn't something he'd had much contact with, particularly not in the last few years. He'd known some dizzying heights—selling his first book, watching it creep onto the bottom of the New York Times list, then selling the second book and proving to himself that it hadn't been a fluke, that he might finally have found something he could do for the rest of his life.
He couldn't say he'd been unhappy, but lately he'd been aware of a niggling feeling that something was missing. Like the old song, he'd found himself wondering, is that all there is? And then he had cursed himself for being a greedy bastard for asking. This last week had made him realize that it wasn't that he wanted more. It was that he wanted something else, maybe even less than what he'd had, at least in terms of conventional success. He'd remembered something he'd almost forgotten—how much he loved to write.
The story he'd started that first afternoon was still there, pulling at him, giving him no choice but to write it. He didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to do with it when it was done, and he didn't care. For the moment, it was enough to simply enjoy the process.
"Can you give me a hand here?" David said behind him.
Neill turned away from the door and walked over to where David was working on an ancient black pickup truck. A newly rebuilt engine hung suspended over the engine compartment, ready to be lowered in place.
"Steady it on the side while I lower it."
"Got it." This was something else he'd missed—the smell of grease and exhaust fumes, the satisfaction to be found in building and repairing, creating something with his hands rather than his head. After spending his mornings writing, he'd gotten into the habit of wandering by the garage and lending a hand with whatever needed done, including pumping gas for the handful of drivers willing to pay a higher price for the extra service. If David Freeman thought there was anything odd about his sudden acquisition of an assistant, he didn't say anything. Once he was satisfied that Neill knew the difference between a carburetor and a fuel pump, he left him alone.
"At a guess, I'd say this truck is older than my grandfather," Neill commented as they eased the engine down. 'Wouldn't it make more sense just to run a new chassis in under the engine?"
"Bill Brent bought this truck brand new back in '55. Probably paid a couple thousand for it. According to my dad, he bitched about the price for the first fifteen years, then put a new engine in it and bitched about the fact that the old one had only lasted a hundred and fifty thousand miles. Since then, he's complained about every repair he's had done on it, first with my father, then when I took over the shop. He just kept bringing it in and complaining. Fact is, he cares a lot more about this truck than he does about his wife. Not that I can entirely blame him," David added in the interest of fairness. "Roberta Blair has a face that looks like she fell out of an ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, a voice that could shatter glass at fifty yards, and she's usually complaining about something."
"Sounds like a match made in heaven." "Probably, but at least Bill doesn't sound like fingernails on a chalkboard."
They worked in easy silence after that. When he was in high school, Neill had spent one summer working for a mechanic, earning enough money to buy his first car—a wreck of a Camaro coupe that he'd restored himself. He couldn't think of anything he'd owned before or since that had filled him with the same sense of pride. The engine in place, he picked up an orange rag from the top of a tool chest and wiped the grease from his hands. Maybe he should sell the Indian, buy something he could fix up.
"Hear you've been seeing quite a bit of Anne Moore!" David said. He didn't look up, and Neill couldn't read anything in his voice.
"I guess, in a town this size there isn't much that doesn't get noticed."
"Not much," David agreed. He straightened and looked across the body of the truck at Neill. "I've known Anne pretty much her whole life. I'd hate to see her hint."
The veiled warning prodded Neill's temper—all the more so because he'd worried about the same thing. It didn't take a lifetime of knowing her to recognize Anne's vulnerability. There was no guile in her, no games, none of the brittle shields most people erected to protect themselves.
David must have seen the quick flare of temper, but his gaze remained steady. Questioning.
"I didn't realize she had more than one brother," Neill said edgily.
"When it comes to Anne, she's got a whole town full of brothers. She's had enough hurt in her life."
Neill's head snapped up, his eyes sharp with question. The idea of someone hurting Anne sent a wave of pure rage licking through his system.
"Who hurt her?'' The question was soft. Dangerous.
"It was a long time ago. Best forgotten." David shook his head and frowned down at the engine, and Neill had the feeling that whatever he saw there, it wasn't forgetfulness. When he looked up, his expression was rueful. "It's none of my business," he admitted, "I just can't help feeling responsible in a way, for you being stuck in town so long, meeting Anne."
"You can't do much without parts."
"No, I guess not." But he still seemed uneasy.
Neill felt the quick surge of anger vanish as quickly as it had come. He couldn't fault the other man for caring about Anne.
"I don't know where Anne and I are headed," he said at last. "But I won't hurt her if I can help it."
"Fair enough." David nodded, then grinned crookedly. "I guess you'd rather have popped me on the jaw."
"Actually, I prefer to go for the nose. It makes a much more satisfying crunch." He laughed when David winced. His good mood restored, Neill leaned against the truck's fender and decided to do a little probing for information himself. "So tell me about Anne's family. I'm having dinner with them tonight," he said, and saw David's eyes go wide with shock.
"Bring a flak jacket," David blurted, and then looked as if he wished the words unsaid.
"A flak jacket?" Neill's brows rose. Of all the answers he might have expected, this wasn't one of them. "Am I likely to be facing a hostile father with a shotgun full of buckshot?"
"I doubt if Doc Moore knows one end of a shotgun from the other. The only thing you have to worry about from him is that he may forget you're there."
"Well, I've already met the brother, and I'll admit that the uniform and the big shiny gun were a little intimidating, but he didn't look like the sort to shoot first and ask questions later."
"Jack's okay," David said slowly, frowning down at the engine, "We went to school together. He's...changed a lot over the years, but he's okay."
"That pretty much leaves Anne's mother." Intrigued, Neill leaned forward. "So what's with the mother? Does she prowl the cornfields when the moon is full? Chew tobacco and pick her teeth with a knife?"
"Not that I've ever seen." David hesitated and then shragged. "She's lived here almost forty years, and I don't think she's on a first-name basis with more than two or three people."
"Interesting." Neill rocked back on his heels and considered. In a town the size of Loving, almost everyone was on a first-name basis with everyone else. If Anne's mother had managed to remain aloof from that for four decades, it was quite an accomplishment The comment about taking a flak jacket made it clear it wasn't shyness that had kept her on formal terms with her neighbors. So what kind of a woman could both set an entire town at a distance and raise a daughter as warm and open as Anne? Definitely an interesting question.
"I probably shouldn't have said anything," David said uncomfortably.
"I asked." Neill straightened away from the truck and changed the subject. "I don't suppose there's any place in town that rents cars, is there?"
"Not that I know of. Not much call for car rentals. You need a ride somewhere?"
"Nowhere in particular. I'm just getting a little tired of hoofing it everywhere."
And, stupid as it was, he didn't like the idea of Anne picking him up to take him to her parents' house for dinner. It was an outdated notion, but he couldn't quite shake the idea that he should be picking her up, not the other way around. A perfect example of what she would call male chauvinist piggery. And rightly so, he admitted ruefully.
David straightened and reached back to pull a rag out of his pocket. Wiping his hands, he contemplated Neill thoughtfully.
"I've got something I could loan you," he said slowly. "Hasn't been driven in a while, but I keep it in shape."
"I'm not picky," Neill assured him. "Any old clunker will do."
David laughed. "I don't think I'd call it a clunker."
***
"David loaned you his Corvette coupe?" Anne stared at the low-slung car in disbelief. When she'd seen the car pull up in front of the cottage, there had been one heart stopping moment when she thought David had come to tell her that Neill had left town. Even when she saw Neill's tall frame unfolding from beneath the steering wheel, it had taken her a moment to grasp the reality of it.
"David doesn't loan anyone this car," she said positively. "He doesn't even drive it much himself."
"Yeah, that's what he said." He ran his hand down the fender, his expression rapt, and Anne couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have him touch her like that. "Said he got it for a song from some old lady in Arkansas whose husband bought it and then ran off with a kindergarten teacher a couple of years later. She left it to sit in the yard for thirty-some-odd years. Can you imagine just leaving an original '65 Stingray coupe sitting out like that?"
He sounded so appalled that Anne bit her lip to hold back a smile. What was it about men and cars? Not that she could throw stones, not with Lucy sitting there smiling at her.
"It was pretty scruffy looking when he towed it home. I thought he'd be better off junking it," she couldn't resist adding and nearly laughed out loud at his horrified look.
"Are you kidding? Do you know what this is? This is the roadster model with both tops. It has the Turbo-Jet V-8 engine—396 cubic-inch big block, 425 horsepower, close ratio four-speed, solid valve lifters and disc brakes. There were only a few hundred of them made. The body's straight, and the tranny was still—''
Neill caught the glazed look in Anne's eyes and broke off, grinning a little sheepishly. ''Sorry. I guess I got carried away.''
"That's okay. I understood the part about it having both tops, because it's a convertible, but you lost me after that," she admitted. "I assume it all boils down to the fact that it will go really fast"
"Pretty much. I thought maybe we'd take it out on the road sometime this next week, put the top down and let the engine unwind a bit, see what it can do."
Anne smiled. She liked the sound of that—not so much putting the top down and letting the wind turn her hair into a rat's nest. But she liked the fact that he planned on being around next week, and liked even more his casual assumption that they would be seeing each other. It made her feel...couple-ish.
"So, where do your parents live, and do we drive or walk?"
"Walk. It's just up the driveway. Let me grab my keys and lock up." She'd been so amazed to see that he was driving David's precious Corvette that she hadn't waited for him to walk to the door but had come out to meet him.
Neill watched her hurry up the walkway. She was wearing another of the simple little dresses she seemed to favor—this one was summer sky blue, sleeveless with a modest scoop neck and a flippy little skirt. It was so sweet and innocent that it was practically wholesome. And all he could think about was how much he wanted to find out what she had on under it.
Annoyed to find that just thinking about it was making him ache, Neill shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his legs at the ankles as he leaned back against the coupe and tried to think of something else. Something besides those long, slim legs wrapping around his waist or the way her breasts—
Cursing under his breath, he straightened away from the car. Arriving with a hard-on was not likely to make a real favorable first impression on a girl's family, especially one whose brother carried a gun. With a determined effort, he focused his attention on the house in front of him. It was certainly unusual enough to provide a distraction. Two stories of gingerbread and spindles, painted a soft pink with yellow shutters, it was a toy box version of San Francisco's great painted ladies. There was a white picket fence with an arbor and a gate beneath it, and the area from the fence to the house was filled with rose bushes. They covered the arbor and scrambled up the porch pillars. There were roses of every color and size, and the air carried the soft weight of their perfume. It was like looking at an enchanted cottage in a picture book. And, when Anne left the house and came down the walkway toward him, he thought she fit the image. There was something of the fairy-tale princess about her— a, certain unawakened quality, as if she were just awaiting a kiss to awaken her to happiness.
Without thinking, he moved forward, meeting her as she reached the end of the walkway. She stopped on the other side of the gate, looking up at him, her eyes questioning. Neill wasn't sure what the question was, and he sure as hell didn't know the answer. All he knew was that he had to taste her, here beneath an arbor covered in roses the color of ripe apricots, with the sleepy drone of a bumble bee in the background and only the two of them in all the world.
He saw her eyes widen as he cupped his hands around her face, saw the smokey-gray awareness come up in them, and then watched her lashes drift slowly shut as he lowered his mouth to hers.
It was a kiss of such bone-melting tendemess that Anne felt her heart stop as her knees turned to water. She brought her hands up to catch hold of his wrists, clinging to him as the world dissolved around them.
It ended as slowly as it had begun, and Anne opened her eyes slowly, reluctant to return to reality. Neill was looking down at her, his blue eyes dark with something she couldn't quite read. It seemed almost a question, but whether he was asking it of her or of himself, she couldn't guess. They stood there for what seemed like a long time but could only have been moments, his hands cupping her face, his eyes searching hers. Then his expression shifted, his eyes warming with a smile. He brushed his thumb across her cheek and let his hands fall away, leaving her momentarily staggered by a sense of loss.
Without a word, he pushed open the little gate and, taking her hand, pulled her into the twilight beyond the arbor.
Sunday supper in farm country—the phrase conjured up a certain image. The family crowding around the big oak table, laughing and talking as they passed heaping platters of crisp Med chicken, fluffy white biscuits and bowls of creamy country gravy. Red-and-white gingham curtains fluttering in the warm breeze, the sound of birds chirping and cattle lowing, a long wide porch with rocking chairs and maybe a swing where everyone sat after supper, sipping lemonade and contemplating the amber waves of grain and maybe even a purple-majesty-cloaked mountain or two.
There were, Neill decided, more than a few gaps between that fantasy and reality. The table was polished mahogany rather than oak; the dining room, beautifully decorated in cool shades of gray and blue, was more funereal than homey; and central air conditioning effectively eliminated the warm breeze, the chirping birds and the lowing cattle. There was a front porch, but it wasn't the swings and rockers sort of porch, which was probably just as well, because Neill couldn't imagine the Moore family sitting together, sipping lemonade and chatting.
By the time the meal was served, they seemed to have run out of conversation. A question or two about how each of them had spent the week, a brief discussion of the weather, mention that Dr. Moore's receptionist was thinking of retiring, and no one seemed to have anything else to say. Neill couldn't help but compare it to his own family get-togethers, with everyone talking at once, conversations started and abandoned when a new topic came up, arguments and laughter. He wondered if anyone had ever laughed in this coolly elegant room. Certainly not without Olivia Moore's permission, he decided, glancing at his hostess.
Until his talk with David at the garage this morning, he hadn't given much thought to Anne's family. He'd met her brother, and he knew her parents lived in Loving, but he'd had no reason to think of them beyond that. David's assessment of them had been interesting, but he hadn't taken it as the last word, preferring to make up his own mind. But it was pretty obvious that David knew the family very well indeed.
Anne's father was a little above average height, with a slightly stoop-shouldered posture and a thick shock of gray hair. He looked like a stereotype of the country doctor. He shook hands politely when Anne introduced them, poured Neill a pre-dinner drink, sat down in a softly upholstered chair and, by some means Neill couldn't quite define, managed to absent himself from the proceedings.
Since Neill had already met his hostess, this didn't seem as odd as it might have. Even on brief acquaintance, it was fairly obvious that Dr. Moore's retreat was probably based on survival instincts honed over more than thirty years of marriage.
Despite David's comments, Neill had still pictured Anne's mother as an older version of her daughter, but, other than their gender, it was difficult to find any similarity between the two of them. Olivia Moore was taller and more slender. Her hair was an ashy blonde that successfully concealed any hint of gray, and she dressed with the same cool elegance with which she decorated her home. Though he knew she must have been in her mid-fifties, she could easily have passed for ten years younger. In the battle against age, she was more than holding her own. He didn't doubt that, when she was younger, she had been strikingly beautiful. In middle age, she was still a lovely woman—if you could ignore the icy coldness of her eyes, a chill that seemed reflective of her personality.
When Anne introduced them, Olivia managed to convey—with utmost courtesy—that he was as welcome as a case of hives.
"Hello, Devlin. How nice to meet you." she said insincerely. "I understand you're waiting for repairs to your motorcycle. Do you know yet how long it will be before you're able to get on your way again?"
Here's your hat and what's your hurry
, Neill thought, surprised and a little amused. He wondered if she'd invited him solely to make it clear that he was unwelcome. Looking into those cool, ice blue eyes, he decided that she had and wondered if she'd found the technique effective in the past
"Hard to say," he said, answering her question. "The parts could get here tomorrow or next week. Could be another month." He smiled cheerfully. "Lucky for me, I can stay just as long as it takes."
"Don't you have a family member or a friend who would be willing to...assist you in getting home?"
"Mom." Anne's voice was stifled with embarrassment
"What?" Olivia's brows arched in question. "I'm just suggesting something Mr. Devlin might not have thought of. It isn't as if there's any reason for him to stay in Loving if he doesn't have to."
Her meaning was clear—he couldn't possibly be interested in staying because of her daughter.
Color rose in Anne's face, and Neill forgot to be amused. He reached out to catch her hand, feeling her start with surprise. "Actually, I don't have any immediate plans to leave, even if David gets the parts in right away."
Olivia's mouth curved in a tight little smile. "It will be interesting to see how you feel when your motorcycle is actually in working order again."
"I guess it will," Neill said, giving her a friendly smile.
He thought she might have pursued the conversation, but Anne's brother arrived just then, and she turned to greet him. The woman with him was stunningly out of place amid the elegant decor and muted colors. Tall and slim, with a mass of flaming red hair and a narrow face that was more interesting than pretty, she was wearing a pair of neon orange leggings and an oversized silk shirt in eye-searing lime green. Big gold hoops dangled from her ears, and her feet were thrust into a pair of rhinestone studded gold sandals, revealing iridescent lavender polish on her toenails.
Introductions were made, and he learned that her name was Lisa Remington, and that she'd returned to her hometown two years ago after spending nearly a decade in California. Neill liked her on sight Particularly when Olivia accorded her a welcome every bit as chilly as his own. Anyone she disliked was bound to be worth knowing.
It soon became apparent that the two women were old adversaries. Olivia inquired after Lisa's "little business" which Neill gathered had something to do with making hats. Lisa mentioned an ad she'd seen for a product guaranteed to minimize fine lines and wrinkling in middle-aged skin. Olivia commented on how charmingly bright Lisa's outfit was. Lisa thanked her and mentioned how much she envied the older woman's ability to look good in insipid colors.
It was like attending Wimbledon, watching them lob insults rather than tennis balls. It was a far cry from the happy family get-together Neill had envisioned, but he had to admit that it had a certain entertainment value. The two women were well matched, neither giving an inch. If he had to choose, he would have put Lisa a bit ahead, because it was obvious that, like him, she saw the humor in the situation. Meeting her eyes across the table, Neill barely restrained a grin. Yeah, this was definitely someone he could come to like. He wondered what she had in common with the man beside her, other than the fact that they'd grown up in the same town.
Jack didn't contribute much more to the conversation than his father did, though Neill was fairly sure he was listening, which was more than could be said for the older man, who sat at the end of the table but might as well have been sitting in Katmandu. Jack was there. Watching, listening— and putting away most of a bottle of wine, Neill noted as the other man refilled his glass. Added to the Jack Daniel's whiskey he'd downed before dinner, it would be interesting to see whether he was actually able to get out of his chair or if he simply slid under the table.
The writer in Neill was fascinated by the dynamics of the family. The man in him was aware that Anne was not enjoying the polite warfare being waged between the other two women. Sensing her distress, he reached for her hand under the table, smiling when she looked up. Her answering smile was a little lopsided.