The Rebel and His Bride (12 page)

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I seem to have forgotten how obnoxiously bright July sunshine can be.”

Gregory stifled a yawn. “I’ve noticed the same thing. And doesn’t it always seem that the more tired you are, the brighter it gets?”

She unlocked the passenger door for him, and he took her other hand in his too. “Thanks for coming with me, Annabelle. It helped to have you there.”

“You still don’t like hospitals much.”

He shook his head. “I doubt I ever will, but I tolerate them because it’s necessary. People need somebody with them during times like this.”

And what about you, Gregory?
she asked silently.
Who’s there for you?

Annabelle pushed a Moody Blues tape into the cassette player and music filled the air. Gregory yawned and rubbed his eyes, itchy from lack of sleep. “Why don’t you take a nap as soon as you get home?” she asked.

He sighed. “I’m too tired to sleep.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I had planned to pick out the hymns to go with Sunday’s service, but I don’t think I’m in any shape to make any decisions right now. I guess I’ll mow the church lawn and pick out the hymns tomorrow.”

“I thought you usually wrote your sermons on Saturday.”

“I’ll do that Saturday too. I have the germ of an idea already. The idea you gave me a couple of weeks ago.”

“You mean the one about charity being freely given and all that?”

“That’s the one.” He stifled another yawn.

“I still think you ought to lie down a little while.”

“No, I couldn’t sleep. Too much adrenaline, I guess.”

They fell into a companionable silence, Annabelle softly humming along with “Nights in White Satin,” Gregory sneaking glances at her as she watched the road. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure her out. Why had she insisted on coming with him last night? Why had she stayed?

She stopped in front of the little house the church provided for its ministers. He turned to thank her for the ride, only to find Annabelle already out her door. Bemused, he got out and followed her as she headed up the sidewalk to his house.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?” he asked, still trying to figure out what she was up to.

“Well, where’s the key?”

“Uh, it’s not locked.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And all this time you’ve jumped all over me for not locking my car doors?” She opened the door and went inside, Gregory following behind her.

He stood in his living room, watching her take in the surroundings. He wondered what she thought of the room. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was comfortable, with the overstuffed sofa and chairs and the braided rug on the floor.

He saw her gaze linger on the stack of various environmental journals on the coffee table, then pass on to the Dean Koontz novel lying next to his favorite chair. She finally turned her attention to the eclectic collection of framed posters and pictures
on his walls—everything from an expensive and elegant engraving of the Three Wise Men given to him by his father a few years ago, to Greenpeace and PETA posters.

Why was she there? he wondered. “Uh, would you like to sit down?”

“Actually, I’m hungry. I thought I’d fix some toast or something. You do have bread on hand, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Most single guys I know have just a refrigerator full of six-packs, pretzels, and cookies.”

“I don’t drink.” What single guys? he thought. And how do you know what they have in their refrigerators?

“Right,” she said. “What about Communion wine?”

“We use grape juice.”

“Oh. Why don’t you sit and I’ll bring you a couple pieces of toast. Just butter, like you used to like it, and a cup of tea.”

Actually he preferred clover honey and coffee now, but he was too tired to argue. He simply sat in the recliner he preferred, and Annabelle reached down and pulled the lever that lifted the footrest.

“Just close your eyes and take it easy. I’ll bring the toast when it’s done.”

Ten minutes later, when Annabelle walked into the room with a plate of buttered toast, Gregory
was sound asleep. “I knew if I could just get you to sit for a minute, you’d be out like a light,” she whispered, and sat on the arm of the sofa nibbling on a piece of the toast. The lines of fatigue that etched his face had relaxed a little as he slept, and Annabelle felt a peculiar clenching feeling inside as she watched him.

She knew that feeling had some awesome significance to it, but was just too tired to think about it right now. Right now her priority was to make sure Gregory was comfortable, then go home and put herself to bed for a long nap.

She set down the plate of toast and gently tugged off Gregory’s sneakers, smiling as she saw the holes in his sweat socks. The boy was back again, she thought, inexplicably glad. Earlier at the hospital, she’d been a little afraid she’d never see him again.

She ran her fingertip lightly about the hole in his left heel. He’d always loved disreputable sneakers and well-worn socks. His socks were always clean, but he’d wear them long past the time when most people would have tossed them out. They were like old friends, he’d said.

Old friends. Old lovers. Only lovers. She still wanted him. Which, all things considered, made about as much sense as wanting an IRS audit. It was just that being in White Creek, which was at the heart of so many of her favorite childhood memories, and seeing Gregory, who was at the
heart of her most poignant college memories, was getting things all mixed up.

No
, she told herself as she left,
I’m just tired, that’s all. Exhausted. I’ll take a nap and wake up with a clearer head and all this will fall into place. Into place back in the past where it belongs
.

Gregory woke up when the rays of early-afternoon sun streaming in the windows fell across his face. “Annabelle?” He opened his eyes, but he was alone. Not that he expected her to be there, but it had been a nice thought to wake up with. He glanced at his watch, then got to his feet, noticing the plate of cold toast and tea on the coffee table. He smiled when he saw one nibbled-on piece lying on top of the others.

Which brought him back to his disjointed thinking of earlier that morning. What was with her? Ever since her return to White Creek, she had been making him dizzy with her inconsistency. She pushed him away, pulled him closer, pushed him away again. She acted like she could barely stand to be in the same room with him, then kissed him like there was no tomorrow. She was prickly and wary and always running away—except that
she hadn’t run away last night. She’d stayed with him, brought him coffee, worried about him. She’d somehow known that he needed her, and she’d been there.

Just a day or two ago he’d wondered what it would be like to have someone there for him. Now he knew. It was almost unbearably sweet and so much easier to be strong when he knew he wasn’t alone. Gregory sighed ruefully. At least he hadn’t been alone last night. He was alone now, though, with no guarantees about tonight or tomorrow or the next day.

He sighed again and headed for the bathroom, nearly tripping over the cat who sat in the middle of the hall, his yellow-striped tail twitching. “Hello, Merlin.” He didn’t even wonder how the cat had gotten in.

Over the past five years the cat had come and gone as if he’d owned this house, as well as Danni and Sebastian’s and Virgie’s. Danni jokingly referred to the cat as Sebastian’s familiar. It wouldn’t surprise Gregory if that were so. After six years in this odd little town with its vet who could talk to animals, senior citizens who zipped around on motorcycles, and a self-sworn Gypsy, nothing could surprise him.

Except Annabelle. She surprised him in dozens of ways, every time he saw her. She was always lovelier than he remembered—her hair silkier, her eyes softer, her skin creamier. When he reached out to touch her, he never knew whether to expect
the sweet fragrance and satiny coolness of rose petals or a handful of thorns. She could be bold or shy, sweet or acerbic, cuddly or prickly. And he seemed to be enchanted with all of her prismatic sides.

When Gregory took his evening stroll—this time at eight
P.M.
instead of three
A.M.
—he deliberately headed toward Virgie’s house, though he didn’t know if Annabelle was there or not. But as if conjured from his thoughts, she sat on the front porch swing. In the rapidly lengthening shadows of twilight, Gregory saw the gleam of her soft hair, the pale gold of her legs, left bare by the short skirt she wore, the creamy skin of her shoulders and arms, exposed by her matching sleeveless top.

Her gaze seemed fixed on the horizon as she stared off into space, and Gregory didn’t think she even noticed him as he walked up the sidewalk. He wondered what she was thinking about to put such a wistful, almost pensive expression on her face.

“Annabelle?”

She jumped and turned startled eyes to him, then smiled. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk. I just got back from the hospital a little while ago.”

“Oh. How’s Mrs. Cochran?”

“Better, I think. Still weak. And, according to Richard, the cardiologist says she’s not totally out of the woods yet. But we prayed together and I read her favorite Bible passages to her, and she seemed to enjoy it. I told her you’d stayed the
night at the hospital and she’d like you to visit her when she’s better.”

“I’d like that,” Annabelle murmured, then gestured at the other side of the swing. “Wanna sit?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Love to.”

They sat, swaying back and forth in comfortable silence as the night swallowed up the last of the sun. Fireflies began winking off and on and the night orchestra of peepers tuned up.

He wished he could sit like this with her every summer evening. Knowing she’d be there at the end of each day, waiting to share a few quiet minutes, could make the rest of the day worthwhile. When they’d finished talking about their days with each other, their conversation would turn more intimate and their hands would clasp, fingers entwine. Their world would narrow to exclude everything—the peepers, the fireflies, the warm summer breeze—but the two of them. Finally, they’d get up in unison and go inside, closing the door.

“How long did you sleep today?”

Gregory forced his attention from fantasy to reality. “About three hours, I guess. And you?”

“Not long, maybe an hour. I just can’t sleep well during daylight.”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For a lot of things.” His gaze lingered on her face. “For staying with me last night. It meant more than you can know. And thanks for realizing
what I needed. You knew I needed to sleep even when I was denying it.”

“You were just like a little kid who says he doesn’t need a nap even when he’s yawning and his eyelids won’t stay open.”

“I only hope I wasn’t as cranky.”

“You were polite and kind. No one could have asked for anyone nicer.”

Silence reigned again, and Gregory found himself being seduced by her nearness. He could feel the warmth of her body all along his right side, her arm touching his, her thigh touching his.

Deliberately, he reached over and took her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Maybe she was as seduced as he by the warm soft darkness because, though she glanced at him, she allowed her hand to rest in his. He closed his eyes for a moment. She was wearing White Shoulders again. He doubted he’d ever be able to smell it without thinking of Annabelle. He could remember breathing in the scent when he’d slide his hands over her skin. The heat of their bodies as they made love seemed to intensify the fragrance until it surrounded them both.

The scent of it now made him long to touch her, but he contented himself with caressing her hand instead. He cradled her hand, his fingers lightly stroking each finger, tracing circles in her palm, gently massaging the fleshy pad between her thumb and forefinger. Barriers momentarily down, her gaze met his and he looked into her unshuttered
eyes, knowing she was feeling the same heat he did. It was purer than lust, softer than wanting, warmer than desire.

He bent his head to hers, his lips hovering just out of reach, wanting to give her time to move away. She didn’t. He released her hand to brush strands of hair back from her face before moving closer still. Barely a kiss, his lips moved against hers, soft as velvet, slick as satin, seductive as a blazing fire on a cold day. He intended to take one kiss, one taste, then pull away. Until Annabelle opened her mouth to him, until she tunneled her fingers through his hair and urged him closer.

A wave of sweet, heady need surged through him and he kissed her again and again, each kiss a little hungrier, a little more urgent, than the one before. He kissed her until kissing wasn’t enough anymore and he closed his hand over her breast. She arched into his touch, the movement making the swing sway. Only then did Gregory remember they were sitting on the front porch, in full view of any interested neighbors.

Annabelle realized it at the same time because she withdrew slightly, running one shaky hand over her hair, smoothing it back behind her ears. She gave him a small smile and shifted to look straight ahead again.

Gregory searched for something to lighten the mood. He didn’t want her dwelling on what had just happened, picking it apart, trying to rationalize her way out of doing it again. A firefly blinked
right in front of him, startling them both. Gregory reached out to capture the insect. He opened his hand in front of her and the little beetle crawled across his palm before launching itself back into the air.
“Photuris pennsylvanica.”

Annabelle smiled a little, gratefully accepting the distraction. “Show-off!” She smacked at a mosquito that had dared past the citronella candle on the porch railing. “You think you’re so smart, then identify this.” She pointed at the persistent pest that was attempting to obtain a snack from the inside of her thigh.

“Mosquito,” he said.

“Ha-ha.” She absently rubbed the spot where a little red bump was already forming.

“Uh,
Culex pipiens
. I think. Right?”