Uncross My Heart (19 page)

“Sure. Do we need to get anything out of your car?”

“No. Just me.”

“You’re the most important thing.” I didn’t expect that she would arrive with a steamer trunk full of clothes and throw herself into my arms, but I’d hoped for a little warmer greeting.
Maybe she has no
intention of staying over.

She picked stalks of fall growth as we strolled along the old stone path that led from the driveway south of the house and curved back toward the horse pasture, quizzing me about the flowers until I felt like the docent on a botanist’s tour. When she saw the horses, her eyes lit up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Well, you left somewhat unexpectedly, last time you were here.”

She ignored my remark and petted the big black gelding.

“Fleetwood,” I said of her newfound friend.

“Like Cadillac?”

“Like Mac.”

She laughed. “Ah, a priest who likes Fleetwood Mac.”

“Would you quit referring to me as ‘a priest who’? I’m a person, that’s all.” As the big gray gelding muscled in, I introduced him as well.

“This is Ghostie.”

“As in?”

“Holy Ghost.”

“Kind of hard to forget you’re a priest.”

“You’re going to have to get over it or you won’t accomplish your mission, which is to get my clothes off,” I said, teasing her about her remark to me after we’d first kissed.

“I’ve given up on that. In fact, I don’t think your clothes come off at all. For all I know, they’re painted on.”

I clamped my lips together, ducked my head, and moved forward, assuming this was the punishment I would have to endure for having hurt her ego. Dealing with my vacillation wasn’t something a well-known author had to do, and the fact that she was drawn to do it must annoy her. Hormones were apparently all I had on my side when it came to her, and I was grateful even for that.

“Do you ride your horses?”

“On occasion. Fleetwood tolerates me. Ghostie would just as soon throw me and trounce me.”

“Could we ride?”

“Now? Sure.” I laughed at her spontaneity.

“Let’s ride while the sun is exactly at this angle.”

I led the way to the tiny enclosed shed where I kept two dusty saddles for the horses, and their rather flea-bitten bridles. Seeing them now as I imagined she saw them, I was embarrassed that I hadn’t cared for the tack better. Vivienne brushed away my apologies. I pointed to the smaller Western saddle that fit Ghostie and started to pick it up for her. She gathered up the bridle and hoisted the saddle down off the wooden pegs, telling me she could handle it. I insisted I should ride Ghostie.

“Does he buck?” she asked as we approached the two surprised animals, who hadn’t seen saddles coming at them in over a year.

“No, he just kind of acts up.”

“I do that myself on occasion,” she said.

Ghostie stood like a perfect gentleman as she slid the nose and headgear on him and lifted the bit into his mouth. She patted him and talked to him while I hooked up Fleetwood. He looked almost about to smile when she put the blanket on, then slung the saddle up over his back, and I could barely get Fleetwood girthed up for watching Ghostie’s incredible display of manners.

“You either have a way with horses or he’s just delighted to make a fool of me.”

She kissed his big cheek and he turned his head toward her, his eyes soft and sleepy. She walked him around a bit, retightened his girth, then climbed up. He let out a large sigh and stood by, waiting for her to tell him where to go. I laughed and shook my head as I climbed aboard Fleetwood.

We rode around the five-acre pasture, making tight circles and figure eights until I was sure Vivienne and Ghostie were doing okay together. Then I trotted Fleetwood and ultimately let him canter, while Ghostie trailed behind and Vivienne’s laughter filled the air.

“I didn’t tell him to do that,” she complained.

“He’s used to following Fleetwood. They’re a team.”

“Well, he’ll have to follow me, I’m the leader today.” She impressed me by turning him around and cantering him in the opposite direction. After fifteen minutes, we stopped beside one another, and for some reason this was the most beautiful moment I could remember having in…forever.

“I think we’re wearing them out. Who taught you to ride?” I asked.

“I took lessons. Who taught you?”

“My mom, when I was very small.” I dismounted, patted Fleetwood on his big muzzle, and uncinched him, tossing the stirrup over the saddle horn and the girth over the seat, then walked the horses back up to the tack shed.

“And she died when?” Her question made me realize that in doing her research, she knew of my mother’s death.

“When I was about six. She had heart trouble from an early age.

My dad raised me.” I helped her hang her saddle back on the rack, and then we walked the horses to the gate and let them in, removing their bridles and handing each one a cookie I carried in my pocket. We strolled back up to the tack shed, and I turned on a hose and we washed the bits, shook the water off, and hung them on a nail by the saddles. It was a rudimentary setup but it worked.

After that, we wiped our shoes on the scrubby door mat and went into the house through the back porch. Vivienne stopped short on entering and looked around.

“I love this place. It’s so homey.”

“Quite a few notches down from your home and no Japanese house boy, but I do love it. Otherwise, I’d never make the long drive each day.”

I went to the counter and punched the button on the coffee, noting the sweet rolls were looking a bit dry, so I opened the fridge and pulled out the tray of lunch meats and cheese, a large loaf of whole-grain bread, a cutting board to slice it on, and a knife. Vivienne reached around me into the side door of the fridge and got some mayo, pickles, and mustard, and the proximity of her body and her scent made me weak. I lost track of what I was doing and put the cheese and meat back in the fridge.

“We’re just going to have mayonnaise and bread?” Her expression communicated her amusement.

“No. What am I doing?”

“I don’t know. What
are
you doing?”

“I have no idea.” I laughed.

“Maybe you should relax.” She stood very close to me and placed her cool hand over my eyes, leaving it there for a moment. I sighed as she removed it.

I put my arms around her and my lips to hers, and she was warm and soft and so sensual I left my body entirely, floating around and into her. When I finally broke the kiss, her eyes glistened and she looked at me and said softly, “You’re a wonderful kisser and that was an incredible kiss.”

“Well, I’ve been saving it for a decade.”

She kissed me again, only this time it was so richly erotic I leaned back against the counter to keep from fainting. She unbuttoned my shirt. As her fingers crossed over the edge and inside, my desire became embarrassingly transparent. She smiled up at me.

“Something on your mind?” Her eyes gleamed.

“My mind has completely left my body.”

“That’s wonderful news.” She kissed my chest just above my breast.

I took her by the hand to lead her to the sofa and she stopped me.

“I thought we were having lunch.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You have to eat. Besides, you’re a woman who likes to move slowly, so let’s move slowly.” She held up a slice of something, ham maybe, putting it to my lips. I bit into it, not knowing or caring what it was and never taking my eyes off her. “Let’s go for a walk.” She grabbed me by the hand suddenly and pulled me out of the kitchen and down the back steps and out into the backyard.

“I feel like I’m dating an aerobics instructor.”

“Good, now at least we’re dating.” She walked past the shed and down a narrow path behind the horse pasture and into a small clearing that had been vacant for years. An acre perhaps someone owned and had moved away and forgotten. When I asked her how she knew about this place, she said she didn’t but merely followed the road.

I led her over to a spot up against a giant oak where I used to sit as a kid, eat my baloney sandwich, and stare up at the clouds. “Nothing to sit on.”

“How about the ground?” She pulled me down. “You came here when you were little because no one could see you and no one knew you were here.”

“I guess so.” I laughed. “Although my mother and my grandmother probably knew and just let me pretend I was alone.”

“It feels like you. What did you dream of?” She lay on her side, her head propped up on her elbow.

I lay facing her, propped up just as she was. “All the things kids dream about. Being grown up, being on my own…being in love.”

Vivienne put her lips on mine again, causing electrostatic waves to ripple through my body. She managed to move closer and never took her mouth from mine, and then suddenly she was on top of me as I lay on my back, her body heat melting me. Her hands ran through my hair, her mouth devoured mine, her hips pushed against me.

“We’ve got to take this to a more civilized location,” I whispered.

She protested that she couldn’t, that she had liquefied.

“I’m not leaving the forest floor until I have you.” She fumbled with my belt buckle and I vaguely remember checking to see if anyone could see us, but we seemed to be alone. Her molten kisses produced seismic waves in my body, which undulated beneath her, not unlike the grassy commons experiencing the shift of the New Madrid fault.

Vivienne Wilde was my own personal earthquake—shifting energy, permanently rearranging everything beneath my surface. She deftly unzipped my pants and slowly ran her fingers from my waist to the hairline above a spot that desperately sought her favor and, as she reached to enter, I rose to meet her, the wet collision mind shattering, mentally numbing, and emotionally electrifying. I shivered and she moaned, apparently pleased with her efforts.

“Please,” I whispered. “Inside—”

“I am—”

“The house. Inside the house. Come on.” I used every effort to roll her off me and regain my senses enough to pull us both off the ground. She giggled over my struggles with my falling pants, and after I secured them, I wrapped my arm around her waist and hauled her along with me.

We were staggering up the back steps laughing when I heard the crunch of tires on the driveway for the second time that day and was shocked into attention. I opened the back screen door, crossed the living room and peeked out the front window, and saw what could only be my father’s old black Lincoln Town Car with the tiny American flag tied to the antenna cruising into the driveway. I stiffened and said something incomprehensible as my mind churned.

“Who is it?” Vivienne whispered.

“My father.”

“You’re kidding, of course.”

“No, he rarely comes out here.” He opened the heavy car door and slowly climbed out, then stopped and assessed the house front as if wondering if he was in the right place.

His heavy lace-up shoes slowly clomped up the steps and I used the time to pull myself together, checking my hair and looking for lipstick smears.
My eyes look way too dreamy
, I thought. I got to the door at the same time he did and opened it.

“Father, what are you doing out here this time of day?”

“Visiting my daughter, if she’ll invite me in off the porch.”

“Come in.” I stepped back.

“Oh, I see you have company. You’re covered in leaves. It must be windy out here.”

“Father, this is Vivienne Wilde.”

“Vivienne Wilde. Where do I know that name?” He took her hand and looked directly into her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Westbrooke.” It was as if he recognized her and she him, but of course I knew that wasn’t possible.

“Please call me Archie.” Vivienne said nothing, but merely nodded. He smiled in the overly ingratiating way men do when they haven’t decided yet if a woman is eligible, or their type, or might in some manner make their life better. He sized her up so openly that I was almost embarrassed. Perhaps I did carry a disproportionate amount of his genetic material.

He suddenly announced that he thought he might stay awhile, and I was certain it was due to Vivienne, which infuriated me—ruining my time with her and now actually behaving as if he might like to spend time with her himself.

“Vivienne and I are actually working on…some business together—”

“I see. And I’m interrupting. What business are you two working on?”

“We’re working on…a study…that, well, it has some implications for—” I stammered.

“Actually, we’re just enjoying spending time together,” Vivienne interjected.

“Hmm.” He paused and I glanced at Vivienne, who gave me a riveting look. “Good to have friends. Do you watch
Dancing with the
Stars?
My favorite show. Such grace. Do you dance?”

“I know how to dance, yes,” Vivienne replied, her voice emotionless.

“Perhaps Alexandra will turn on some music and you and I could dance. Do that, will you, Alexandra?” Arriving only minutes ago and meeting a total stranger and suddenly asking her to dance apparently didn’t strike him as odd, and I wondered if he did these kinds of things intentionally or was a victim of his own dementia.

“I don’t have any music—”

“Of course you do. Just turn on the radio, dear.” He pointed to the bookshelf.

Robotically, I reached for the button. Father held out his arms as if to lead her in a waltz. My blood pressure rose, I was paralyzed.

Vivienne’s eyes caught mine, hurt and disappointment evident in them.

“I’m afraid I’m not much in a dancing mood. Perhaps you and your daughter could continue your dance after I’m gone.” She literally ran out the door and down the steps as I chased her.

“Wait.”

“No, I won’t wait on you ever again. How dare you throw me to your father.”

“It wasn’t my intent—”

“It was unforgiveable.” She jumped in the car, backed out of the driveway, and drove away, fleeing from my mindless obedience to my father. She and I two magnets in a force field pulled farther and farther apart until no attraction is possible.

Did I say something wrong?” my father asked as I walked back up the steps. Something in his tone was faux innocent. “I know that name…Wilde.”