The House On The Creek (7 page)

Chris snorted. Abby felt her own lips curl in response.

“If I remember it rightly,” she said, quirking a brow, “you were the one who wanted the pie in the first place.”

Everett remained impassive. “Don’t recall. You’ll need a new toaster oven.” He considered the relic on the counter with obvious distaste.

Chris nodded and started to reply, but the house phone shrilled, cutting him off.

“I’ll get it.” He dashed from the kitchen with an energy that made Abby blink.

She stood for a moment without moving, listening to the wordless murmur of her son’s voice in the next room.

“Phone still in the back closet?”

Abby turned, wondering if it was scorn she heard beneath his drawl. “Mom liked it there. I’ve never bothered to put in another jack.”

“Boy’s a sharp one.” He hadn’t moved from his slouch against the counter but Abby felt suddenly trapped, pinned to the floor by his scowl.

“He is something,” Abby grinned. “One day he’ll be President.” She tried to make it a joke, but couldn’t quite hide the quiver of pride in her throat.

“Where’s his daddy?”

Abby swallowed. “You’ve got burnt toast on you.” She grabbed a clean rag. “Let me get it off.”

She wet a corner of the rag, and rubbed at the mark on his forearm. He jerked, but didn’t pull away. Goosebumps popped up on the flesh beneath her hand and tiny pale hairs stood along his arm.

She peeked sideways at his face from beneath her lashes and then froze. His mouth was drawn tight, his nostrils pinched.

“Boy’s got my old man’s eyes,” Everett said quietly. “Dark and blue as the night sky in deep summer.”

Abby dropped the towel into the sink and took three steps away, muscles quivering. She feared sudden rage would make her scream, or simply weaken her knees and drop her to the floor.

“Get out of my house.”

“You set yourself up nicely, Abby. Got Edward’s house. Got whatever was left in his bank account.”

“Your father was poor as a mouse and you know it.” Abby whispered. “He drank it all away before you were six.”

“And you got yourself his bastard,” Everett continued, ruthless. The bones in his face seemed to stand out and Abby watched in horrified fascination as his fingers clenched white on the edge of her counter. “Your ma weep in embarrassment or pat you on the back?”

Hatred fizzled orange and exploded behind Abby’s eyes. She reached for a weapon, any weapon. She wanted a knife, to cut him the way his cruelty stabbed at her heart. Instead her groping fingers found the round canister she used to store her flour.

She heaved the cylinder with all of her strength.

The canister crashed against the counter and spilled flour in a waterfall onto linoleum. Everett was across the kitchen before it hit, his fingers digging into Abby’s shoulders, his breath blowing quick and hot against her brow.

“Still got your temper,” he said. Abby thought she could hear his teeth grind. “Good. I hope you railed at him every last day of his life.”

“Get out.” Abby spat the words through shaking lips. And then, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she kicked out at his knee.

She missed. Hands still grinding into her shoulders, Everett pressed her back against the front of the range, holding her still and helpless with the length of his body.

Even through slacks and t shirt Abby could feel the fire of his flesh. He radiated heat. Rage, she thought. And her own temper rose to meet it.

“Get out!” She repeated, refusing to raise her voice and alarm Chris, trying to express her disgust in a hiss.

He didn’t seem to hear. “I hope you made him sorry he ever touched you. I hope you chased and shouted him right to an early grave.”

Something in his voice made Abby pause, fists raised to strike at his chest. She looked up and saw that the anger had drained from his eyes. Tension etched across his brow in tiny lines, and the corners of his mouth creased downward as if in pain.

“Ev,” she said slowly, understanding all at once.

“Shut up,” he ordered. And kissed her.

She remembered sweet, fumbling kisses and a boy’s questing hands. This was different. There was nothing of sweetness in possession.

He took her mouth as if he meant to claim it, scalding with his tongue, dragging her up against his chest to bring her even closer. She felt one callused palm against the back of her neck and he tilted her head upward and ground his mouth against her own.

Abby should have been frightened. The force of his need might have hurt. Instead it started a spark low in her belly, a heat that quickly spread. She felt the muscles in her back melt even as she stretched for more.

He kissed her as though he intended to conquer. Deep, demanding, as though he meant to swallow her whole. And beneath the hunger a thread that was a question. It was that tiny hesitation that made Abby open her mouth and respond.

Everett groaned against her mouth. He parted her thighs with one knee and pushed her up against the range until the abused metal shuddered. She felt the distinct swell of his desire through the fabric of her skirt.

She couldn’t help herself. His urgency and the flick of his tongue against her teeth fogged her brain. She heard tiny whimpers and realized that the sounds were her own. She rocked her hips, moving helplessly against the bulge in his slacks.

Everett groaned again and his hands found their way up beneath her skirt, searching, stroking.

Abby gasped and dug her nails into the front of his T shirt. Her body answered his unspoken demand and her knee lifted slightly, allowing his hand to slip between her thighs.

As though from very far away, she heard a sharp click and sizzle. And then she smelled propane.

She stiffened. His hand was still under her skirt and his tongue grazed her lips. She quivered and almost went back under.

“Everett.” She pushed at his chest. He didn’t seem to notice. The smell grew stronger.

“Ev!” This time she pushed with all of her strength. He barely budged, but his mouth left hers and the searching hands retreated. Breathing heavily, he regarded her with lazy assurance, eyelids half mast.

“The range,” she said, squirming between his legs. “You turned it on.”

“
I
turned it on?” He stepped back, letting her free. He kept one hand clasped around her wrist, and his smile grew faintly mocking.

Abby blushed and was furious with herself when his grin widened. “We turned it on. Move away.” She swooshed a hand at him. “Let me switch it off before we start another fire.”

He retreated further, releasing her hand. His breath warmed her shoulders as she fiddled with the knobs on the ancient appliance. A finger trailed along the back of her neck and she shivered in reaction.

“You’re still a danger in the kitchen.” The tip of his finger found its way along the curve of her ear.

He sounded so very Southern, and so very pleased with himself. Abby bit down on a smile.

“Usually I let Chris do the cooking. He’s less destructive.”

She meant to make him smile, but it was the wrong thing to say. He went still against her backbone and then his finger left her ear and he stepped away. When she turned he stood across the kitchen, fists on either side of the sink.

“How old is he?” He stared out the kitchen window, expressionless.

“Twelve at the end of March.”

“Twelve at the end of March.” The venom was back. He seemed to have forgotten the way his hands kindled her body.

“I ran off at the beginning of the summer, twelve years past. Didn’t take you long, Abby. Or were you letting him touch you before I left, behind my back? All those nights you said your ma wouldn’t let you come out. All those nights I spent down at the Creek, or in the old cemetery, as far from that hell house as I could get?

“When did it start?” He looked over his shoulder and the twist of his mouth made her shiver. “Don’t lie to me, Abby. I always could tell when you were lying.”

She didn’t scream, or cry, or throw anything. The temper seemed to have been frozen right out of her. She walked across the linoleum, one foot in front of the other, and opened the side door. The screen stuck in its frame and popped open on a squeal.

“Get out,” she said for the third time.

He might have refused her. She thought he wanted to. But then Chris called out from the back of the house, a distant question.

Everett flinched and his head lowered. When he moved again it was with deliberation. He wiped his hands neatly on the crumpled dish rag, and then walked past her into the evening.

He didn’t look at her as he stepped over the threshold.

“Don’t come back,” she warned, hoping her voice was steady.

He shook his head without looking around. “There won’t be any more apologies, Abby. Not for this.” She saw the steel in the set of his shoulders.

She shut the door and grabbed the towel he’d left on her counter, and began to clean up the spilled flour. She wiped up a clot of the stuff, shook it out into the trash, and bent to wipe again.

After several minutes she straightened and decided to go for the broom. As she rinsed out the towel she glanced dully out the window and caught her breath.

He was still there, curved over the sweet little car, his back set to the house. Elbows on the roof, forehead on his fists. The dust in the evening breeze settled on his shirt and dulled his hair.

Abby took a deep breath, chased the tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers, and went to get the broom. She didn’t look out the window again until she heard the rumble of departing ties on the ruts of the dirt road.

And then she stood in the kitchen and watched his car until it disappeared beneath the overhand of the woods.

Everett pulled into the empty park, letting tires squeal as he circled the grass divider and sliced past a giant metal garbage bin left out for summer picnickers. He stashed the Spyder sideways across two shady parking spots and threw open the door. He almost slammed it shut again, and then changed his mind and left it open to dusk as he stepped across asphalt and onto grass.

Wasn’t likely anyone would bother the car. And anyway, he’d welcome trouble. Welcome the opportunity to smash some no good mischief maker in the face. His fists practically shook with longing.

At the bottom of the grass bank the Creek turned sluggish and pooled into swampy marshland. Reeds and tall grasses dropped in the heat, tips almost touching the muddy water. A white heron fished along the shore.

Further out the wetlands widened again and began to flow more quickly. Up and down tree covered banks old docks cut the water and sagged with the weight of years. Many were attached to houses hidden behind the greenery.

One or two of the piers belonged to the college and were used by the rowing team.

Everett strode back and forth along the bank, walking off his fury. He paced until the constriction around his lungs began to loosen. When he had his breathing under control again, he made his way up the grass and over to the arched wooden bridge that was the park’s main attraction.

The boards trembled slightly beneath the slap of his shoes, but the bridge was still sturdy. He could see where parts of the frame had been rebuilt. Here and there initials had been carved into the rail.

Everett walked until he stood at the very center of the arch. He leaned out over the water, watching eddies shake the reeds.

When he was a kid there had been ducks, swarms of them, and sometimes geese. Now the waters were empty except for a lone egret waiting in the shallows on the far bank. He wondered if the ducks had already moved off for the winter. If so, they were premature. Even beneath the setting sun sweat prickled the back of his neck.

He shut his eyes and listened to the gurgle of the water, hoping the soothing sound would bring him piece. But faces swirled across the backs of his eyelids. The old man’s scowl, the boy’s wary curiosity, Abby’s grin.

His eyes snapped open, but he could still see her in his head. A pixie with a woman’s body, standing in her smoky kitchen like a queen, barefoot in a loose cotton dress, the kind that whispered to a man of long summer nights and breezes heavy with the perfume of gardenia, of honeysuckle.

And even though he’d seen the fear and anger on her face, even though he knew his father had touched her, his body had responded to her unconscious invitation and he had wanted her, wanted her with the same randy intensity he’d first felt at fifteen.

Even now, as he stood alone in the fading twilight, lust curled in his groin and made his body ache.

“Hell!” Everett brought the flat of his palm down against the railing, hoping the stinging pain would clear the scent of her from his brain.

Abby was wrong. He’d never expected her to follow in her ma’s footsteps.