Ah, God.
She shuddered beneath him, cried out, clenching him with her calves across the small of his back and his buttocks, urging him deeper inside her until his whole body surged and he exploded from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.
His heart nearly stopped, and for a second he nearly thought he was dead. Jesus. What a way to go! He smiled in the damp crook of Holly's neck.
“My God.” Her voice was half sigh, wholly sated. “I have never in my life…Well…my God.”
That pretty much summed it up for Cal, too. He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him, smoothing his hand over her hair, her arm, her sleek flank. It occurred to him, through the post-coital haze in his brain, a haze much more pleasant than his usual post-operative haze, that he ought to say something special, something poetic maybe. His Holly was a writer, after all. She'd expect him to say something more than just good night. But she spoke before he could think of anything halfway intelligent.
“You were right,” Holly whispered sleepily, drawing his arms more closely around her and snugging her warm little butt into his groin.
“About what?”
“You are good, Calvin Griffin. You are very, very good.”
Thank God, he thought. It had been so long and he'd been clumsy getting out of his shorts. Then he'd been too fast, a little too rough before he'd found her pace, her particular pleasures. Then there was the awkward pause for protection. But after that, he'd improved considerably.
“Good enough for government work,” he murmured, his lips exploring the soft flesh of her shoulder. “And, Holly, darlin' Holly, you're no slouch yourself.”
It was well after nine when Holly awoke the next morning. Out of habit, she looked at the clock first before she turned to the other side of the bed only to find it empty. She had a dim recollection of a deep kiss, a slow caress, and the words
workout
and
track.
Cal was gone, and she wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. After last night, she didn't know what she was sure about anymore. Well, except for being sure that she ached almost adeliciously in places she didn't know it was possible to ache. Her buns even ached. How was that possible? She felt as if she'd run a marathon yesterday, or more specifically last night. Twice!
She stretched, feeling the aftereffects of alovemaking in every tendon and muscle, taking almost sinful pleasure in the rumpled, untucked covers and the aflung-around pillows. She flopped on her stomach, burying her nose deep in the pillowcase, breathing in Cal's distinctive scent, wanting him again, wanton and unethical as it was.
There had never been a morning when she'd lingered in bed, revisiting every moment, every whisper and shiver and touch of the night before. Sex, in her hardly vast experience, tended to be more about hooking up than getting hooked. It had been pretty much a take it or leave it deal. More leave it than take it, actually. Nice sometimes, yet unmemorable. But this…!
Holly turned and gazed from bloom to bloom on the wall, studying the pattern's repeat, how the petals and leaves and thorns all fit together again and again, wondering how Cal Griffin fit into her life. He was…what?
Unprecedented!
It was the best and the safest description she could come up with at the moment. Anything else would be way too scary to contemplate.
After a long, hot shower, and fortified with a second mug of strong coffee, Holly sat on Ellie's patio where the shade of the big sycamore was already a necessity. God, it was hot. She wished she'd packed a few pairs of shorts or a loose cotton skirt instead of an entire wardrobe of jeans.
Across from her, her hostess was wearing about sixteen yards of pink seersucker that zipped up the front. Her long gray hair was done in a single braid this morning. Ellie lifted it off her shoulder and heaved it over her back.
“Gonna be another scorcher,” she said, gazing up through the sycamore's big leathery leaves.
“Ha. What else is new?”
Holly hadn't meant to snort or to sound quite so sour. The weather wasn't Ellie's fault, after all. Hell, Manhattan could be just as miserable as Texas in July and August. Who was she kidding, though? It wasn't the weather that was bothering her. And right now Ellie Young was eying her as if she were about to offer an opinion—a blunt one—about Holly's apparent discontent.
“How're things with you and Cal?” the big woman asked.
“Fine,” Holly shot back, vowing that if the next words out of Ellie's mouth were
I know it's none of my business, but…
she was going to deck the woman, to wrestle her down to the flagstones despite the difference in their weights.
But Ellie didn't reply, other than to let her lips curve in a rather omniscient and thoroughly irritating fashion. What was she anyway? The Oracle of Honeycomb? The great seer of the Lone Star State? Just what did she think was going on between her and Cal? And—oh, God—just how much noise had they made last night?
“I've got a lot of work to do in the next few days,” Holly said, forcing herself to get back on track. “Anybody else you think I ought to interview? What about one of Cal's teachers? Maybe there's a minister who knew him or his family fairly well?”
Ellie's all-knowing grin turned into a laugh. “No Griffin ever darkened a church doorway to my recollection except to get married or buried.”
“What about a teacher?”
“That would be Verbena Glover. She taught history and social studies before she retired a couple of years ago. I put her on that list I gave you, didn't I?”
Holly shook her head. “I don't think so. That's not a name I'd easily forget. Do you think she'd agree to see me? Does she live within walking distance?”
“Not hardly, but I don't have any plans for the rest of the day. I'll take you wherever. Shoot. I owe Miz Glover a visit anyway. It's been a while.”
Ellie drained her coffee mug, then stood. “You just let me know when you're ready, Holly honey. We'll make a day of it.”
“Thanks. I'd appreciate that.” She'd already made quite a night of it. Why not a day, too?
As it turned out, the day was as productive as it was pleasant. Ellie traded her sixteen yards of pink seersucker for half an acre of denim, shoehorned herself behind the wheel of her World War II vintage jeep, and proceeded to tear around the streets of Honeycomb where she managed to slam on her brakes, yell howdy, and introduce Holly to every person who'd ever crossed paths with Cal Griffin or any member of his family.
There was Dave Wexler at the body shop, a former classmate of Cal's who had fond memories of a '71 Datsun that Calvin Griffin, Sr. once put through the rear wall of a car wash. “Cal never cracked up a car, though,” Dave told her. “He was always careful, if he wasn't just plain lucky. 'Course, not so much anymore, I guess.”
There was Coach Jimmy Joe Holt, now retired to his front porch, who was apparently still smarting after all these years for not convincing Cal to play halfback for the Yellow Jackets. “He favored track and field,” the coach said, “prob'ly so's he didn't have to depend on the abilities of others. Cal was like that. Independent. Unto himself, so to speak. That's always been my theory, anyway.”
Ethel Johnson had warm memories of Cal's mother's pineapple upside down cake. Mavis Moore still had the mint green bridesmaid's dress she'd worn in Ruth and Dooley's wedding. Edna Gore, who used to work in the high-school cafeteria, remembered that Cal had what she called a powerful affection for tapioca.
Holly met just about everybody in town she didn't know before. The men all swiped off their Stetsons and offered callused hands. The women usually wound up hugging her and inviting her for Sunday dinner. By four o'clock that afternoon, Holly's face ached from smiling, her head was swimming, her notebook was nearly full, and she'd used her last cassette, but she wasn't one bit closer to pinning down her hero.
Worst of all, every time Ellie gunned the jeep down Main Street, Holly couldn't help but catch a glimpse of Cal's T-bird by the track at the high school. He was there longer than usual today, it seemed, but no matter how hard she craned her neck or squinted, she never saw him or his faithful sidekick, Bee. Worried about him—okay, more longing to see him than actually worried—she was just about to ask Ellie to swing by the high school when her denim-clad chauffeur announced, “Now we'll head on out to Happy Acres to see Verbena.”
“Happy Acres?” Holly echoed.
“Hell of a name for a rest home, isn't it?” Ellie snorted and pressed her boot on the gas pedal. “We best be quick. They eat supper out there around five.”
“Ellie, wait.”
The big woman hit the brakes and turned toward her passenger. “What?”
“Well…” Holly was ashamed to admit that right this minute she was far more interested in seeing her hero in the flesh than in gathering more data about his past. “You know, I've got so much new information already I hardly know how to organize it. Maybe we could just put Verbena on the back burner for a while, at least until I know just what I want to ask her. Would you mind, Ellie?”
She raised her big denim shoulders in a shrug. “It's your show, honey. You know what you need. I might just zip on out to Happy Acres by myself to pay the old gal a visit.”
“Sure.” Holly recognized a perfect exit when she saw one. She grabbed up her handbag and reached for the door handle. “Hey, I'll just wander around town a little while and scout some shooting locations. I've been meaning to do that anyway. Scout. You know. Locations. For my story.”
“Uh-huh.” As she nodded her head, Ellie's gaze seemed to drift in the direction of the high school and her mouth slowly took on that inscrutable curve Holly had witnessed earlier. “You go
scout,
honey. I'll see you later.”
“Right.” Holly jumped out of the jeep and slammed the door. “Thanks, Ellie.”
“You're welcome,” she said. Then from half a block away, she waved and called back, “Tell Cal I said howdy, will you?”
Was she that transparent? Holly wondered. Did she have
Crazy for Cal
etched on her forehead? Had she lost all sense of herself as a professional? Apparently so, she decided, when she caught sight of her hero in the distance and her heart immediately vaulted up into her throat.
Holly started for the high school, telling herself it wasn't so unprofessional to want to know the subject of her assignment as well as she possibly could, to explore all the subtle nuances of his personality—forget about his body—any one of which might possibly be the key to his character, the perfect hook on which to hang her story.
She cut through the vacant lot next to the bank, eyes locked on her prize, trying to formulate the single question that would evoke the quintessential response, illuminating the essential Calvin Griffin, Jr. The Who and the Why of him.
She wished she were wearing her navy pinstripe suit with the eggshell silk blouse and the navy pumps that had cost her half a month's salary. She wished she looked like a journalist, like a producer with only one thing on her mind—her story—instead of some jean-clad groupie in battered sneakers whose thoughts kept straying from the Who and the Why of Cal Griffin to the What of him. The whiskery roughness of his jaw. The slickness of his hot skin beneath that gray sweatshirt. The way the supple flesh cushioned the hard muscles of his back and his abdomen. The soft sprinkling of hair there and how it flourished at his beltline and then arrowed down…
Jesus. Holly dragged in a breath. She was too young to be having a hot flash, wasn't she?
Halting in the middle of the vacant lot, she pulled a wad of tissues from her handbag and proceeded to mop her neck, then fan herself. This probably wasn't a good time to try to explore either the psyche or the physique of her hero, she thought. She ought to head back to Ellie's and take an ice-cold shower. Cal wouldn't want to be interrupted during his workout, anyway.
Just then she saw him stumble and go spilling forward. Bee, who'd been loping along beside him, scrambled out of his way just before Cal went down, sprawling face-first on the hard surface of the track. Holly gasped and started running toward him, but all of a sudden she stopped, battling her natural instinct to “get the story” as well as fighting the need to rush to help Cal if he were injured. Something told her this was none of her business. Something cautioned her that Cal's privacy right now far outweighed any need she had to know or any assistance she could provide him.
So she stayed where she was and watched, relieved when she finally saw him sit up and sling his legs out in front of him, rubbing his left knee. Nothing appeared to be broken. Thank God he seemed okay. Scraped a little maybe, judging from the way he wiped his hands on his pants, but not seriously scathed.
Bee, too, appeared relieved that his running companion was unhurt. He wagged his tail and nudged his wet nose into Cal's neck. Then, as Holly watched, Cal leaned forward, draped both his arms around the dog, pulled him close, and buried his face in Bee's black fur. From the way Cal's shoulders shook, she thought he might be crying.
Oh, God. Was he? Crying?
Holly's heart held still as her own eyes filmed with tears.
She remembered what Dooley Reese had said to her the other day. She could almost hear him now.
You talk to enough people around town and you'll find out soon enough that the only person who thinks Cal's still got a future in the Secret Service is Cal himself.
Oh, God. That wasn't true. Cal did know. Better than anyone, Cal knew. And right now his discouragement was almost palpable. Holly could hardly breathe for wanting to put her arms around him and make everything okay.
She watched him struggle to his knees and then, with Bee as a brace, to stand, to shift his shoulders and hips for a minute as if seeking a position free of pain, and then to start forward again, slowly, oh so slowly, his hobble eventually giving way to an awkward jog, then finally stretching into a determined, if graceless, run.
And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Holly had her hook. It all but slapped her in the face.
Cal Griffin's story wasn't about other people's perceptions of him. It wasn't about whether people in his hometown thought the man was meant to be a hero from the get-go or if they figured he'd never amount to that proverbial hill of beans. His story—his true heroism—was less about doing his job than it was about his monumental effort to return to that job. His heroism had nothing to do with his training or the alertness of his senses or the reflexes of his body that allowed him to take a bullet for another man once, but had everything to do with his courage and willingness to do it again.