Vera immediately put the table between them. He looked hurt. “Aren’t you glad to see me? Old friends and all . . .”
How well she remembered with what skill he could color his tone to make her feel whatever he wanted her to. Now he was playing the wounded friend, whose motives had been terribly misunderstood. Vera knew it was all a trick, yet she still wanted to respond with kindness. She hated herself for it.
“Say what you have to say,” she snapped.
“May I sit down at least?”
He’d already drawn back the chair when she said, “No! I’m sure this isn’t a social call, so you can stand.”
“You were never so rude before.” He sighed sentimentally. “I remember with what tender care you waited on me before our unfortunate parting.”
“You left me,” she said coldly. “You stole from me.”
“Some things I stole,” he admitted with a reminiscing smile. “Other things you gave me, willingly. Come now, you can’t still be mad. We had a gay time. You had few complaints of your treatment then. Why, you used to tell me . . .”
This was intolerable. “What do you want, Tate?” His hand lashed out, catching her across the cheek. The slap echoed off the stove she’d bought herself, off the dried flower wreath she’d won at a bazaar, off the china she’d painstakingly tainted, breaking the peace she’d thought she had found. Shocked more by the sound than the pain she couldn’t yet feel, Vera touched her face with trembling fingers.
“Victor. Remember that it is Victor now.” His eyes, never warm, were like two black pits. “A name that you would think would bring good fortune, but it hasn’t. An unlucky turn of the cards and I had only enough money left to ride the railroad to this one-horse town. And I had to leave Memphis when I did. You wouldn’t think they’d still be as fussy about cardsharping down South as they were before the War.”
She remembered when he’d hit her before. He’d always been so sorry, even weeping afterwards. And yet, she knew now that he’d never meant it, that his sorrow was just another way of controlling her, just as the slaps and kicks had been.
“What do you want?” She whispered, for the third time.
“Your silence, Vera. Nothing else. You’ll keep quiet about me. About you and me. Have you told anyone?”
“No.”
“What about that girl you left the church with? A stupid thing to do, drawing attention to yourself that way, but you always were a stupid girl. Did you tell her?”
“No. I said I was ill.” The sight of him, so cool, so unruffled, really did make her stomach clench and roil.
“Good. Well, this has been fun.” His eyes wandered insolently over her. “You’re still a fine looking gal, Vera. Dulcie doesn’t have your . . . shall we say enthusiasm? But she’ll learn. Sometimes the ugly ones are the most grateful.”
“Why Dulcie?” she asked. Let him strike her again if he wanted to for her curiosity.
“I need money. Of course.”
“But Dulcie doesn’t . . .”
“On the contrary. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about her little windfall? The hundred and fifty dollars a distant relation left her?”
“But that’s hardly anything ... I mean, what good . . .”
“It’s exactly a hundred and forty more than I have at the moment. And a man like me can’t very well live on ten dollars. I had a few dollars more but I had to buy the girl an engagement ring. Only rolled gold, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I know,” he said, polishing his nails on his shirt front. “I should probably settle down to some grubbing job, but there are golden futures for the man who knows how to take advantage of them. And I’m just the sort . . .”
He shook his head with dry amusement. “At first, I had hopes of this Dane character, but all his daughters are mere babes in arms. And my talents have always been best employed on young ladies. Especially of a certain artistic bent. I find them so readily fascinated by a man of the world. Isn’t that what you find to be true?”
With the smile she once would have traded her soul for, Victor Sullivan opened her kitchen door. Once more he let his eyes stray over her. “Perhaps I’ll call again, Vera. After all, I can’t devote all my time to Dulcie.”
When she said nothing, he chuckled and left. She heard the rattle of the steps as he all but danced down them. Praying for them to break beneath him, she listened for a crash and a cry. But the devil was looking out for his own.
Chapter 19
Edith didn’t awaken when Jeff carried her up the stairs. He laid her carefully on the bed after taking off her hat. Though he considered loosening her clothing, he knew he couldn’t trust himself, not while his body was still ablaze.
A cold bath for you, right now, he thought. But still he stood over her, gazing at her rose-colored cheeks and crumpled clothing. Just one more to go, Miss Edith Parker, and then you’re mine. I’ve got ‘till Sunday to get Miss Albans paired off. So far, this matchmaking business hasn’t been that hard. Maybe we’ll have more than one kind of partnership before we’re done.
She stirred, rolling over onto her side. Her smile was that of an angel, if an angel slightly tipsy on cordial and pink with loving. He wondered if she were dreaming of him, or of one of her fantasies.
Using powers he hadn’t acknowledged until she entered his life, Jeff sensed mysteries at the heart of this woman that a man could spend a lifetime exploring. Modesty in word and speech mated with the unrestrained ardor she gave him when he kissed her. Her deep sensuality mated with a deeper innocence, not just of men but of the world. And yet she lived in a world he could not touch. Endless paradoxes, strange conundrums that he knew he would never solve but would never tire of trying to unravel. It would take so little for him to fall endlessly in love with her.
As he admitted that, he knew it was too late. He already was drowned in love for her. Love at first sight, probably, though he couldn’t tell for sure. All at once, Jeff surrendered to his love, unable to fight anymore. In surrender, he found a great peace that for now, ended the war between his head and his spirit. His body was delighted too.
He had to get out of there. But it was too late. Edith’s lashes fluttered. She stared for a moment at the candlewicking that decorated the spread; then her focus took him in. “Oh,” she said, pushing up. “Did I fall asleep?”
His voice came from his boots. Would she remember? “Yes.”
“How rude of me. I’m sorry, Jeff. Perhaps you’re right and that cordial was stronger than I knew.” She ran her hand over her disordered hair and glanced around for her hat. The sight of it hanging by its ribbons from the back of the chair reassured her. “Thank you for carrying me up here.”
She was obviously waiting for him to go. “Well, good night,” he said.
“Good night.”
He got as far as the door before his reprobate body made a demand. “Edith, could I kiss you good night?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you? After all, soon you’ll be courting other women.”
She didn’t remember. Jeff knew by her calm response that she had no memory of flinging herself at him, or of going wild in his arms. “I know,” he said. “But I’m kind of out of practice.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Edith tightened her lips as though she regretted saying that. “After all, you’ve kissed me twice.”
Jeff noticed that her hands clasped the bedspread. “Third time’s the charm,” he said, crossing back to her.
His weight made the mattress list toward him. Edith sat very still. “Just ... a good night kiss?”
“That’s all,” he promised.
He brushed her lips with his own, as delicately and lightly as a caress with a flower petal. “Was that so bad?”
“Is that it?” she asked. “Is that all?”
“Just a good night kiss. Like between new friends or old married people.”
“It was nice.” She tilted her chin up. There was no reason not to do it again.
Jeff could imagine kissing her like this after a hard day’s work, or after a long night’s sleep. It was a kiss to be given after a bouquet of flowers, or before he went to the general store. Jeff could imagine all these kisses, but he couldn’t imagine these being the only kisses he’d give her.
There’d be others. Deep kisses in the night, swallowing up her wanton cries. Kisses when he’d catch her unawares, pressing her into the wall while the fried chicken burned on the stove. And gentler ones, too. When she held their first child in her arms, he’d kiss her with all the joy in his heart. Should death threaten them, his kiss would keep it at bay.
Perhaps something of these thoughts showed in his face when he lifted his head. Edith stared up at him in wonder, her eyes the color of wild violets. “Jeff . . .”
“Go to sleep, Edith.”
After he’d gone, Edith lay on the bed thinking for a long time. Only after the little clock chimed twelve times did she realize that she was lying there with all her clothes on, even her shoes. She got up, but her knees were curiously weak. She had a low ache in her back and she greatly feared she needed a bath to wash away a certain immoral moistness.
With shame, Edith knew she must have had one of her peculiar dreams. Though she never recalled the details, she had often awakened feeling this way, even before she’d begun reading novels. Edith only hoped she hadn’t made any noises while she slept. What if Jeff had guessed that her dreams were wicked?
The thought of Jeff was like a sudden magnesium flare in the darkness of her dreaming mind. He’d been part of it, she was certain. She seemed to hear his hot, urgent voice saying things he’d surely never say in the waking world. Something about how she should move or not move. . . . They must have been dancing, she decided abruptly. Though why that should leave her feeling limp and curiously contented, Edith dared not guess.
She began to undress. But her fingers paused on her blouse. She glanced down at the row of mother-of-pearl buttons. They were all skewed, the second button in the third hole. Had she been walking around like that the whole evening? One of the other women surely would have mentioned that her button was open, revealing her undergarment. Edith hoped that since they hadn’t mentioned it, they simply hadn’t noticed.
After she was in bed, Edith realized she was hungry. Though the Misses Tyler had pressed huge amounts of food on her, Edith had been too busy talking to eat very much. Now she thought about biscuits spread with sweet butter and jam like the ones Sam made for breakfast. Wondering if there were any left, Edith put on her pretty gingham Mother Hubbard and opened her door.
“Now wait a minute,” she heard Jeff say. “Where are you going with that. Dad?”
“I’m going to shoot a weasel. A walking, talking, two-faced, low-down weasel.”
They must be in the front hall for their voices carried clearly to where she stood. She walked to the head of the stairs. Though she couldn’t see their faces, she could see that Sam carried a long rifle, its wooden stock bright with polish.
Stunned by the thought of gentle Sam with a gun, Edith watched and listened, trying to understand.
“Now, hold on a minute, Dad. Who’s got you so riled?”
“Better you shouldn’t know . . . but he deserves what’s coming to him. What have I always told you to do if you see somebody picking on someone not up to their weight?”
“Knock ‘em down and sit on ‘em.”
“Well, I mean to knock him down. Let the undertaker sit on him.”
Once again, Jeff caught at his father’s sleeve as Sam turned to head out the door. Sam shrugged off his tall son as though Jeff were a pesky fly. Edith decided it was time to intervene.
She walked quickly down the steps, nearly tripping in her hurry. “Sam, wait.”
“Sorry, Cousin Edith. Got a weasel to hunt.”
“At least, tell me ... that is, doesn’t Jeff have the right to know why his father is suddenly turning into a murderer? What will he tell the girls?”
Sam stopped, halfway out the door. Jeff stepped forward, knowing a good thing when he heard it. “That’s true, Dad. They’re bound to ask. After all, the kids at school . . .”
“Ah, hell!” Sam said, leaning his rifle against the wall. He grimaced at the couple staring after him. “You’ve taken all the fun right out of this.”
“Fun?” Edith asked. Would she ever understand men?
“Not fun, exactly, but when a fellow gets his blood up for vengeance and then somebody comes along talking about his family, the anger drains out like his plug’s been pulled. And here I was really looking forward to scattering Sullivan’s guts all over creation.” He glanced at Edith and his eyes were human again. “Beg your pardon for swearing, ma’am.”
“Not at all.”
Jeff asked, “Sullivan? You mean Dulcie’s fiancé?”
“That’s right, I forgot about that part of it.” The red tinge had faded from Sam’s face but his voice got hard again. “That low-life piece of horsesh . . .”
Edith interrupted before he had to apologize again. “Has Mr. Sullivan done something to Dulcie? Or to . . .”
Sam measured her with his eyes. “I guess you and Miss Albans had a nice long chat this evening. All the same . . .” He turned to his son. “Come on into the parlor, Jeff. What I have to say isn’t for a nice young lady to hear.”
“Please!” Edith said, stepping between the men and the door. “If there’s trouble, I want to know. After all, I am part of this family.”
She hadn’t known she was going to say those words until they came out. Quickly, as they stared at her in surprise, she amended her statement. “I mean ... for the time being . . . until Sunday . . . Sam, you said you’d write me after I left here. I don’t want to get letters from jail. What would my neighbors think of me?”
Surprisingly, it was Jeff who answered, his wide grin making her head spin. “Oh, probably that you’re a dutiful . . . cousin.”
Why was she so certain he’d nearly said something else? She swept him with a puzzled gaze, before saying to Sam, “I think I have the right to know everything. And if something is wrong with Miss Albans, a woman can be of more comfort than a man.”
“You’ve made your point, Edith,” Jeff said, “though I’ll argue with you about ‘comfort’ some other time.”
“If you two are done flirting . . .”
“Flirting!” Edith squealed.