Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy (74 page)

That night, just as Warren came to share the
bed with me, I asked to sleep alone. Warren looked perplexed,
almost offended.

“It’s my time of the month,” I lied.

“Oh, I see,” he said, climbing over me then
he made himself a place on the floor. I smiled with great
satisfaction and watched as he tossed and turned, trying to get
comfortable. The bed was lumpy and stiff, but nothing compared to
the cold, hard floor.

The next morning, he was exceptionally
grumpy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I served him his
eggs and sausage.

He refused to look at me and decided not to
eat. “I have a new job, starting tomorrow,” he said before he
stepped outside to gather some wood.

“A new job?” I hadn’t realized he was looking
for work. In fact, I had no idea where he obtained his money.

“I purchased a grindstone and will be going
around to farms to see if any need sharpening services. I’m going
into Savannah today to bring back a wagon to haul it around
in.”

I didn’t know whether to be glad about the
job or unhappy. It meant he would be able to save for land to build
a house for us on the ocean, but he would be out all day and I
would be left alone. I didn’t want to be alone again.

“Can I go with you? I can sit in the wagon
while you work.”

He heard my desperation and said he would
think about it. I reminded him that I would still keep a clean
house and do all the laundry.

“And the cooking?”

I wouldn’t be able to prepare supper if I was
out all day with him. My heart slowly sank.

“We’ll see. Maybe on an occasional day,” he
said, before he departed.

Warren’s work took him away all day and well
into the late hours of the evening. I found my own way to cope with
his daily absences, cooking and cleaning with fervor. When he came
in after a long day, he was hungry, his face was blanketed with
lethargy, and I felt guilty, for I knew all of his hard work was to
save up enough money to take me away. So I did all I could to ease
his stomach with my tasty cooking and offered to rub his achy
muscles.

The first time I suggested it, he was unsure,
but I insisted and told him to take off his shirt and sit in the
chair.

“Momma used to do this for Daddy when he had
been up for days working the light during a heavy fog, and it
helped him relax and sleep better,” I told Warren. He was almost
too tired to refuse and appeased me by taking off his shirt.

The skin on his back was red from carrying
the grindstone, and his rippling muscles were extremely tight. I
stepped behind the chair and gently placed my hands on his
shoulders, then began working my fingers around each stiff muscle,
slowly at first, working into a harder rub.

“You’re so tense.” I could only see the back
of his head, but I could tell by the way the side of his jaw
locked, that he was in more discomfort than he let on.

“It’s helping; don’t stop.”

I smiled and continued rubbing through his
pain, moving my hands and fingers around each ripple on his back.
It was the first time I had touched his bare skin, and I noticed
every one of the freckles scattered along his broad shoulders.

When he relaxed, as his muscles loosened, he
closed his eyes and rested. My hands slowed to a light stroke, just
the tips of my fingers easing over his skin. I noticed his goose
bumps as I led my fingertips up his spine, toward his solid neck,
then I started to stroke his hair. He began to ease his head back.
His eyes closed, and he drank in the massage then just as his head
gently fell back into my bosom, he jumped up, sending the chair
crashing to the floor. I jumped back, and we both stood staring at
one another, until Warren said, flustered, “I must have drifted
off. I thought I was floating away when the chair slipped out from
under me.”

We bent down to reach for the chair at the
same time, and our heads bumped. I started to laugh, but Warren
wasn’t amused. He was flushed and embarrassed, and hastily rushed
outside. I was left standing, not understanding what I did to upset
him so terribly. Outside, he paced the porch and ran his hands
through his hair. He was without his shirt, and it was cold
outside. I picked it up off the floor and went to give it to him.
The quarter-moon gave just enough light to see through the
night.

“Put on your shirt so you don’t catch a
cold,” I said, handing it to him.

“Thank you,” he replied, and hurried to put
it on, though he left the buttons undone. I didn’t respond and went
back inside to clean up before bed. Warren sat on the porch and
smoked his pipe, coming in later, just as I was situated in the
bed. I had already blown the lamp out and wanted only to go to
sleep. I had imagined he would be grateful for the massage; Daddy
always was when Momma was kind enough to do it for him, but Warren
seemed unappreciative. All I wanted to do was make him happy. I
tried everything to please him, and supposed I should have been
content just knowing he allowed me to live with him. After all, he
had no real reason to take me in, except for the kindness of his
heart. He owed me nothing, yet I felt as though he owed me the
world. I was flooded with mixed feelings. Perhaps I was trying too
hard, and that’s what pushed him away. Maybe I was overly grateful,
or had he sensed I was taking advantage of his kindness? I didn’t
know.

I lay there and listened as he changed for
bed, and I cringed when he banged his leg into the footboard of the
bed. “Damn it!” he said, walking off the pain. “Damn it, damn it,
damn it!”

I wanted to go to him, to apologize and say I
was sorry for blowing out the lamp and making it so dark that he
hurt himself, for giving him a massage that made him unhappy and
mad at me, for coming to my rescue so long ago, and for making me
fall in love with him.

I finally won up enough nerve, choked back my
tears, and said, “Warren, I’m sorry.”

He stopped pacing like some kind of caged
circus animal and whisked over to me. He knelt down and took both
my hands, then pressed them against his cool, scruffy cheek. I
began to sob. I felt so unbelievably lost when people were angry
with me, and I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed by all of his
mixed signals.

“Dear, Lillian; stop crying,” he said in a
hushed, muffled voice. He took my hands and pressed my palms
against his tender lips. “I hate to see you sad.”

I continued to drop tears as he told me he
was sorry, and he wasn’t mad at me. “You have a way of making me
crazy inside,” he whispered, then bowed his head. I didn’t know
what I had done to make him feel such turmoil; all I wanted to do
was love him and have him love me in return.

“Is it the money, Warren?” I softly asked.
Maybe his struggle was due to the overwhelming financial burden. “I
want you to know I will be happy with you no matter where we live.
I know what I said in the past, and I was wrong for insisting you
take me back to the sea.” As I lay on my side against the lumps of
the bed, I reached over, ran my hand through his thick hair, and
added, “You will make me happy wherever we live.”

Warren lifted his heavy head and proceeded to
get into bed with me. I felt his woe; I sensed his encumbrance and
thought I should give him an opportunity to free himself from the
burden of caring for me.

“All I need is a few dollars, and I can be
out of your life for good.”

It pained me to offer such a thing; it broke
my heart to think he might jump at the chance to be a single man
again, but I loved him enough to set him free.

_______________

Warren gave a weighty sigh, rolled over, and
placed his arms around me. I closed my eyes and held my breath,
waiting for his response. Outside, I heard the hoot of an owl, and
the wind caused the branches around the cabin to scrape the tin
roof. The night went on, but time for me stood still. Would Warren
want more than anything to share his life with me, or was he having
second thoughts? Did he regret the day he found me in the marsh,
alone and scared? Was it merely pity that caused him to take me
under his wing, or was it love at first sight, as it was for me?
Only Warren could answer that.

“If you only knew,” he mumbled into the back
of my hair.

“What, Warren? What should I know?” I asked,
wide-eyed. Was he finally going to reveal the deep pain that kept
him from wanting me, loving me, and asking me to marry him?

“I have made terrible mistakes,” he began,
caressing my hair. “Mistakes I never want to repeat.”

“Is being with me a mistake?”

“No, Lillian. Don’t ever think you and I are
a mistake.”

I could hear the anguish in his voice. “Then
what are we?” I finally found the courage to ask. I desperately
needed to know what I was to him. Was I a little girl in his eyes?
Was I some lonely, pathetic orphan that needed his mercy, or was I
a desirable woman that had stolen his heart, a woman he wanted to
marry? Was there even a chance that he loved me as much as he did
the woman who claimed his heart years before?

“You and I, Lillian, are meant to be,” Warren
said, slipping into a peaceful sleep, while I lay awake and
wondered.

Throughout the winter, and all into spring
and summer, Warren and I fell into a stale routine without the fire
and passion I thought would come of our relationship. He became
used to my walking about half-dressed, in his night shirt; his eyes
no longer lingered on my bosom. Warren treated me more like a
friend every day that passed, though he still insisted on sleeping
beside me and holding me while he dreamed. I cooked and cleaned; he
went off to work. He spoke of the different people he met along his
sales route; he told me every day what a hard day he’d had. After
supper, he’d sit out on the porch, often asking me to sit with him.
So I’d sit in the rocker and watch him as he read the paper and
smoked his pipe. It wasn’t anything like the relationship Momma and
Daddy had. They adored one another; Daddy couldn’t keep his eyes
off her when she was in the same room, and every night he could, he
would take her and love her in the way I now craved. I was able to
stop men on the streets of Savannah with my curvy body and angelic
face. That’s what Richard told me one late afternoon in mid-summer
in the general store.

Warren had given me a list of supplies to get
while he went to have the wagon’s axle repaired, and I stood gazing
up at dolls that sat sigh high on a shelf, when Richard had stolen
up from behind and said, “We meet again.”

I hadn’t seen Richard for many months and was
startled. He looked as dapper as ever in his black wool sack suit.
A watch chain was attached to his top button, a white handkerchief
was in his left breast pocket, and atop of his dark brown hair sat
a fine crowned bowler hat.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” I said, blushing at my
thoughts of how handsome he looked.

“Please, call me Richard,” he said, giving me
a confident smile.

“Have you been out of town? I haven’t seen
you in quite some time.”

“My wife Judith and I moved back to New York.
We are here to visit her sister Rachael,” he said, stepping back to
get a better look at me. His copper eyes sparkled, and his grin was
wide. “You, my dear, have become the most stunning young woman I
have ever laid eyes on.”

I looked at the ground, embarrassed by his
compliment.

“Have you thought about perhaps allowing me
to sketch you?” he asked, inching closer.

“No, not really.”

“No? You are going to keep your beauty hidden
from the world? By God, I think that should be a crime,” Richard
said, though I wasn’t sure he was serious.

“What should be a crime?” Warren asked. His
eyes practically fired bullets at Richard as he stepped between
us.

“Hello, sir. You must be Lillian’s father. My
name is Richard Parker.” Richard extended his hand. Warren refused
to shake it and nudged me toward the counter to pay for our things.
Richard didn’t back off, though Warren’s manner should have given
him pause. “Your daughter should be in magazines.”

Warren clenched his jaw while staring
straight ahead and said, “She is not my daughter.”

Richard was taken aback. He shifted his eyes
to Warren, then to me, then back at Warren, and said, “Well, your
sister then.”

Warren ignored Richard and ushered me out to
the wagon. Richard was persistent, relentless in fact. “I certainly
don’t mean to be a bother, I just thought—”

Warren hastily interrupted. “Stay out of our
business. Lillian is not going to be in one of your inappropriate
magazines!”

I was humiliated by Warren’s rude behavior
and almost in tears as he sped us off, leaving Richard standing in
the street.

“Why did you behave that way?” It happened
every time we went to Savannah. Warren would see some man talking
to me and would become angry and possessive. “Richard is a nice
man. He is from New York.”

“You’re not going to pose for any magazine,
do you understand me?”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good. Then we have no reason to continue
this discussion.”

He shot me a look of disdain while I sat
beside him. He slowed the horse and sat back. Late afternoon was
the hottest point of the day, and I couldn’t wait to get a drink of
water. Warren unhitched the horse while I quenched my thirst with
cold well water. It was awkward between us, and I was growing to
dislike his ways. If I were his wife, or lover, I would understand
him protecting me, but I was neither. So I decided not to cook for
him that Saturday evening.

“Why aren’t you starting supper?” he asked
when he came in after washing up by the creek not far from the
house.

“I’m not your servant, Warren Stone. Make
your own supper,” I snapped, and proceeded to change for bed. Right
in front of him, I stripped off my dress, then my petticoat,
corset, chemise, and pantalettes. I had never been undressed in
front of a man before, and I didn’t care that Warren was speechless
or that his wide, astonished eyes were watching me. I slid under
the blanket, not looking his way, without my nightshirt on, and
closed my eyes, pretending to go to sleep. I was absolutely fed up.
I didn’t have Momma’s mild temperament; I wasn’t as refined as she
thought. I had a chip on my shoulder. I was angry at everyone—Momma
for going mad, and Daddy for abandoning me. I was furious for my
years of abuse, and Warren was going to feel the burden of my
resentment.