Darkling I Listen (29 page)

"News flash. People in love are supposed to confide in one another, Carlyle. Unless, of course, you were just blowing smoke last night. Mixing up lust and love. It happens." She smiled.

He didn't. "I've been in lust enough to know the difference, cupcake. All right. Mitsy and I went at it like rabbits one night. The next day I left to start work on
Jericho
.
Two
months later I got a letter from her informing me she was pregnant and wanted to get married. Cara went through the roof, of course. She paid off Mitsy's mother; Mitsy got an abortion. End of story." Turning, he took her face between his hands and searched her eyes. "And don't change the subject. You're going to be a target, Alyson. You can't go around befriending weirdos because they have nice eyes or a sob story that tugs at your heartstrings. I've got enough on my conscience without worrying that your association with me is going to jeopardize your life."

Pulling away, Alyson returned to the bedroom. She paced, hands on her hips. "But you don't understand. She knew things—"

"I don't believe in psychics, Aly. I don't believe in things that go bump in the night. I don't believe in Houdini or seances or UFOs. Reality is scary enough for me."

She grabbed up a double Twinkie package from the nightstand and threw it at him. "Nora bought those—"

"The whole world eats Twinkies. It's
America
's favorite—"

"She called me Cupcake and said 'Klem adores you.' Now, unless you've got a bug under your bed, explain to me how she would know that sort of thing."

He had no answer for that. Leaning against the bathroom doorjamb, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched her face flush with angry color.

With a huff of exasperation, she dropped to her knees and looked under the bed. Her muffled voice said, "No bugs here that I can detect. I do see a pair of dirty socks and…
"
Her head ducked farther under the bed, leaving her butt stuck in the air. The image made him hard immediately, and refocused his thoughts on something other than the fear and anger that had eaten at him minutes before. He crossed the room in three strides, a grin curling one side of his mouth, and eased to his knees behind her.

"Oh!" she cried, followed by a thump as she hit her head on the bed's underside. "What are you doing?"

"What does it feel like I'm doing?" He slid his hand between her legs and cupped her.

"Carlyle, you're a pervert."

"I thought I'd already established that fact." Sliding his hands around her waist, he unsnapped her jeans.

"Oh my God!" she cried. "What is
…
Oh, my God, these are my panties! My red thong panties!"

"Oops." He slapped her butt and got up, laughing. She shimmied out from under the bed, her panties in one hand. "I looked everywhere for these. What the dickens are you doing with my panties?" She glared up at him from the floor, her nose smudged with dust and her eyes wide as saucers.

"You don't really want to know, do you?" He grinned down at her and winked, reached for her arm and helped her up. He planted a kiss carefully on her cut lip and took the panties from her hand. "Actually, what I want you to do
is
go in the bathroom and take off all your clothes. Put these on—nothing else—and come back out here, where I'm going to slowly peel them down your legs and lick you until you beg me to—"

"Got a thing for women's panties, don't cha?"

"A big thing."

There came a knock at the door. Betty called out, "Mr. Brandon, dinner is ready."

As he tucked the panties into his pocket, giving Alyson as lascivious a grin as he could manage, Alyson backed away with an odd expression on her face. Not dread, exactly, but close.

She thumbed toward the closed door, and said, "Maybe I should leave."

"Why?"

He almost laughed, but the look on her face stopped him. "You're serious."

"She doesn't approve of
…
us. Although I suspect the disapproval is directed more at me in general than at what's going on between us."

"You're imagining things."

She looked as if she expected him to say exactly what he'd said.

"What makes you think she doesn't like you?" he asked, trying to keep any tone of incredulity from his voice. She was obviously serious—she looked like if she walked out the door, she'd discover Betty ready to pull a Mitsy Dillman on her.

Sliding her hands into the hip pockets of her jeans, she backed away and shook her head. "Forget it. I'm probably being overly sensitive. I tend to do that."

"Has she said or done something I should know about?"

She shook her head, but didn't look at him.

"Mr. Brandon,"
came
Betty's faint voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Dinner's getting cold!"

*

Fried fresh catfish, fried potatoes, and hush puppies were
normally
Brandon
's favorite meal. During the years of his incarceration he'd stare at the ceiling and try to block out the howling of angry men by thinking about Bernie's fried catfish and hush puppies. She'd promised
,
in the many letters that she wrote him, that the first meal she'd prepare for him when he came home would be catfish, with strawberry short-cake for dessert. But he found, as he picked at his food, that he didn't have much of an appetite. Maybe he was just too damn tired. Maybe he was dreading telling Henry that Mitsy Dillman was walking around free as a bird. Or maybe he was simply more interested in watching Alyson bond with his uncle. Each time she flashed Henry a smile, the old man blushed like an infatuated fourteen-year-old.

He glanced at Betty, who sat at the far end of the table—not her usual place to eat. Normally she sat at Henry's left, directly across from
Brandon
—where Alyson now sat, at Henry's insistence. Betty barely touched her food as she watched the interplay between Henry and Alyson.

"So tell me, Al," Henry said, "can you cook?"

"Quite well," she replied. "I make a mean fried chicken. And my dumplings aren't too bad, either. And my potato salad? Truckers used to drive a hundred miles out of their way for a serving of my creamy mustard potato salad."

Henry looked at
Brandon
and beamed a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
Brandon
raised one eyebrow and grinned back.

"I started working the café when I was twelve. My gran's health had begun to fail, and she couldn't stand on her feet for so long at a time. I worked the first breakfast wave around six—the farmers mostly, up at the crack of dawn, coming in for coffee. Left for school at eight. Got home at four. Rushed through my homework,
then
took over the kitchen again at six, in time for the dinner rush. By the time I was fifteen, I ran the whole joint on the weekends, planned the menus,
did
all the shopping. Gran's phlebitis had gotten so severe she could hardly walk, so I pretty much took care of her as well."

"Do you like kids?"

Her cheeks flushed as she sat back in her chair. She ducked her head in that timid way that made him
want
to crawl over the table and kiss her, among other things. He shot Henry a look and said, "You're embarrassing her."

"It's a perfectly reasonable question," Henry declared, smiling at Alyson. "She's a beautiful woman. She'll make beautiful babies. I'm sure you agree,
Brandon
, or you wouldn't be so occupied watching her that you've forgotten to eat."

Her clear hazel eyes came back to his. Her mouth curved.

"Do you?"
Brandon
asked, grinning.

"Like kids?"

"Yes."

She nodded, grinning back. "Very much."

"I'd like three or four."

"Four. Avoids the middle child syndrome. I'd like all boys. Names: Bryan, Christopher, John, and
…
well,
perhaps
name one after his father."

Silence filled the room briefly, and the words were on the tip of his tongue.
Marry me.
It made no sense, of course, this emotional upheaval over someone he'd met only days ago. He'd always been pragmatic when it came to his relationships with women, but all that had flown out the window the first moment he'd looked in Alyson James's eyes. Henry's words that morning had continued to play through his mind—
Henry's knowing
right off that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Bernie.

Henry spoke again. "Have another piece of fish, Al. And hush puppies. Go on, take two. Bernie's recipe. She won first place at the State Fair one year for her hush puppy recipe. Remember that,
Brandon
? I believe we've still got the ribbon someplace."

"Buried away in The Shrine, no doubt,"
Brandon
replied as he poked a fried potato into a puddle of ketchup.

"The Shrine?" Alyson forked another piece of catfish and plunked it on her plate. She reached for the ketchup bottle.

Henry pointed toward the closed door off the kitchen. "Every photograph, news article, magazine article, or award he was ever associated with is in that room, including Oscar."

Her eyes got wide, and she smiled at
Brandon
. "Oscar? Really? Oh,
my gosh
. Can I touch it?"

"The naked bald guy? The highlight of my illustrious career? Sure, why the hell not?"

Henry chuckled. "
Brandon
once threatened to make a lamp out of Oscar
. '
Bout gave Bernie a heart attack." Henry plucked another hush puppy from the platter,
then
wagged it at
Brandon
. "One thing you could never fault my nephew over was his humility. Success never went to his head, despite what you might have read in those damn tabloids. It wasn't arrogance that caused him to behave like a turd on the job. It was the booze. Made him crazy."

"Christ."
Brandon
groaned and sat back in his chair. Alyson flashed him an amused look,
then
focused again on Henry.

"Funny thing about
Brandon
," Henry continued. "Always acted a little embarrassed by his success. As if he didn't deserve it. Cara took more credit for his success than he did."

Henry smiled. "Remember when you were nominated for that Emmy for best supporting actor in a dramatic role? You were
…
eleven, I think. I still recall the show.
Those Foster Kids.
Brandon
's character, Jeff—"

"Forget it, Henry,"
Brandon
interrupted, feeling his face start to burn. The little bit of food he'd eaten began to crawl back up his throat. "Let's change the subject."

Alyson turned her eyes on him, regarded him steadily. "Go on, Henry."

"Jeff's father came to see him. Been in prison for a number of years. Started making noises that he wanted his kid back—"

"Henry—" His fists clenched. Planting his elbows on the table, one on each side of his plate of cooling food, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, thinking he'd do better to cover his ears with his hands, but the damage was already done. Henry had peeled the scab off the wound, and suddenly all the old infection was boiling up—
"Jeff got hysterical and furious and tried to kill himself—"

"Stop it." He looked at Henry, at Alyson, who continued to watch him.

"Kid had a total breakdown, and we discover that he'd been sexually abused—"

Brandon
stood up suddenly, knocking the chair back so it slammed against the floor. The loud bang popped like a fire-cracker, causing Henry and Alyson to jump. Betty dropped her fork.

"Jesus Christ, can't you just leave it alone, Henry? It's history." His voice shook, and sweat rolled down his temples. "I'm trying to put those goddamn years behind me, and you keep belching them back up like gas."

Henry put down the hush puppy and stared at
Brandon
through his thick spectacles, his normally rosy face suddenly pale. "I'm sorry," he offered softly. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant. We all know what you meant. I got nominated for a stupid Emmy. So what?"

"You were brilliant,
Brandon
—"

"I wasn't brilliant, Henry. I was…
"
He bit off the words
hysterical and furious and on the verge of killing
myself
.
He swallowed the admission that there had been no acting to it—the emotions had been raw and real, a scream for help. Instead, he'd been nominated for a fucking Emmy.

Brandon
left the house through the back door, slamming it hard behind him, sucking in his breath as the cold air smacked him hard. He made his way to the barn in the deepening dusk—sat on the edge of the rusting metal water trough, and dug cigarettes and lighter from his shirt pocket. His hand was shaking as he put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.