Summer Lightning (29 page)

When the aunts came back, they dropped a broad hint that now would be a good time for the men to go outside and smoke their cigars. Paul sat in the porch swing, beating time softly against the floor with his foot. Jeff had refused one of the panatelas the other man had urged on him. He half-sat on the porch rail, one long leg trailing.

“When are you leaving, Paul?”

“Can’t wait to get rid of me, eh? Well, can’t say I blame you. Nice little hareem you’ve got around here, Jeff.”

“Your aunts love to talk.”

‘They’d be a bonanza to any police force in the country.”

“I am thinking about getting married again,” Jeff said. “What’s your plan?”

“I’m going off to see the world again. This time, all of it. There won’t be corner I won’t visit, not a shrine I’m going to miss. It’s my oyster. I only wish you could come with me, like old times.”

Sitting in the near dark, it was as though there were no years of separation between them, as though they were still both fourteen. Jeff wouldn’t have been surprised if Paul had leaped off the swing and proposed they go play pirates in the woods, as they used to.

“Do you remember Black Sprigo and Plague-y Jack?”

“Black ... oh, yes, the Terrors of the Spanish Main! Weigh-hey, my hearties, and ho for glory!” Paul set himself to swinging in the slatted chair. “What those boys would have given to know that one of them would one day discover a bonanza? Do you remember how one whole summer we dug for gold before we learned they kept it all in California?”

“We worked harder that summer than we did on the real diggings. What made us run off?” Jeff wondered. “We must have been crazy.”

“We were young. We hadn’t any responsibilities we were willing to acknowledge. I still don’t.”

“Don’t you? Miss Climson, for instance?”

“Have a heart, man! I only met her . . . was it yesterday?” Paul looked toward the square of yellow light that was the kitchen window. He’d heard her voice a moment since, that smoky, drawling voice. From the first moment, though he’d heard her saying something entirely commonplace, her voice had made him think of unmade beds and abandoned sprawling bodies.

“You want someone to go on your adventure with, don’t you? Or do you want to go to Florence and Madrid and Timbuctoo alone?”

Paul glanced at Jeff. Had he spoken? Or was it a voice in his own head that asked him those questions. “It’s fantastic,” he said aloud.

“What is?”

“That I should take Miss Climson with me on my voyage.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea. It would be a dream come true for her, you can tell that by the way she talks about the things you’ll see. If she’s not dying to go ... course, there’s the moral side of things. A single man, a single woman, there’d bound to be talk. But you could always say she was your secretary, or something like that.”

“My secretary?” He’d had one in Frisco. A lanky fellow in horn-rimmed glasses whose sole interest outside the law was the opera. Miss Climson looked nothing like him, which was a good thing. If he’d ever had these kinds of thoughts about Harrison, he’d have shot himself.

Paul thought about the soft glow Paris reputedly possessed. He thought about making love to Miss Climson in the sitting room of the most luxurious hotel in the City of Light while that glow reflected off her pearl-like nakedness. He thought about leading a trembling Miss Climson by the hand through the dark catacombs of Rome. He thought about the perfumed gardens of England and picnics with Miss Climson telling him, in her velvety voice, all about the passions of long dead kings. Snuggling up with her under the bearskin rugs as their troika raced through Moscow. Pampering her at the spas of Germany. Looking at her through the clouds of incense in a Buddhist temple. Taking her hand as they gazed up at the Mountains of the Moon. Marrying her in Chicago before their journey began.

“It’s . . . it’s fantastic,” he said again, much more slowly. Standing, he pitched his thin cigar over the railing into his aunts’ flower bed. “I think I’ll go help Miss Climson with the dishes. Say, do you happen to know what her first name is?”

“I’ve heard them call her S.J. I don’t know what it stands for.” As his dazed friend moved inside, Jeff called after him, “Tell Edith I’m ready whenever she is, will you?”

Sitting on the railing, Jeff rubbed his hands together with glee. One down, one to go, he thought.

Turning to bid the aunts one more good-bye, Edith nearly fell as she mounted into the buggy. “Isn’t the fresh air marvelous?”

“Don’t breathe too deeply. You’ll go right to sleep.”

“It’s not that late.”

Jeff drove off. “No, but you’re not used to drinking. Sometimes fresh air will sober you up faster than coffee. Other times it’ll put you under.”

Singing an Italian song under her breath, Edith stared at him as they drove through the soft moonlight. She had compared him to every other man she’d seen since they arrived at church and she’d finally reached an inescapable conclusion. Jefferson Dane was physically perfect and mentally far superior to the run-of-the-mill male. In addition, he was the only man in the world she wanted to kiss. And she wanted to kiss him right now.

“Stop the carriage!” she ordered suddenly.

“Why? Are you going to be ... ?”

“You always stop it when you want to say something. I want to say something.”

With a wary, sideways glance, Jeff stopped. They were on the road home, lonely and deserted at this hour, save for the watching moon. “You’re a little drunk. Whatever you want to say can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

“I’m not drunk and I want you to kiss me.”

“Believe me . . .” Jeff gently pushed her reaching hands away. He managed to remember he’d been raised to be chivalrous toward all women. Especially toward an auburn-haired, slightly tipsy witch making provocative propositions.

Edith asked, “How do you prove you’re not drunk when someone says you are drunk?”

“You say something difficult like . . . British Constitution.” Nobody unused to alcohol, with a glass of the Misses Tyler’s lethal concoction swashing about her insides, could manage that wilderness of syllables without seriously spraining her tongue.

With a bell-like clarity and her eyes looking straight into his, Edith enunciated, “British Constitution. British Constitution. British Constitution. I can say it faster but I want you to kiss me. Please.”

She didn’t move when he touched his lips fleetingly to hers. Merely a reward for not tripping over her tongue, he thought.

“There,” he said, taking up the reins. His hands shook slightly.

“Show me how you do that . . .”

“What?”

She licked her lips. “You know . . .

She was so innocently seductive, kneeling on the seat. “I don’t think this is a good . . .”

Then she was locked in his arms, an embrace so tight that Jeff could feel the slightest quiver of her eager body. She opened her mouth to his foray at once, holding on tighter still. He dragged her across his lap.

“Am I hurting you? I’m too heavy .  . .  ?”

“No. God. Stay still.” He gripped her by the hips, forbidding her to move. He hadn’t been so close to embarrassing himself since he was an overeager boy. But holding her there was just as bad. Closing his eyes against the sweet torture, he was aware of the roundness of her behind beneath the frilled skirt and the secret delights he now knew she kept just for him.

“Jeff . . .”

He opened his eyes to see her gazing down on him with tender worry. “It’s just . . .” he began. “Edith, you’re so . . .”

The tantalizing perfume of her body surrounded him, filled him with every breath. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he raised his hands to the row of pearl buttons marching down her front. But his hands trembled too much to work them free, for which he was heartily glad. He couldn’t take her, not now, not on a flimsy buggy seat, for heaven’s sake!

“Edith, I want you ... I want to make love to you. It’s wrong, but I can’t stop wanting you. You drive me wild.”

“You do the same to me,” she whispered, smiling down at him.

With hands that did not tremble in the least, she undid the top button. He watched in wonder as each pearl slipped free of the button hole. The placket that covered her slowly parted, the V widening as she moved her hand lower. A line of lace, not a whit whiter than her skin, showed between the darker fabric. He could see the shadow between the soft plumpness of her breasts, a promise of paradise.

He closed his eyes. Temptation shouldn’t be just under a man’s nose. “Stop it, Edith. I can’t . . .”

“I want you to kiss me,” she murmured. She touched her mounded flesh—“Here.”

“No. You don’t even know where this will lead. It’s the cordial talking. You don’t think you’re drunk but why else . . .”

“I’ve
asked myself what this feeling means, this ache when you kiss me. I guess it’s wanting you. Like you want me.”

Jeff couldn’t think for the pounding of his blood. As though he watched himself in a dream, he smoothed down the concealing lace. Her corset pushed her breasts up and together, presenting her rosy nipples to his gaze as though on satin pillows. Jeff glanced up and saw in Edith’s eyes only pride amid a haze of growing desire.

If he’d been on the brink of losing himself in her before, he threw away his compass when he bent his head to taste her.

Edith cried out and buried her fingers in the soft pelt of his hair. Her head fell back as she felt for the first time the wonderful madness of Jeff s mouth at her breast. His tongue, so smooth in her mouth, dragged roughly over her nipple, again and again, until she began to move her hips in concert with his licking. She didn’t care how shameless and abandoned her movements became so long as he didn’t stop.

She felt him fumble with the edge of her skirt that flowed over his hips and thighs. Then his hand was sliding over her leg from the ankle, up and up, until his fingers were under the loose band at her knee. Then he stopped.

Edith uttered a sound of protest as he withdrew. But a moment later, through the thin lawn of her drawers, he placed his hand at the exact spot where her ache was strongest. For a moment, she froze at the intimate touch.

He murmured her name. “Go on. Move like you just did. You’ll like it. I promise.”

Tentatively, she flexed against his hand. It felt so right. She knew he must be able to feel the moisture that had gathered there, but there wasn’t room in her now for embarrassment. As he turned his attention to her other breast, more sensitive as though to make up for being second, Edith could no more control the movement of her hips than she could contain the sounds that broke from her throat.

“God!” he said explosively. He turned her so she was cradled in his arm, though his other hand stayed beneath her skirts. Greedily, he kissed her, while increasing the pressure against her hidden cleft. He wanted all her sweetness now and told her so, in hot words that did as much to push her over the brink as his overpowering touch.

As her tumult faded, Jeff held her close against his heart. He touched his lips to the waving curls at her temple, for her face was hidden against his chest. Realizing his hand rested on her thigh, he withdrew it, though his fingers burned with memory. He smoothed down her rumpled skirt.

“Edith,” he whispered. “Don’t be ashamed. It wasn’t . . . you were wonderful.”

She didn’t look up. Jeff became aware that her breathing was deep and regular. “Edith?”

He shook her a little bit. She sighed, deeply, contentedly, but she did not wake up. Looking down at her relaxed, glowing face, Jeff smiled and shook his head. “Dollars to Miss Minta’s crullers, you won’t remember a thing when you wake up. But in the name of Jumping Jehoshaphat, what am I supposed to do now?”

* * * *

Miss Albans bathed her reddened eyes and did up her tumbled hair. Looking at herself in the mirror above the washstand, she was repelled by her resemblance to the girl she’d once been in a Boston boardinghouse. How dare she be so stupid as to weep again for Tate LaRue!

She straightened the waist of her skirt, twisted around when she’d thrown herself on the bed in a storm of weeping. She’d fallen asleep in her clothes and now she felt hot, fidgety, and surprisingly hungry. Glancing at the clock, she couldn’t believe it was already after eleven o’clock at night.

Wearily, she slipped down the narrow hall in her tiny apartment above her store. It was an old building, built at the founding of Richey, and lived in by many different families over the years. There was a two-by-four excuse for a kitchen at the end. She had struggled to make it clean and cheery, using only her own hands and imagination. Entering it now, she realized how dismally she had failed.

Lighting the lamp, she thought about supper, keeping her mind resolutely on little, unimportant things. Had she any eggs? There was the knuckle of a ham bone. Could she bear to make an omelette? Neither George nor Tate had ever wanted her to cook. . . . She flinched away from the memory as though it were a glittering knife.

Cooking took her mind off the dull anger. How nice Edith had been! Vera had shied away from making intimate friends but there was something about the strange cousin of Jeff Dane’s . . . something that wouldn’t let one hide behind social niceties. Vera was glad that Edith had forced her to confess her past.

As she ate her omelette, she wondered why the other girl hadn’t been more horrified and shocked by what she’d said. She couldn’t think of another woman in this town, even the nicest, who wouldn’t have flaunted a tiny bit of moral superiority over their fallen sister.

As Vera carried her plate to the sink, she heard a rattle as someone climbed up the back stairs. They were rickety things, assembled of scrap lumber when the store was built years ago. Vera was afraid to use them, but whenever she had, she’d heard the warped and cracking boards rattling at each step, held down only by squared-headed nails.

Instinctively, Vera turned up the lamp. She wanted light when she opened the door to Tate. “What do you want?”

“Why, to come in.”

“Do your talking where you are.”

“Now, do you want everyone to see me? I thought not.” He seemed to skulk in without her opening the door any farther.