The House on Persimmon Road (20 page)

She regretted that she had not allowed Tucker to wait. Her whole life was one long series of regrets and wrong decisions!

She had made the wrong decision with Philip. Poor Philip. He was wrong for himself!

Now there was Tucker.

He attracted her like a magnet. He seemed so right for her, for all of them. In a single evening he had made her doubt her hypothesis that no man under the age of forty was reliable.

She turned over and gazed up at the ceiling, water marks fading in the weak nightlight, and wondered what life might be like with Tucker if she gave up her mistrust and took him wholly into her heart.

How would it be if he were in bed with her this minute?

She laughed at the idea. With her luck, Agnes would barrel in…Judy Ann would require a glass of water…the roof would fall in. The cedar chair would hike across the great room.

he was more in love with Justine than he had ever thought it possible for a man to love a woman. Just where he did not want to be—in spite of himself.

He was trying to doze, but his mind refused to sleep. It kept filling with a picture of his hands moving across Justine’s body, slowly and deliberately. He could see himself stroking her until she flamed and ached with desire. He could see his mouth following his hands, exploring her, touching her, exciting her to a point where even the feel of his breath would cause her to quiver.

Tucker groaned and punched his pillow.

But it was more than sex that he wanted from Justine. She completed him, as if she filled in all of his emotional blanks. He wondered what her reaction would be if he told her that.

She’d tell you to drop dead, probably,
said his interior voice.

And, what if he mentioned he was writing a cookbook?

Tell her,
urged the voice.
She could use a good laugh.

The electricity failed for the second time that morning. Justine threw up her hands and yelped. “No! No! No-o-o-o!”

“I always seem to arrive hard on the heels of a crisis,” said Tucker as he knocked on the doorjamb before stepping through the opened French doors.

Justine looked up and smiled. “It’s not a crisis, exactly. It’s just we can’t use more than two appliances at the same time I’m using the computer. The fridge
has
to stay on—so anybody using the can opener or microwave when I’m on the computer zaps the electricity. We keep blowing fuses.”

“Maybe you have a ghost who wants to conserve energy.”

“Very funny. The house probably needs new wiring.”

“You’re looking at the best handyman this side of the Mississippi. I’ve got a shed full of leftovers from renovating my place. If you like, I can separate the circuit you use for the computer from the rest of the house.”

“You’ve got to stop doing things for us, Tucker. It makes me feel we’re taking advantage of you.”

“Is that bad?”

“There’s so little I can do for you in return.”

He grinned. “I can think of one or two things—my laundry, wash my truck or, better yet, read me a bedtime story…”

“Good try,” she said airily and laughed. “But no thanks.”

“You have a sexy laugh. It’s enough to give any man salacious ideas.”

Their eyes locked, and for a moment the intensity of his stare unnerved Justine, leaving her mute. He stood tall and exuded a maleness that made her recall every minute of the evening before. Pleasure rippled through her body in tiny waves. She was obliged to shift her gaze lest he read the longing in her eyes.

“You’re just full of bad jokes this morning,” she teased. “Was it something you ate?”

“Ah, food. That reminds me why I stopped in—to tell you we’re back. Pip’s helping my dad put away his things. They’re going to dig a few worms and head off to the river. I’m going to barbecue a slab of ribs this afternoon. I thought the rest of you could walk down, meet my dad, break bread…”

“I’d like that,” she said, giving him the full benefit of her sultry green gaze.

“I have something for you.” He drew his hand from behind his back and offered her a brown paper sack. “I didn’t have it wrapped—”

“A gift?” Surprise undid her normal voice.

“Look and see.”

It was a small porcelain piggy bank, painted with delicate flowers.

Tucker grinned seductively. “For your pennies.”

It was a dual moment of knowledge, words that echoed the past and thrust them into the future. Justine tried to be very, very still and think carefully. Her eyes were luminous. “You’re crazy,” she said, her smile overfull and heavy.

“I am. About you.” He took her arm, drawing her to him so that they stood within an inch of each other. “We have some unfinished business.”

“We do?”

“In my book when a guy takes his lady out, the least he can expect is a kiss goodnight. I was cheated. You did want to kiss me last night?”

“I—” Justine catalogued the whereabouts of other family members: Pauline was in her room, Agnes in the kitchen, Judy Ann outside pestering Milo to put up a swing for her. The moment was theirs alone. She went into his arms.

His lips brushed hers softly at first, as if waiting for a response. Every part of her came alive, tingling, pulsating, and elevating her senses to a pitch that felt almost unbearable. She put her arms around his neck, pressed against him, and tentatively returned his kiss.

“I knew I was right to be crazy about you,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice deep and husky. “I want you Justine, more than I’ve ever wanted anybody or anything. In my fantasies I’ve already made love to you,
absorbed
you.”

Justine found her own feelings both exciting and frightening. She had never been so affected by a man in her life. And he sounded so sincere, but didn’t all men when they wanted something? It was too easy to be tempted by dreams that denied reality.

“I’ve heard that before, or at least variations of the line,” she said, the words tumbling out.

A black shadow descended over his face. “Damn it! Don’t make the mistake of comparing me to somebody else.”

“I’m trying not to. But you know the old saying— if something is too good to be true, it is.”

“I’m too good to be true?” Astonishment coated his words.

“My perception may be faulty,” she observed with a smile. “You may have a Jekyll and Hyde personality.”

“Not this old boy. What you see is what you get. And I’m trying to give you all of me.”

A spike of shyness surged through Justine. “I know.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He stiffened suddenly.

Justine followed his gaze over her shoulder.
One
of the problems stood behind her, stone-faced, frozen, standing still as a mannequin and glaring at them.

She disengaged herself from his encircling arms. “Mother Hale,” she said, wondering how long the older woman had been observing them. “We didn’t hear you.”

“I could tell.”

“Tucker just came over to invite us to a cookout.”

“How nice,” she said, imbuing the words with a pound of sarcasm.

Before Justine had a chance to respond Agnes made her exit. A moment later the television went on, volume high. Embarrassment flared in Justine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to old crabs. I own one myself.”

“At least he doesn’t live with you.”

“He will eventually,” he answered, giving Justine food for thought and watching her face.

“I hope you handle it better than I do,” she said. “Well, I’ve got to check the fuse box.”

“Did I lay that on you wrong?”

“No, not wrong. But lately I’ve thought how hard it is to have a relationship. There’s so much baggage to drag into it.”

His stomach somersaulted. “Does that mean you think we have a relationship?”

“Probably,” she said lamely.

She looked so forlorn, he couldn’t hold himself apart from her; he pulled her to him again and pressed his lips to her brow. She was flesh and soft and he wanted more than anything to feel her suppleness yield beneath his body. With a sigh, he held himself in check.

“How does four o’clock sound?”

“Four o’clock?” Dazed.

“Barbecue, food. Four o’clock?”

“Oh. Perfect. Shall I bring something?”

“Your family…” He let his hands trail down her spine and lowered his voice. “Your body, an appetite, kind words.” His hands settled about her waist and he pushed her a few inches away. “I want to tell you something. Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“No woman has ever gotten me so erotically inclined at ten o’clock in the morning.”

“And I have never felt so shameless.” Or powerful, she thought, flushing with a strange sense of pride. Philip had been such a prude. No amount of pleading on her part had ever convinced him to take her into his arms—unless they were behind a locked bedroom door. Woman power. It was heady emotional baggage. Without a doubt it was the kind of baggage she
could
learn to live with.

“Why do you keep taking pot shots at Tucker, Mother Hale? He’s been nothing but kind to you, to all of us.”

“You were kissing him.”

“I was. You know what? I may do it again.”

“It just doesn’t seem right. Suppose Philip comes back?”

Justine blinked. “If he showed up on our doorstep five minutes from now, I wouldn’t have him back—not as my husband. Ever.”

“He’s the father of your children.”

“Biologically, yes, otherwise, he’s proved himself not interested.” Oh, God. She hated having to defend herself against the criticism she heard in the older woman’s voice.

“You’re becoming hard as nails, Justine. I don’t like it.”

“What you don’t like is that I might find somebody to love and be loved in return. I’m still young, Agnes. I want some happiness and continuity for myself and for the children.”

“You hope to find it with Tucker Highsmith?”

“I don’t know yet. Please, couldn’t you see your way clear to be nice to him?”

“If it means that much to you,” she said on a note of aggrieved martyrdom. “I guess I know which side my bread is buttered on.”

Justine took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Lottie sat in her chair staring at nothing, her spirit wrapped in numbness. The house was silent and empty. Justine had herded the family together and trotted them down to the barn. Lottie thought her frustration level was about to break its limits, vexing beyond measure.

She had tried all she could think of with the fuses and electricity. No wonderful arc or spark had flowed into her. Each time she had loosened a fuse, the current had stopped altogether, and each time Justine had come racing into the bath mouthing epithets that should never cross a decent woman’s lips.

Life, Lottie thought sadly, was nothing more than a sleight of hand. Now you see it, now you don’t. She wanted to be seen so badly the taste of want was acrid on her tongue. She laughed at herself.
As if she had a tongue.
But she must have—she could taste, couldn’t she? And if she couldn’t yet be seen, she at least wasn’t blind. Dust motes floated in patches of sunlight checkering the floor. She saw them easily; and the crystal arranged in the cabinet; the bottles and carafes of liquor were a symphony of color—browns and greens and yellows, prisms that caught the odd shaft of light.

She drifted over to the cabinet and read the labels; Absinthe, Sambuca, Drambuie, brandy of which there was cherry and Napoleon, vodka and rum. Rum. The tobacco buyer had always made Elmer a gift of a small keg of Jamaican rum with which she had made cakes and puddings. And oh, the heady smell in the kitchen while raisins soaked in the dark amber liquid!

She poured a small amount of rum into a glass and passed it beneath her nose. Ambrosia—she could smell. She took a small sip—and taste. She filled the glass to its brim, and regally, as if playing to an audience, returned to her chair. The rum made her feel warm, also light-headed. It seemed to expand her world, put her in touch with herself. After a second glass, Lottie gazed around at the dusty splendor that was her home. She was disappointed with Justine’s housekeeping and had to fight the urge to take up dust cloth and mop. Soon, she hoped. Once she had mastered electricity, she’d see to it that the old house and all its contents sparkled. Justine would be glad of the help. Lottie was certain.

Agnes kept her word, treating Tucker with a polite, if stiff formality. She did not extend the same courtesy to Tucker’s father. The two septuagenarians declared war almost from the moment they were introduced.

“Think you was born to the purple, do ye?” Wheeler said, looking Agnes up and down.

“Better born than out from under a rock,” replied Agnes, stabbing her cane into the soft earth as if defining her territory.

Wheeler rocked on his heels and popped his suspenders. “You walkin’ around brain dead? Or you just appear that way?”

“I understand you’re under court-ordered supervision,” Agnes said, feigning sympathy. “It’s so sad when one of our age has been declared incompetent.”

Wheeler grinned and there was in the set of his mouth a youthful resemblance to his son. “What’d you have for breakfast, Purple Lady? Hemlock tea?”

Justine was mortified.

Tucker thrust a soft drink into her hand and pulled her away. “Come talk to me while I baste the ribs.”

“We can’t leave those two alone. They might kill each other.”

“What do you suggest? That we make them stand in the corner until they promise to behave?”

There was a cluster of dogwood several yards from Tucker’s back door and it was beneath this delicate shade that he had set out his kitchen table and chairs to accommodate guests. A forty-gallon drum converted to a cooking grill held ribs, a pot of corn on the cob, another of pork ‘n’ beans. The savory smells hung in the air.

Pip was wandering the vegetable garden, Judy Ann scouring for a nest an old hen meant to keep secret. Pauline was off in a world of her own, settled in a lounge chair studying the driver’s handbook.

With reluctance and a glance over her shoulder, Justine moved away from the oldsters.

“Let it go,” Tucker said.