The Talk of the Town (16 page)

“Let me pour you some lemonade,” she offered after washing and drying her hands.

“Just a quick glass,” he said. “I really need to get moving.”

She took two glasses out of the cupboard, then a full-to-the-brim pitcher out of the icebox. After chipping some ice off the block in a bowl on the top shelf, she poured their drinks. Watching her, it was all he could do not to touch her. Even in her mussed state, she looked so touchable and soft. He wondered if she would run screaming out the front door if he took her in his arms and kissed her the way he longed to.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she handed him his glass.

He drained his lemonade in one long, thirsty swallow and then set his empty glass in the sink. “Out to look at my grandfather’s old place.”

“That’s an awfully long walk,” she said, and sipped her cold lemonade.

“Oh, I’m not walking.”

“You have a car?”

“A motorcycle.”

She blinked. “A motorcycle! Where did you get a motorcycle?”

“I’m buying it from my landlady,” he explained. “Her husband rode motorcycles in the war and he bought one when he came home. A year or so later he fell off the roof of a barn he was helping a friend build and died, and she just left it where he’d parked it, in the shed behind the boardinghouse. It needs some work, so I started tinkering with it and discovered that the motor still runs. Hums like the sewing machine she keeps in the spare room, in fact. When I asked her about it, she said she’d sell it to me for a good price and that she’d let me pay it off by doing odd jobs that she doesn’t have to hire out.”

“Like painting the porch.” She remembered him saying he had to do that before he could go to the bake sale.

“And washing all the windows and putting up screens,” he added. “And replacing the flattened tin cans covering the holes in the roof with real shingles. You name it, I’m doing it.”

“A motorcycle is certainly cheaper than a car,” she commented, thinking of all the money she’d spent these last few months to keep hers in good running condition.

“It uses a lot less gas, too.” He turned to leave. “Well, thanks for the lemonade.”

Oh, no. He wasn’t getting away from her that easily, Roxie thought. Leaving her half-full glass on the table, she followed him out of the house, down the stairs and across the street. She’d never seen a motorcycle in person, only in magazines or at the movies, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. It looked a lot like a bicycle, only bigger and heavier, with rubber grips and metal gears on the handle bars and a saddle-style seat for the rider. She walked around it, studying the faded red paint that covered it from front to back and the rust spots that speckled the rounded fuel tank.

Her expression must have given her away because he said, “I’m going to sand it and paint it first chance I get.”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth as she searched. “Where’s the brake?”

He pointed to the single drum fitted to the rear wheel. “Right there.”

Now she nodded at what appeared to be a small, open-topped dirigible attached to the motorcycle by two metal rods—one in the front and one in the back. “What’s that?”

“The sidecar.” When she just looked at him blankly, he elaborated. “It’s where the passenger rides. See, it’s even got a little door and a windshield.”

She stepped closer to study the contraption.

“I’d be glad to give you a ride in it,” he went on, “but I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“No, actually, I don’t.” A brazen feeling broke free inside her, a derring-do that had long been locked up in her chest. “And I’ve never ridden in a motorcycle sidecar before.”

The hope Luke had been trying to suppress no longer would be restrained. It surged through his entire being. Maybe, just maybe, he was being given a second chance to gain her friendship.

“Well, we can certainly rectify that.” Like a gentleman of old, he bent at the waist and opened that little door for her. “Your carriage awaits, Miss Mitchell.”

Laughing at his antics, Roxie climbed into the sidecar and plopped down on the wooden seat. “What do I do now?”

“Just relax and enjoy the ride,” he instructed as he mounted the motorcycle.

Her heart pounded with anticipation when he kick-started the engine. It didn’t roar but rather purred like a large cat. Sitting in the sidecar, she could feel the thrum of it up through her shoe soles and the seat. The vibration was surprisingly thrilling.

She gripped the edge of the sidecar as they pulled away from the curb. Then she remembered Mrs. Cutter and, feeling a bit impudent, turned and waved at the neighbor’s window as they glided down the street. A bubble of laughter burst on her lips when she saw the curtains snap closed.

The looks they got as they circled the block were priceless. Eyes popped and jaws dropped. She smiled and waved at everyone they passed, but most of them were too shocked to smile or wave back. Too soon, it seemed, they were rounding her corner.

Slowing the motorcycle as they neared her house, Luke said, “Are you ready to go home?”

Roxie’s head was buzzing with excitement but she shook it emphatically. “I want to see The Bee Man’s place.”

He shot her a quizzical look. “The Bee Man?”

“That’s what my mother used to call your grandfather.”

“Okay, then, hang on,” he said.

She did, gripping the other side of the car with her free hand, and away they went.

The sun and the hot wind beat at them mercilessly as they passed the boardinghouse where he lived and the fairgrounds where the town’s annual carnival was running full bore, before hitting a smooth stretch of blacktop. A shuddering jiggle rose up through the floor and the seat beneath her when he turned onto an old gravel road that spewed a choking coat of dust all over them and blew dried vegetation into the ditch. Discomfort aside, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun.

“How do you like it?” he shouted at her.

“I love it!” she shouted back.

A half-mile or so later, the motorcycle swerved to the side of the road and stopped.

“There it is,” Luke said, and cut the engine.

“This is where your grandfather lived?” Roxie asked in a low voice.

“Yep.” Luke tried to see it through her eyes, and all he could think was that it was a sad sight to behold. “I guess it just got to be too much for him to keep up with in his final years.”

It certainly looked that way, thought Luke. The fieldstone house sat at the end of a long dirt and rock-strewn drive. The roof was in dire need of repair, the brick chimney was lopsided, and the shutters hung slightly askew. The grass in the front yard had died, a bag swing that had lost its stuffing hung limply from a tree limb, and the few wooden fence rails and posts that remained were both weather-beaten and termite-eaten.

The orchard that stood on a small rise to the side of the house wasn’t in any better shape. Oh, the trees were laden with peaches ready for the picking and apples coming on strong but it was only a matter of time before they went to rot. And the trees themselves looked as if they desperately needed a good pruning. All told, the once-thriving grove appeared to be going back to the wild for lack of attention.

Luke climbed off the motorcycle and then helped Roxie alight from the sidecar. “You might be a little off-balance at first, so hold onto me until you feel steady enough to stand on your own.”

He was right. Roxie felt her knees nearly buckle beneath her. It took her a moment to regain her equilibrium while she clutched his arm. She let go of him then with a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

He turned his attention back to that ramshackle house and the untended grounds that surrounded it. “I know it doesn’t look it now,” he said, “but at one time this was a place to be proud of.”

Realizing her hair must look frightful, she smoothed it down as best she could. “I remember hearing once that your grandfather was one of the earliest residents of Blue Ridge.”

“He pioneered this land, homesteading in an old lean-to while he cleared it,” he told her. “Then he built the house from the rocks he’d dug up and the bee hives from the trees he’d cut down.”

“Did he plant the fruit trees?”

“Plotted the orchard and planted the trees.”

“Then he married your grandmother.” She stated the obvious.

He nodded. “I don’t remember her—she died shortly after giving birth to my mother. And I only have a vague recollection of my mother because she left when I was still in short pants. But Granddad was a stubborn old coot.” The corners of his mouth lifted a bit at that last. “He had offers to sell over the years but he always said he wouldn’t leave his bees or his trees, so he lived here until he died.”

“When was that?”

“Eight months before I got out of prison.”

And just a couple months before she’d come home, she realized. Brushing off her clothes, she turned to a more pleasant topic. “I’ll bet you loved coming out here.”

“I hated going back to my father’s house.” His voice went a shade raspy, as if some of the gravel dust had collected on his vocal chords.

She pulled her handkerchief out of the front pocket of her slacks and used it to wipe off her face. “I wonder who lives here now.”

“Nobody, from the looks of it.”

Raking his fingers through his own tousled hair, Luke made a decision. He started up the drive, saying over his shoulder, “Wait here, I’m going to check things out.”

But Roxie hadn’t come all this way only to be left behind. She scrambled to catch up with him. “I’m going with you,” she said.

The fecund scent of ripening fruit filled the air.

“Ah, the sweet smell of freedom,” he said, inhaling deeply.

She could feel the fluttering of the pulse in her throat. She’d felt deliciously quivery ever since he’d arrived at her house, but now she felt dangerously so. She debated within herself, then, looking straight ahead, she murmured, “You were in prison an awfully long time.”

Luke sighed. Back to this. It always came back to this. No matter how far he’d come, it seemed he couldn’t escape the invisible bars of his past. He skimmed his gaze over her profile. Had this been behind their rift? If it were, he couldn’t risk not answering her unspoken question.

“Yes,” he said, “I was.”

“Longer than usual?”

The quizzical look she gave him touched him, yet irritated him too. God, to be so unbelievably innocent! If it were any other woman, he’d be dead certain it was an act. But with Roxie he had no doubt it wasn’t. And it irritated him because he believed her innocence set them irrevocably apart.

“I never made it easy on myself.” He figured honesty was the best policy. “Not from the beginning. First I resisted arrest and then I refused to cooperate with the attorney my grandfather hired to defend me. Worse, I was rude to the judge. So rude, in fact, that he came down on me like a hammer at sentencing time.”

The drive was long and narrow with huge oak trees hemming it in one side and weeds growing wild on the other. It narrowed at one point and they had to walk in single file, with him slowing to show her any rocks or tree roots in her path. He paused to hold back an overhanging tree limb, and she ducked under it with hushed agility, her body brushing close to his.

Trying not to notice either her body or his reaction to it, he let go of the limb and they resumed walking side by side as he finished telling her his story. “I guess I saw myself as some sort of noble loner, withstanding whatever punishment they threw my way. But I was just a scared and lonely kid acting like the tough guy I mistakenly imagined myself to be.”

She jerked to a stop. As he halted beside her, she looked up at him and whispered, “I’m sorry, Luke.”

He glanced down at her. Her fragile face was filled with concern, and knowing it was for him almost brought him to his knees. He was tempted, oh, so tempted, to reach over and stroke away her frown. His every nerve jumped with the longing to touch her. But he couldn’t risk scaring her away again. And even though they stood close to each other, she was as far out of his reach as the moon.

“Don’t be sorry for me, Roxie,” he said, his voice sharp. Then he repeated in a softer tone, “Don’t be. It’s all over and done with, long ago. And you shouldn’t waste your sympathy on someone who was as stupidly stubborn as I was. I’m solely to blame for putting myself behind bars.”

“It takes a big man to admit that,” she said with quiet admiration.

Once again, her sincerity almost proved his undoing. Desperate to change the subject, he broke off a small tree limb and stripped a leaf from it. “I hope you know you might be breaking the law.”

That succeeded in turning her attention. “Breaking the law?”

He tossed the tree limb away and tapped her nose with the leaf. “If someone else owns this place now, we’re trespassing.”

The leaf tickled. She blew it and his warning away with a saucy, “Lead on, Clyde. Bonnie will follow.”

Laughing together, they emerged from a cat’s-cradle of light and shade into the heat of the sun. The sky held a mixture of blues, from near gray to vivid robin’s egg, and was virtually cloudless with just the merest wraith of a white smudge floating occasionally by. A breeze gentled the air and birds glided away with it.

Walking beside him, Roxie could only wonder how she managed to move on legs that felt so unsteady. Her nerves seemed magnetized by his very nearness, crackling each time he drew a breath. She felt more alive than she had in days, years, yet at the same time she was oddly more at peace.

Luke felt the excruciating joy of being near Roxie. He sweetly tortured himself with visions of pulling her into his arms, kissing her senseless with all the pent-up need he felt, and caressing her into submission. He nearly groaned aloud. The frustration was enough to try a saint, much less a sinner like himself. Calling upon every fiber of strength he possessed, he forced the tantalizing images from his mind.

“I’m going to see how the beehives have fared,” he said, feeling the need to put a little distance between them.

“Go ahead. I’ll just look around here while I’m waiting.” Roxie made the effort to keep her voice light as Luke turned away from her. When he stood too close to her, when he looked at her in that peculiar, penetrating way of his, she couldn’t breathe properly.