The year She Fell (27 page)

I stared as she ascended the stairs, one hand trailing lightly on the banister. “But Mother, you’re just out of the hospital.”

“You see to all those boxes, Laura. I’ll be back later in the week.”

Ten minutes later, we were both outside in the sunlight. I was still protesting, and she was ignoring me, as she opened the trunk and inserted her gray Prada overnight case—my gift to her last birthday. The laptop case she laid gently to the floor of the back seat, making sure it was secure. Then she slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut with a bang.

Short of pulling her bodily through the car window, I couldn’t see any way to stop her. And—well, I didn’t want to stop her. She hadn’t even denied my accusation.

But something made me walk to the end of the driveway to watch as the Oldsmobile rolled down the hill into town. She turned right instead of left and drove across the bridge.

I ran back into the house, out onto the sun porch. From here I could see the dark expanse of the river, the span of the bridge, and Mother’s car heading east. The highway to
Charleston
was on the west side of town, on this side of the river, and heading in the other direction.

I gave into panic and grabbed my keys. Maybe I could catch up to her and . . . what? Remind her that the state capital was west, not east? She’d lived here most of her life, made that drive a hundred times.

Twenty minutes later I turned back and drove back along the old bypass road. Even as fast as I was willing to drive the Porsche, I couldn’t find her. She must have taken one of the country roads that twisted north into the mountains. I couldn’t imagine why.
Washington
DC
lay a hundred miles over those hills, but no one who knew the rutted mountain roads would ever try to get there that way. Maybe she doubled back and descended into the
Canaan
Valley
—

It made no sense— not her route, not her lie, not her bland response to my accusation, not her acceptance of my theft of Daddy’s things.

But it meant I couldn’t leave yet, not till she returned. I stood, hesitant, in the middle of the hall, and remembered what she had said.
Best take it all away soon, before it’s too late.
Almost without volition, I walked into Daddy’s study and sat down at his desk. It was surprising how much of my father remained here more than twenty years after his death. I started sorting through the drawers, setting aside a couple old sketchpads, a baggie full of colored pencils, and a manila envelope of photos of the local gorges and hollows. I found a file folder labeled
Loudon College
(my mother’s sweeping hand) and opened it eagerly, hoping for sketches of the college buildings. Instead I found a sheaf of clippings about the installation of President Urich, a copy of his curriculum vitae with several dates circled in red, and an opened envelope with my mother’s jottings on the back—more dates: April 1991, August 1991, July 1990, June 1979. Annoyed, I jammed the folder back into the drawer. I really didn’t need any more evidence of my mother’s continued infatuation with the smarmy college president.

But then, I took the folder back out, and studied that curriculum vitae again. The circled dates were of Urich’s employment at
Loudon
College
, when he was just a botany professor.

The phone interrupted my calculations. A mildly frantic Ellen demanded, “Is Mother there?”

“She was. But she’s headed out again. Cancelled lunch. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she just left. I didn’t even notice at first, thought she’d gone off with the other group. But she left without saying a word to me!”

“What made her leave? Do you know?” I guess I was hoping Ellen would mention something about a message, about a call from the state historical society, something that would mean Mother hadn’t lied outright.

But Ellen said slowly, “I don’t know. Last I saw her, she was right next to me in the rose garden. Listening to President Urich lecture on soil.”

I thought of Mother’s cautious reaction to my mentioning Urich, my tacit accusation, the folder full of material on him. “He didn’t say anything that would have upset her, did he?”

“I can’t imagine what. He was just talking about breeding new varieties. He bragged a bit. But not in an offensive way—making a joke about it.”

“About what?”

“Oh, he bred some hybrid and grew it in his backyard, and he said the ex-wife got custody of the bush when they got divorced.”

His ex-wife? Could Mother be . . . jealous? “Did he say where? The bush? The ex-wife?”

“I don’t really remember—oh, it was when he was at some college in
Maryland
. He said the soil was sort of clay-ey. Why?”

“I . . . don’t know. Look, Mother said she was going to
Charleston
. Took off with an overnight bag. And the laptop you bought her. Only she drove north. Not west.”

Ellen asked tentatively, “Do you think . . . she got disoriented?”

“No. She’d know the route to
Charleston
if she were blindfolded.” I sighed. “Ellen, could she have gone to
Maryland
? To . . . I don’t know. See that rosebush?”

“I’m coming home,” Ellen announced.

As I hung up, I noticed that the message light was blinking. I punched the button. “Laura, it’s Jack. No emergency. Just want to ask you something. I’m back in town—meet me at my house around six?”

Jackson
was just out
of the shower, to judge from the dampness of his dark curls and the unbuttoned shirt. He held open the screen door, and after I walked through, he let it bang shut. He had Tom Waits on the CD player, and from the set of his mouth and the shadow in his eyes, I could tell he was in a Tom Waits sort of mood. I asked, “Where’ve you been?”

He stretched out on the leather couch, looking weary, his feet bare and oddly vulnerable at the end of his cargo pants. The afternoon sun slanted in through the wooden blinds, the shadows striping his body. “I was down in
Bristol
.”

I studied his face. “Bad news?”

He shrugged. “I guess. It’s over. We officially gave up. Again.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes. “You should be. It was your fault.”

“My fault?” That was rich. After I’d done my damnedest to let him stay true to her. “How is that?”

“Once Michelle heard you were back in town, she wouldn’t stop about it. My Emmy-winning ex.”

“Emmy-nominated,” I said.

“Whatever. She just couldn’t believe I’d steer clear of you.”

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“Yeah, I know. But she’s always had this little bit of jealousy about you. Because I wouldn’t tell her much.”

I knew women. Telling her more would have just made her more jealous. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t bother. It was doomed anyway. I think this is just an excuse. We were getting to the one of us has to move issue, and that looked to be unsolvable.” He laughed shortly. “You know, it’s like ‘I’d die for you, but I won’t relocate for you.’ Modern romance.”

Now I understood why he’d called me. Or I thought I understood. “So . . . you’re saying you’re free.”

“Is that what I’m saying?”

I wanted to throw something at him. “You tell me, how about?”

His eyes were still closed. “Look, babe, the truth is, I broke up with Michelle yesterday, left my daughter in tears yet again, drove most of the night, worked all day. I’m tired and depressed and—”

It didn’t sound good. “And?”

“And if you want anything from me, you’re going to have to do all the work.”

“All the work?” Oh. Boy. “You mean—”

 
“I mean the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.” He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Or maybe the flesh is willing and the spirit is weak. I can’t tell. But you want it bad enough, you make it happen.”

I was outraged. Who the hell did he think he was, lying there like some sybarite, telling me that if I wanted him, I’d have to come and get him?
 
I wouldn’t have taken that kind of attitude from the biggest
Hollywood
star.

But . . . I did want him. His shirt had fallen open and I stared at that hard tan chest of his, and I wanted to touch it. It felt so different, wanting again. Dangerous. I took a step towards the couch. He’d closed his eyes again, and I thought maybe he would fall asleep if I didn’t do something. So I took another step. And then I was standing by his side, looking down at his face, the weary set of his mouth. “What do you want me to do?”

He wasn’t asleep. He opened his eyes, just for a second. “Do whatever you want.”

Damn him.

What did I want?

I wanted to get that stupid shirt off him. It wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, as his chest was bare and only his upper arms and shoulders were covered. Useless shirt. So I let my hand drop to the collar—I only had to bend a bit to grab it—and I tugged. With a murmur of protest, he lifted his head and let me tug the shirt off one arm, and then the other.

Then he dropped back down with a sigh. “I guess that’s a start.”

I was getting a bit irritated. Wasn’t he even going to touch me?

Apparently not. I stood there indecisive for a moment, and then sank down on my knees beside him. I put my hand on the drawstring waist of his pants, and got an immediate and amazing response—suddenly, under my fingers, under the cloth, stirring . . . emergence.

I almost drew back. This was where I’d always drawn back, this past year. The undoubted evidence of a man’s lust, a man’s aggression—I waited for the panic to overcome me.

But there was no panic. It seemed pointless to be afraid now. After all, he didn’t even seem to notice, in his drowsy state, that he had a lovely big hard-on.

I noticed, of course. I could hardly ignore it, close as it was to my hand.

Grimly I untied the drawstring and pulled at the waistband. Another muttered protest from him, but he let me slide the cargo pants off, down past his knees. I yanked them free of his feet and sank back on my heels with a sigh of satisfaction.

Nothing underneath. He was naked now. And completely vulnerable. I’d never really seen that before, how a man could be so vulnerable and yet still so powerful, but that is what nakedness did to
Jackson
. No protective covering, no shield, no defenses. Just the tan skin and the rigid muscles and the hard-on and the . . . trust.

Of course, I still had my defenses. I was fully clothed.

I did slide off my sandals. Then I touched him. I just let my fingers do what they wanted to do— they brushed his chest, just below the collarbone, then darted to his jaw. My thumb found its way to his mouth, tracing his lower lip.

“Mmm,” he said, and I felt something on my thumb. His tongue. Fire shot right through me, right down to that poor neglected erogenous zone of mine. Wow. If he kissed me—kissed me on the mouth, maybe . . . I could almost imagine.