After the Frost (38 page)

He sat beside her, not close, but close enough for her to see the trailing spores of pollen and dust on his shoulders and his neck. The heavy canvas cutting sleeve still covered his left arm, stiff and unyielding, dark with dust and fraying at the edges.

She gestured to it. "You'll need a new one of those soon," she said.

He glanced at the sleeve. "Lillian'll make a new one." He shrugged. He looked at her. "Or maybe you could do it."

A shiver went through her, a longing that froze her heart. She looked away. "You wouldn't be able to get your hand in it if I made one," she said. "The last thing I ever sewed was a sampler."

He chuckled softly. "And you did a damn poor job of that, if I recall."

Belle made a face. "I think Mama gave up on the idea that I'd ever be a seamstress, that's for sure."

He shrugged. "You can always hire someone to sew."

"Yeah." Belle sighed. She heard him chewing, heard the scrape of his fork along the plate. She stared straight ahead, out at the road, watching the grass blow in the Alspaughs' field, thinking about the day she and Sarah had run across it on their way to the canal. It seemed a long time ago now, though it wasn't really, only a few days. It felt like weeks.

It was a moment before she realized he'd set aside his plate.

She turned to look at him and found that he was staring at her, the same way he had earlier, when he'd come in for dinner. That same scrutinizing, curious stare that made her heart jump into her throat, made her feel strangely weak.

"What is it?" she said, and her voice came out too high, squeaky with nerves. "What's wrong?"

He swallowed. "Nothing," he said, but she heard the lie behind it. "I was just—just wondering what you were thinking about."

Belle shrugged in surprise. "I don't know. Nothin' really. Just that day me and Sarah went to the canal."

"Oh." He ran his hand through his hair, corn dust sprinkled his shoulders at the movement. Then he looked away from her, glanced down at his hands. "I always wanted to take her there, you know. To show it to her for the first time. I thought she'd like it."

"She did." Belle smiled, remembering. "We went to Shenky's and had some melon, and she got it all over her face. We put our feet in the water, and I told her stories. I told her about Bandit."

"Bandit." He said the word wonderingly, as if it were a memory he couldn't quite grasp. Then he smiled. "Oh, the mule."

She nodded. "Yeah. She liked that story."

"I'll bet she did." He laughed slightly. "She probably can't wait to see him."

"She'll drive us crazy till summer with it," Belle said.

His laughter died abruptly, along with the smile. He still didn't look at her. Still kept his gaze fastened on his hands, rubbing his fingers with his thumb. "Till summer," he repeated softly. And then, "Tell me something, will you?"

There was a soft hesitation in his tone, a caution that crept inside her, "What's that?" she asked quietly.

"All that time you were gone, when you were in New York, what did you do?"

"Do?" She shrugged. “I don't know. A little of this, a little of—"

"No." He looked up suddenly, and the look in his eyes forestalled her, cut her words dead. "Not that answer. I don't want the answer you give everyone else. Tell me. Tell me what you really did."

Belle swallowed. His eyes were nearly burning in their intensity. He was looking at her as if he could find the answer just from her expression, as if he could somehow read her mind. She looked away, unable to bear it, not wanting to be affected by it, unwilling to let him see so far inside her. But the words fell out anyway. Honest words. Words she'd barely even admitted to herself. "I worked in boardinghouses," she said. "But I was cold mostly. Hungry sometimes. Always lonely." She looked up, at the trees in front of her, at the huge limbs shadowed against the sky. "I wasn't like you, Rand. I never wanted adventure. I remember when you used to ask the canal-boat captains if they would take us all the way to China." She paused for a moment, thinking. "I never wanted that. I would've been happy here."

"Then why did you go?"

The soft question cut into her like a knife. It brought back all the memories, all the little things she'd tortured herself with over the years, the things she was afraid to think about again. She remembered his harsh voice, and her mother's. Remembered the fear and confusion and pain. It festered inside her, a dark place in her soul, a pain so bad she couldn't look at it for more than a moment, couldn't face it.

She didn't know what to say, how to answer him, so she said the only thing she could, the only answer there was.

"Because," she said quietly, looking at him. "Because you wanted me to."

She saw the way her words hit him. He looked stunned for a moment, and then he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as if he couldn't bear to look at her. She couldn't tear her eyes away, not when he opened them again and looked at her, not when she saw the anguish in their hazel depths, and the regret.

And not when she saw the longing.

"Christ." The word sounded torn from him, raw and aching.

Fear shot through Belle.
Look away
, the voice inside her warned.
Back away
. But she couldn't move, couldn't speak as he leaned toward her. He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and part of her knew she shouldn't let him. Part of her knew she would only be hurt if she let him. But the other part—oh, the other part longed for it so much. The other part wanted this kiss, since she could have nothing else, wanted the heat of his lips on hers and the erotic tease of his tongue.

And it was that part that won. That part that reveled in the soft brush of his lips against hers and heard the sharp rasp of his breath with a shiver of anticipation. And when he pressed into her, and Belle felt his hands at her waist, felt his fingers tighten, that part of her was swept with longing so intense, she put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling her fingers in the heavy, dusty weight of his hair.

Oh, God, she had dreamed of this. For years she had dreamed of this kiss, of this moment. She felt the gentle pressure of his mouth, and her lips parted beneath it, and then he was dipping inside, touching her tongue with his, filling her senses with the flavor of apple pie, sweet and rich and cinnamony, along with the taste of him, a taste she remembered even though she couldn't put a name to it, a taste that set her skin on fire, made her entire soul cry out with yearning.

She heard him moan deep in his throat, felt the urgency in his movements as he pressed closer, the same urgency she was feeling, the same, intense sensation of soft, wet heat and flaming touch, and she knew that this —
this
—was what she wanted. This heady excitement, this touching that led to other touching, this yearning that went beyond the memory of pain.

Not just friendship. Love.

She wanted love.

And it was the one thing she could not have.

Sickness swept through her. Sickness and a fierce, unrelenting pain. Belle jerked her head back, banging it on the pillar, twisting away, fighting his arms, his hands, his mouth. "Rand," she whispered and she heard the desperation in her voice, the pain. "Please—"

And then she heard the front door open.

Belle froze. She glanced toward it, and with a shock she saw her mother standing there, saw the color drain from Lillian's face, the slow realization. "Mama," she said. Rand jerked away, twisted to look at the door.

"Jesus." It was more a sound than a curse. He dropped his hands from her, struggled to his feet. "Lillian . . ."

But Lillian didn't look at him. It was almost as if he didn't exist. She stared at Belle, and Belle had the sudden feeling that the world had faded away. All that was left was this—this porch, and this moment, and she and Lillian staring at each other. Everything focused down to this, to the hatred in her mother's eyes, the condemnation.

And then Lillian backed inside and closed the door behind her.

Chapter 26

“M
ama—" Belle tore away from Rand, lunging to the door. She heard his protest behind her, saw him reach for her, but the image of her mother's hatred glowed in her mind, unrelenting and too strong to ignore. It was time to face her now, Belle knew that, and in the light of it nothing mattered, not Rand's kiss, not anything. Belle yanked open the door. It slammed shut behind her.

Voices floated from the kitchen. Stella, Dorothy, Kenny . . . talking away as if nothing had happened, as if it were just an ordinary day cutting corn, and the mundaneness of it seemed suddenly not quite real, took on the twisting, fanciful quality of a nightmare. Belle stood there for a moment, listening for Lillian's voice, not hearing it, and then she heard the steps upstairs, the sharp clap of boot heels.

Belle hurried up the stairs. "Mama!" she called. "Mama!"

There was no answer, but it didn't matter. Belle knew exactly where her mother was. She hurried down the hallway, stopping just before the last door, the door farthest away from her own.

It was cracked open, as if Lillian had rushed inside and forgotten to close it. Belle nudged it with her hand, pushing it open until she could see her mother on the far side of the room.

Lillian was standing by the window, staring outside, at the fields the window overlooked. She was just standing there, arms crossed, spine ramrod-straight, but the chignon at the back of her neck had loosened, and strands of pale blond hair escaped to curl against her face. It made her look softer somehow, in spite of her rigid posture, more approachable.

Though Belle knew that was just an illusion.

She stepped inside the door, shut it softly behind her. "Mama," she said quietly.

Lillian didn't turn around. "How long has that been going on?" she asked, and though her voice was calm, Belle heard the faint edge of tension beneath it. "How long?"

Belle pressed her palms against the door, taking strength from the hard, smooth feel of wood. "Mama, it's not what you—"

"How long? A week? Longer?"

Belle swallowed. She shook her head. "No. Not that long."

"I see." Lillian's fingers tightened on her arms, her gaze stayed focused outside. "You know he's going to marry Marie Scholl."

The words sent a shaft of pain stabbing into Belle. "Yeah. I know. She's a nice girl."

"Yes, she is." Lillian took a deep breath; it echoed in the room, in the muslin curtains edged with crocheted lace, in the eaves. It bounced against the huge wardrobe and fell over the wedding-ring quilt on the bed. "Then I don't understand why you won't leave him alone."

The accusation was like a slap. Belle felt the heat racing into her face; anger made her voice tight and harsh. "What makes you think it's my fault?"

"Isn't it?" Lillian turned then, and her pale eyes were blazing. "Everything has been—fine since you've been gone. Rand has been fine. He's been seeing Marie, we've had no trouble at all. But since you've returned . . ." The anger in Lillian's eyes faded, replaced by a bleakness that was somehow even more hurtful, a hopelessness that made Belle feel guilty and sad. "What else can I think but that you're tempting him?"

"Mama, you're wrong." Belle could barely say the words. "You're . . . wrong."

"Am I?" Lillian's mouth tightened, her fingers were white where she clenched her arms. "Then perhaps you should explain it to me."

Belle stared at her mother.
Explain it to me.
As if it were that simple, as if she could explain it in a word or a sentence or even a lifetime. Hell, she couldn't even explain it to herself. "I—I don't—"

"I thought it was over. I . . . hoped ..." Lillian closed her eyes, shook her head. "I hoped we could all live together peaceably. But it's obvious we can't. With you and Rand . . ." Her voice trailed off; her face was tight with what looked like revulsion. "Good Lord, Belle, have you even thought of what people will say?"

"I don't give a damn what people say," Belle said, and though she tried to control her feelings, her voice was sharp with anger and pain. "They've always talked about me. It doesn't matter. And it's not like that—"

"Then how is it?" Lillian glared at her, her words were razor sharp, each one honed, each one stabbing. "Explain it to me, then. Tell me why I am continually having to protect this family from you."

"Mama, why do you hate me so much?" The words slipped out before Belle could stop them, and she heard the hurt in her voice, a hurt she no longer had the strength to fight.

The words shivered between them; the outside sounds seemed suddenly loud. Lillian stared at her in shock, and then she sagged, crumpling to the edge of the bed, her face buried in her hands, her fingers trembling.

Belle stared at her, unable to move. She had never seen her mother lose control before, and it was frightening, confusing—somehow reassuring. It made Lillian seem more human somehow, vulnerable as she'd never been. Belle had the unexpected urge to comfort, to soothe her mother as Lillian had never soothed her.

"Mama," she whispered, afraid to touch her, afraid not to. She dropped onto the bed beside her mother, laid a cautious hand on her arm. "Mama—"

Lillian's hands dropped away from her face. She looked up, and Belle saw the wetness of tears glimmering in her mother's eyes, a pain she'd never seen before, never even imagined.

"I don't know what else to do," Lillian said, her voice broken and harsh and completely unfamiliar. "You are so much . . . like him."

Belle frowned. "Like who?"

"Your father." Lillian sighed. She looked out the window, her hands convulsively crumpling the material of her apron.

"My father?" Belle could not help her surprise. She would never have thought she was anything like the man in the portrait upstairs.

But Lillian nodded. "He was the most irresponsible man I ever knew. But he could talk—oh, the man had the prettiest words. I was . . . overwhelmed by him."