After the Frost (39 page)

"I—I didn't know that about him. He seems so—pious."

Lillian glanced at her, frowning in confusion. "Who?"

"My father," Belle said. "His portrait isn't—"

"The portrait," Lillian repeated slowly. "I see." She took a deep breath, looked down at her hands. "Isabelle, the man in the portrait is not your father."

Belle stared at her mother, sure she'd misheard, sure she didn't understand. But before she could ask, before she could make sense of it, Lillian looked up and straightened her shoulders.

"The man is John Calhoun, that's true. And I was married to him. He was my father's assistant, a brilliant politician. Everyone said it was a wonderful match." She paused. "You know all this, I realize. But what you didn't know was that I was very young—just sixteen. And John"—she looked away—"Well, John was much like his portrait. He was a very serious, very important man. A little self-important.” A soft smile touched her lips. "But we suited each other very well."

She stared out the window again, and Belle waited, unmoving and listening, feeling oddly as if the world was about to open up beneath her and unsure whether or not she wanted it to. Unsure if she wanted this level of trust, or wanted to hear her mother's secrets. Part of her wanted to stop Lillian right now, to refuse to hear the rest, to let the future go on without knowing what her mother was about to tell her. And the other part was afraid to say a word, afraid that if she did, Lillian would stop, and she would never know the truth.

So she waited, torn, almost dreading the words when they finally came.

Lillian's voice was soft with memory. "It was the summer they started work on the canal. John took me to see them dig. It was a—a present to me, I think, a sop he threw me because he was gone so much and I was so often home alone. The foreman was Jack Murphey. He was . . . very handsome, very charming. I'm afraid I fell a little in love with him then. It was a—a foolish thing to do. But I was lonely, and Jack was lively and entertaining. I believed he loved me too."

Lillian fell silent.

"Jack Murphey was my father," Belle said quietly.

Lillian nodded. "John never ... he never knew. I was ready to leave him, to run off with Jack, but"—she closed her eyes as if it still pained her—"but Jack left first. I don't think he ever . . . meant to stay."

Belle heard the sadness in her mother's voice, an ache she recognized. She knew exactly how it felt to love someone who hurt you, knew the desperation and panic of being pregnant and alone, the feeling that your life was moving out of control. She knew how it felt to be lonely and afraid and hungry for something—anything —to call your own.

She knew all that, and so when Lillian looked at her and Belle saw the hesitation in her mother's eyes, she took Lillian's hand. "I know, Mama," she said. "I know."

Lillian made a sound, a small, breathless laugh. "You are so like him. I always thought John would look at you and know—you were so very different from either of us." She shook her head, and then she looked up, and there was a bright intensity in her eyes. "I have always wanted the best for you, Isabelle."

Belle sighed and looked away. "Maybe that's true."

"It is true." Lillian gripped Belle's hand, squeezed hard. "I have not loved you as much as I should, I know that. I have been so . . . afraid. You are so much like him, I—I saw trouble wherever you went. Every time I look at you, I see him, I see the terrible mistake I made." She took a deep breath. "But I do love you, in my way. And I have always wanted the best for you."

Belle winced. "The best, Mama? Is that why you threw me out six years ago? Is that why you called me a disgrace to the family?"

Lillian closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "I'm sorry for that," she said softly. "You'll never know how sorry."

Belle had not expected that. Not the apology, nor her mother's obvious regret, and it threw her for a moment, took away her sarcasm, cut through the pain still remaining from that time. She did not want to feel for her mother, did not want to forgive her, but she found herself thinking she should. Found herself looking at Lillian and wanting to reassure her, to tell her that it was all right, to say things were better even though they weren't, even though there was a piece of her that wanted to keep a firm hold on her resentment, a part she wasn't sure she wanted to heal.

"I was afraid," Lillian said, continuing on in the face of Belle's silence. "Everything was—it was so much like before. So much like—like it was with Jack . . ."

"But I'm not my father," Belle said quietly.

"No."

"And I—I'm not sure I can just forget what you did, Mama. I'm not sure I can forgive."

Lillian nodded slowly. "It is your decision of course."

The silence fell between them. Lillian sat there, staring at her hands, and Belle felt her mother's sad acceptance, felt the memories between them, along with the heaviness of regret.

And she knew then that she didn't want to live in the past. Not anymore. She'd been there for such a long time already.

She took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I can forgive," she repeated. "But I—I'd like to try."

Lillian looked up, and smiled—a small, tender smile that made Belle feel sad for all the time they'd lost, all the things there would never be between them. But her mother's next words made the ache disappear, filled her with a hope she'd never felt before, never known she wanted.

"Oh, so would I," Lillian said quietly. "So would I."

R
and threw himself into cutting corn, relishing the hard, backbreaking labor. He ignored the sharp-edged leaves that sawed gently and persistently at his back and neck, and grabbed the stalks in the crook of his left arm, whacking them off with the machetelike corn knife—a single stroke that had taken him years to perfect—dropping the butts to the ground to drag behind him until he had all he could carry. Then he lugged the bundle to the shock one of the hired cutters had started and went back for another load.

The
swish, thwack, swish, thwack
of the blade and the rustling of the stalks were a constant rhythm in his ears, the soreness of his hand and arm a welcome relief to his thoughts, and he concentrated on it and not on the endless rows of corn that allowed no breeze in, or the pollen from dry tassels that dribbled into his collar, itched where it clung to his sweaty face. The pattern was all, the
swish, thwack, swish, thwack
filled his ears, forced his numb arms to move, his fingers to grasp the wooden handle of the knife. He could think about that, and not about anything else. Not about the fact that he'd followed Belle and kissed her, not about the fact that he was burning for her and he didn't know what to do about it.

He'd dreamed about her last night; the vision was still so vivid in his mind. She was at the end of the yard, smiling at him, calling to him, and the sun was falling across her hair, the breeze molding her dress to her body. Seductively she gestured for him to come closer, and when he did, when he reached for her and tried to pull her close, she stepped away from him before he could touch her, stayed out of reach, and her laughter was warm and lilting and infinitely beguiling.

He woke up drenched in sweat and painfully aroused. Had fallen asleep only to dream the same thing again, only this time he caught her. This time he ran his hands over her body and felt her heat against him. This time he kissed her—a hot, wet kiss that pulled him in, sucked at his soul until he couldn't escape, couldn't breathe, and suddenly she was gone and there was darkness all around him. Frightening, horrible darkness that made his heart race and his breath harsh and rasping.

Darkness that reminded him of his mother, and that bottomless pool at Rock Mill, the pool where they'd never found her body—

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block the image from his mind, trying to forget it and the words that echoed in his head, circled over and over and over.
You love her, you love her, you love her.

Christ, yes, he loved her. But he'd loved her once before, and had destroyed them both with it. He'd loved her with the blinding, inescapable hunger of obsession, and all it had got him was a life full of lies and obligations, six years of darkness and frustration.

Six years without her.

He saw again that cold November night in his mind. The night everything changed. It was a husking bee, and he remembered her pulling the husk away from an ear to reveal ruddy kernels. The red ear. She had looked up at him then, and the flush that stained her cheeks, her sudden shyness, made him almost dizzy with need. He had wanted her for weeks, and she had kissed him and teased him and pulled away as if that were all there was, and he knew that for her there was nothing more. He knew she was too young to know better.

He wanted to kiss her then, but it was Charlie Boston who stood up and took the forfeit, Charlie Boston who swept the red ear away from her and made a great show of kissing her forehead, because she was too young even to be there with them and they all knew it. But still Rand remembered how inflamed he'd been, how Charlie's kiss only made him think of all the things he wanted from her, all the things he could never have.

His control slipped away from him then, and when they'd arrived home and he'd pulled the wagon into the barn, he'd swung her down from the seat and taken the kiss he wanted. She had laughed and kissed him back, had tangled her hands in his hair and looked into his face and pressed her body against his. And then, when the kiss was over, she started to pull away.

He had not let her go.

Rand swallowed, thinking back, wishing he didn't remember it, wishing he could erase the image from his mind and tell himself it hadn't happened that way. But he knew it had, and he couldn't keep it from torturing him, couldn't blind himself to the truth or block the memory. He saw it all again, and it seemed far away and hazy, an experience too colored with emotion to remember properly, a vague and fuzzy dream.

But it was no dream. It was no dream when he pushed her up against the barn wall, feeling desperate and frustrated and overcome with longing. It was no dream when he pulled at her clothes, yanking up her skirts and pushing down her bodice to reveal her breasts, when he pressed against her and heard the sounds she made against his mouth. He had wanted to pleasure her too, but he was too aroused, and she was too young, and he was inside her before he knew it,

thrusting against her, in her, knowing he was being too rough and hating himself for it, hating himself for taking it this far, but unable to stop. Christ, unable even to slow down.

It was over quickly. A minute, maybe two, and he was left with guilt and horror to stay with him for a lifetime. Left with that expression on her face, the confused fear, the bewildered hurt. Left with the cold darkness that had descended within him, the horrible, terrible guilt that made him jerk away from her, made him say the words that had haunted his nightmares ever since.
"Get away from me. Christ, get away. I don't want you, don't you understand? I don't want you."

Words that had been more for himself than for her. Lies to convince himself that he wasn't the monster he knew he was. Lies. So many goddamned lies. His whole life had been full of them, and now he wanted them all to fade away, wanted to tell himself the truth for once.

And the truth was that he would destroy her again if he loved her. He knew he would.

But God, he wanted to love her.

Ah, why the hell had he followed her?

Because even his fear wasn't strong enough to resist the temptation she offered. Because he'd come in from the fields and seen her standing on the back porch, Sarah pressed against her legs, and she was such a perfect vision of home and family that it stopped him dead, brought his heart pounding into his throat.

He had never thought he wanted that before, but seeing her there, with loose tendrils of hair blowing against her cheeks and her fingers tight around Sarah's hand, he wanted it with an intensity that frightened him. In that moment all of his dreams disappeared, all those vague and elusive yearnings that had haunted him since he was a boy melted away as if they were unimportant and foolish—the dreams of a boy who didn't know what life meant, the hopes of someone who'd never touched a child or held a woman in his arms.

Yes, that was why he'd followed her. That, and the vulnerability he'd seen in her face when she was in the kitchen, the way she hung back and watched them all as if she didn't belong, the uncertainty in her eyes. When he heard her go onto the front porch, it was all he could do not to rush after her, all he could do to sit calmly and wait a few minutes longer. In the end he hadn't waited long at all. He'd bolted his food and reached for a piece of pie and gone to her, telling himself he only wanted to talk to her, telling himself he just wanted to see her smile the way she had a few nights ago. Just a smile. Just some idle conversation.

But then she'd said the words that took his breath away.
"She'll drive us crazy till summer with it."
A simple comment, but it had startled him just the same. Not because of the words themselves but because of their implication. Till summer.

She was staying till summer.

Somewhere in the back of his mind had been the thought that this was only temporary, that someday she would leave and take his madness with her and things would return to normal. Things would just go on. Deep inside he'd thought that if he could just control himself a little longer, it would be enough. He could survive this if he just waited it out.

But she wasn't going. She was staying.

And he wondered why the thought didn't fill him with cold, stark terror. Why he didn't run from her as fast as he could, why he didn't beg her to leave. Instead he found himself asking her about her life the last six years, and feeling an absurd, overpowering urge to somehow

protect her from that, to somehow take away the pain he saw in her eyes and the loneliness he heard in her voice. To somehow ease the anguish he knew she felt over his betrayal.