At the Twilight's Last Gleaming (17 page)

“You’re father is so nice!”

“He certainly can be that,” said Emory. He looked troubled. “It’s gotten rather late, I think. Perhaps I should take you back home.”

“Oh no! Are you kidding me? You’ve got to show me that book. I love old books! And an edition of
Dracula
. Wow!”

Emory suddenly looked a bit chagrined. “Oh yes. Of course. But I could bring it with me some time.”

I felt infused with sugar and southern root beer. With curiosity — and something more. “Oh, come on Emory. There’s no hurry. No hurry at all. You heard my parents! I think my father would have put a bow on me and handed me over to you and said “Just name one of your children after me!”

Emory looked at me, wide-eyed. A faint redness spread over his face. Oh my, I thought. The Southern gentleman is blushing! It was just the sweetest thing I’d ever seen.

“I assure you, Rebecca,” he said, stammering a bit. “I did not invite you over to show you my rare edition of
Dracula
!”

I laughed. “I’m sorry. I guess I exaggerate sometimes. It’s just that I go out with boys so little — I mean, except for Harold, who doesn’t really count — that I guess they’re kind of excited that I’m, well, … normal!’

“Ah. Yes.” He took a breath. “I see. Well then…. I’ll just go and get the book then.”

“But your Dad said it’s in your room? I’ll go with you, okay?”

“But that would be —”

“Oh come on! We’re friends. I go into Harold’s room all the time! And anyway — I’d be kind of spooked down here in a Southern mansion, all by my lonesome!”

I made an actorly effort of batting my eyelashes comically.

He stared at me for a moment, and then he laughed.

“Oh. The English damsel in distress turns into the Southern belle!” he said.

“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers!’ I said, in my best Blanche in Tennessee Williams’
A Streetcar Named Desire
accent.

“My room,” said Emory. “is an unsightly mess. I assure you it is a vast embarrassment!”

“Then you really are a teenager!” I said.

“Yes,” he smiled again. “I have been called that at times. Very well, Rebecca. This way.”

I put the empty glass down, got up and walked boldly past him. “Up the stairs, right?”

“No. Up the stairs — and left!”

I laughed. “Maybe you better take the lead then.”

We walked back into the foyer and then around to the stairway.

The gloom still hung there, amidst old paintings, but somehow now it didn’t bother me as much as before. After all, much of the dread I’d felt on entering the house before had been about meeting the Senator. The meeting had turned out better than well. I’d not only charmed the man, but gotten an invitation to visit the halls of power in Washington D.C.

Suddenly, I wasn’t just Rebecca Williams anymore. I was the belle of the ball!

Together we walked up the stairs. I reached out and gripped the banister as I ascended. It was smooth and polished. The tread of our feet echoed through the hallway. Emory had fallen silent.

“I suppose one of us should be carrying a candelabra!” I said as we reached the landing at the top.

“Oh, sorry. It is a bit dark, isn’t it?” He reached around and hit a switch. Light came on in the hallway. “This way!”

It was a long corridor with a surprising number of doorways.

Emory stopped at the third one down.

“This is mine. Prepare to be horrified.”

“We belong to the same tribe, remember?”

He smiled thoughtfully and turned the knob. He reached around and hit the light switch.

I don’t know what I expected. Dirty socks and strewn comic books were my little brother’s specialty.

As the light went on, I was immediately surprised by how big the room was. There was a queen-sized bed with a bookcase bedboard, an armoire and a chest of drawers, along with several large chests. All this, plus a big wing-armed chair and a couch, with plenty of room to spare. On the floor stretched a huge worn red and black Indian rug.

Everything looked neat enough. True, the bookshelves were disheveled and some clothing was scattered on the unmade bed — but otherwise it looked nice.

I said as much to Emory.

“Oh. Thank you. My mother says I’m very messy.”

“She must be a real neatnik.”

“Oh yes. She is the voice of order in this household.” He gave me an uncomfortable look. “I’ll just go get that book then, shall I?”

“Okay,” I said.

I went over to the couch. It was an old, comfortable couch. It’s cushions seemed to call to me. I sat down, square in the middle. Springs creaked.

“Nice,” I said.

“That’s up from the South,” said Emory, poring over the books. “Now where the heck did I put that darned book. Ah yes, here it is!”

He pulled out an old red colored volume and brought it over to me. In front of the couch was a coffee table. He set it down on the section of this coffee table in front of me.

“There it is. They didn’t have dust covers back then. Illustrations on the inside, though.”

“I know.” I reached out and picked it up. “Shouldn’t this be in a plastic bag or something?”

“Paper’s not acid. I suppose that a bibliofile might have something for it. At least put it in a glass bookcase.”

“So sit down and let’s look at it. It only seems fitting that Lucy and Count Dracula should examine this volume together, although I think the Count would want to change the end a bit.”

Emory had been looking nervous and awkward, but that little bit of humor disarmed him. He chuckled and he sat by me.

Even though he sat at a respectable distance, his proximity effected me. My goodness, he was handsome! For the thousandth time, I was surprised that I hadn’t noticed how good-looking he was when I’d first seen him, even beneath his bad posture and his withdrawn attitude. Up close, he also smelled good and there was a terrific sense of presence to him, a kind of coiled power.

I could feel a thrill race through my body from head to toes — and then settle strongly in my mid-section.

“Okay,” he said. He leaned over and opened up the book. “Here’s a very cool picture of Jonathan Harker and the three brides of Dracula at Dracula’s castle in the Carpathians.”

The illustration was nice indeed. It was color and on a plate, and in the style of the American classic illustrators like Howard Pyle.

“Wow!” I said. “Very nice.”

I touched the book. “Paper’s nice. And I really like the print.”

“They made books differently back then, that’s for sure,” said Emory. “Now up next is the ship that Count Dracula takes across the North Sea to England for his nefarious mission.”

“I never thought of that,” I said. “But I guess that Dracula was a missionary!”

Emory laughed. “I don’t think Bram Stoker thought of it that way. I’m sure with all the references to rats, he was referencing the Black Death much more. Vampirism as an infection.”

We leafed through a few more pages.

“This is where I come in,” I said… “Oh look. The ladies there. I guess that’s me!”

“Lucy,” said Emory in a thoughtful way.

“I guess if Oscar Wilde had written
Dracula
, I’d be “Lucian”, wouldn’t I?”

Emory smiled, loosening up. He looked at me with open affection and admiration. “You are the funny one, aren’t you?”

I smiled at him, and was caught up in his gaze.

He had the kind of eyes now that I guess you’d call sleepy eyes. Sort of half open or half closed, giving them a lazy, languorous quality. The effect swept right over anything like reason in me. He was just so….attractive. So close to me, so touchable and sweet.

Was he leaning toward me?

No.

I was leaning toward him, as though drawn in by those half-open eyes, that smile. As though everything about him was an invitation, that my body had no choice but to accept.

I leaned forward and kissed him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HE NATURE OF any kind of personal experience, I find, is very hard to communicate to others. I think that’s why, when you make an effort to share something, and another person not only has had a similar experience, but feels the same way about it, there’s a thrilling connection that is made.

That first kiss with Emory Clarke was like that.

Decades later, I can close my eyes and feel it.

As a teen, I’d tried kissing boys here and there, and frankly was so disappointed in the result that I’d never much sought a steady boyfriend to kiss again and again before I’d met Peter Harrigan.

My kiss with Emory Clarke wasn’t like that.

No, not at all.

It was the kind of kiss, in fact, that I didn’t even have the self-awareness at the time to evaluate.

I just kind of fell into that kiss, like an abyss.

My heart hammered.

I had thought that kisses were cold and rubbery. This one, was soft and embracing. Emory responded immediately, as though he couldn’t help himself either. He pushed himself against me, embraced me, and fell into that kiss as well. We kind of locked together.

I lost all my senses. I forgot who I was. All I
was
was that kiss.

All of a sudden, the kiss was gone.

I lunged forward to grab it before it was gone forever, but was held back by a hand.

I opened my eyes, and there was Emory, looking tousled and totally adorable, with a perplexed and terrified expression in his eyes.

“Oh dear!” I said, putting my hand to my head. “I don’t know what came over —”

“I must excuse myself,” said Emory.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Emory.”

“Don’t move, okay? I just have…” He looked sheepish. “I mean to say, Nature calls.”

“Okay, all right. Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

He hurriedly left the room.

I put my hands to my face, and fell to the cushions, not sure of anything. I was a mess with my feelings all ajumble and akimbo.

Most of all, though, I felt dizzy.

Just close your eyes, I thought. Just close your eyes and the moment will pass.

I closed my eyes.

And there was darkness.

“Rebecca,” came a voice.

“Whu — What?”

“Rebecca, wake up!”

“Huh?”

I opened my eyes.

I didn’t know where I was.

I was in a room. I could see that I was lying on a couch in a room and in front of me was a bed.

“You fell asleep,” came a voice.

I looked up.

Over me was a boy with a odd look on his face. He gently shook my shoulder again.

“Asleep,” I murmured. “Oh..ouch,” I said

There was a pain in my head.

As rapidly as it came, it went away though, and the universe slowly coalesced in front of me.

“Emory!” I said.

I pushed myself up. I still felt a bit woozy, but most of all, as reality dawned, I was shocked.

“Yes. That’s me.”

“Emory. I…We…”

I’m sure my expression was chagrined.

“I mean,” I said. “I guess …I kissed you! I don’t know what came over me! That’s just…well…that’s just not like me.”

He was thoughtful. “It’s late. We can talk about it later, okay? Now, I just better get you home, okay?”

“Home. Home… yes, that’s a good idea.” I struggled to get myself up, and the pain came again, shooting down from my head to my neck.

“Oooh. Oww,” I said.

“Oh my! Are you all right,” said Emory, resting a concerned hand on my shoulder.

Once more, just as quickly as the pain had come, it went away.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. That root beer must have been kind of strong for me.”

He laughed softly. “That is strong root beer, I confess.”

He bit his lip, looking down at me.

Suddenly, he was on his knees, holding my hand.

“Rebecca. Do forgive me. I fear I took advantage of you. I assure you, when we went to this room, it was not my intention.”

“Silly. You’d better stop being so adorable or I’m going to grab you again.”

He blushed.

“Look,” I said. “We’re young. Things are confusing, right? We can talk about it tomorrow, like you say.”

“You ….forgive me then?”

“Only if you forgive me!” I pasted a pained smile on my face.

The smile returned to his face. He rose gracefully, and stepped back. He extended a courteous hand to help me get up.

“Okay. But maybe, as Shakespeare might say, in order to not strain the quality of mercy, we’d best keep our distance for the rest of the evening.”