Capture the Wind for Me (25 page)

“Greg,” I declared, “guess what. We're even. Let's just leave it at that. If you keep feeling bad about this, then I'll have to keep feeling bad about last night. And we promised not to talk about that.”

He rubbed his thumb across mine. “You are right.” He smiled wanly. “You still want dessert?”

I shook my head. “Not here, anyway.”

“I—”

“Greg!” a voice called, and our heads automatically turned. A flash popped brightly in our eyes. “Thank you,” Charlotte sang as she lowered her camera. She opened her purse and theatrically dropped it inside.

I exchanged a startled look with Greg, a warning about that picture niggling in my brain. Apparently, he had the same thoughts. “Let's go,” he said and rose. As he ushered me toward the front, I heard Charlotte call, “'Bye, now!” We ignored her. While the hostess ran down our waiter for the bill, I stood in the lobby looking out the front window, my back to stupid Charlotte.

chapter 27

Dusk had settled over the town with a warm, humid breeze. The air smelled of rain as we crossed the parking lot to our car. Neither of us said a word. Too busy with our own thoughts, I guess. Before he opened my car door, Greg hugged me briefly, his action saying more than words.

“You want to go where now?” Greg broke the silence as I pulled out onto the street.

I had no idea. To another restaurant, so we could meet another Charlotte? Glory, what Greg's life was going to be like. I couldn't imagine dealing with the repercussions of fame day in and day out. People out there were just too crazy.

“I don't know,” I sighed.

He laid his head back against the seat. “You want to go home?” He sounded so defeated, tired. I felt achingly sorry for him. This hadn't been his fault.

Annoying voices blathered in a radio commercial. I snapped off the dial. We stopped at a red light, and I turned to Greg, suddenly weary of all the things that had gone wrong. He'd supported me last night; now
he
needed it. “No, I don't want to go home,” I told him. “I want to go someplace where we can sit and talk and no one will bother us.”

Greg blew out air. “Me, too. But where?” He shook his head. “Right now I wish I never sing in my life. Fans are great, but they make it hard sometimes. I'm so sor—”

“Stop sayin' you're sorry. Good grief, both of us are soundin' like broken records.”

“You're right. Sorry.”

“There you go again.”

“Ah.”

A car behind me honked, and we surged through the green light. “There's a vista point between here and Bradleyville that looks out over the hills,” I said. “Not always private, as it's not far off the road. But I don't think Charlotte will be there.”

Greg smiled in spite of himself. “Sounds good.”

Fifteen minutes later we pulled off the highway onto a narrow dirt road, much like the one we'd found the night before. Our headlights washed the darkening path to hover in misty swirls over nothingness as I turned into the vista parking area. No one else was there. Across the valley hills of purple-black stood before the twilit sky.

Greg made an appreciative sound in his throat. “Pretty.”

I cut off the engine and lights. The hills disappeared and in the quiet arose the faint
chirrup
of crickets. “Listen.” I hit a button to roll down the two front windows, the cricket sounds increasing. “Here that, way in the distance?”

Greg cocked his head. “Water?”

“Mm-hm. It's a creek down there that feeds into the river.”

Greg breathed in deeply, basking in the sounds, the feel of the air. A hint of his cologne floated to me. My gaze traveled over his profile, the silk polish of his shirt, and a longing unlike any I'd ever felt before poured through my veins.

He turned his head and caught me staring. I dropped my eyes. I had not the slightest clue what to do. Slowly, Greg leaned over the console. The crickets chirped, and the creek tumbled until it took my heart right along with it. Greg's fingers settled underneath my chin, forcing my eyes up. I looked at him, hardly able to breathe. He slid his other hand to my neck and drew me close until our mouths touched.

I'd seen lots of first kisses in movies and read about them in books. Dreamed of my own countless times, imagining all the feelings. Thought I'd done a pretty good job too. But nothing came close to this. The strangest thing is, suddenly I knew exactly what to do. My hands reached for his shoulder, his hair. I knew to tilt my neck, how to move my head as he did. How to breathe and still kiss. We stopped and hung there, lips still touching, and then he kissed me harder. The world could have ended right there and then, as far as I was concerned, because nothing,
nothing
could ever compare.

Greg moved his mouth away and hugged me, pulling at a strand of my hair. I held on to him, telling myself,
This is not a dream, it is not a dream, it is not.
Then he rested his forehead against mine with a sigh, as if he couldn't believe what had happened either. Thank goodness for the dark. Sunlight would have been too raw somehow, too embarrassing.

When we drew apart, we held hands over the console, lacing our fingers. What on earth to say? I laughed self-consciously.

“What?” Greg smiled.

“Willy Ray, Junior. It just sounds so funny for someone like you.”

He puckered his chin. “I like it,” he declared. “Willy Ray. You can call me that anytime.” He gave me a look. “But just you.”

We sat in the car for over an hour, the minutes melting away as we talked and kissed twice more. Seemed like it got better each time. But one thing in the back of my mind kept bothering me. Finally I just came out with it. “Greg, I know we're not supposed to talk about last night. But why did you think about Katherine right off, instead of us?”

He didn't answer immediately. He focused on the dashboard, expression turning solemn. “I tell you about Mamma. That she lives in Bradleyville after she is married. That husband, my brother's baba—he drinks too much.”

“Oh.”

“Also, he . . . treats her badly.” His voice dropped, as if the words knifed his heart. “He beats her.”

I drew in a breath.

“I do not want everyone to know this.”

Of course not,
I thought, then understood the depth of his trust in me. Imagine that information in fan magazines. “Greg, I won't tell anyone the things you say to me. Ever.”

He nodded, as if to say,
I know.

He focused on the blackness beyond the windshield. “He hits her many times. She always is scared. The second time she is pregnant, after Danny, he beats her, and the baby dies. He hits my brother, too. Until Danny gets big to fight back.”

I gazed at Greg with a mixture of disbelief and horror. “I had no idea. I mean, I didn't know that kind of stuff happened in Bradleyville.”

He smiled bitterly. “Things ‘happen' anywhere in this world when people do not know Christ, Jackie. This is true.”

Wincing, I squeezed his fingers.

“I first hear when I am ten years old. Baba tells me. I don't forget that day. I run crying to Mamma, begging her to tell me it isn't true. I can not
think
of anyone treating her like that. It hurts me so much.”

“Why did your daddy tell you?”

“He wants me to feel the pain. He is very strict, sometimes I think too strict. But when he tells me about Mamma, he puts it inside here”—he tapped his chest—“to make me hate that. So I always treat women right.”

I tried to imagine how I'd feel if I heard anyone had ever beaten Mama. I couldn't imagine it. I'd die with the thought. No wonder Greg had thought of Katherine first last night. Trent had made him afraid for her.

I hugged Greg hard. “I'm so sorry about your mama. And for getting upset last night when you talked about Katherine.”

He burrowed his fingers into my hair. “We don't say ‘sorry' now, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He placed his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me again.

On our reluctant way home, we talked about the next two days. Greg stretched his hand out to lie on my shoulder as I drove. “I want to see you tomorrow and Monday,” he said. “I want to see you all I can.”

I wanted to see him, too. But what on earth would I do when he left? “Are you coming to church tomorrow?”

“I don't know. With my face and . . . everything that happens, Celia thinks maybe I stay home.”

Well, thanks alot, Celia,
I thought. People had already talked a blue streak, so what difference would it make? “Come,” I urged. “We can sit together. People will be nothin' but nice to you. And you don't have to answer any questions. They wouldn't ask you, anyway. But they'll ask me. In fact, my friends will probably bug me like crazy, but if you're there, they'll leave me alone.”

“Okay. I will ask.”

“Will you call me in the morning? Tell me whether you're goin' to be there?”

“Of course.”

“As for the rest of the day, I don't know. I'll have to ask Daddy.” I cringed at the thought. Despite Greg's politeness and quick help in the fight, I still got the feeling Daddy would be glad when he'd left town. Seemed like Daddy and I had seen nothing but trouble between us since I'd asked to meet him. Not that any of that was Greg's fault.

“Monday, too, I want to see you.” He sighed. “Tuesday, I leave.”

I could not think about that. I only wanted to live the last few hours over and over in my head. And that's exactly what I did as I lay in bed that night, the street lamp throwing a faint light upon Greg's picture—just enough that I could see the outline of his face. Felt him hug me. Felt him kiss me again and again. And I didn't let one tiny thought of Katherine May King spoil it.

chapter 28

H
i, Daddy.”

Fortunately, I caught him Sunday morning alone at the kitchen table. We had to talk. He and I had been through so much together since Mama's death, never arguing. Now we seemed to keep stepping into emotional quicksand.

Besides, I'd be needing his permission to go out with Greg that afternoon.

He glanced up from the paper. “Hi.”

I edged to the table, tapping on it with a knuckle. “I just want to tell you that I'm sorry for, you know, listening to you and Katherine talk. I'm really, really sorry. I wish I hadn't.”

His mouth puckered as he regarded me. “I'll bet you do.”

It took me a moment to realize the deeper meaning behind his words. I dropped my eyes to the newspaper.

“We will have to talk about all this sometime, Jackie,” he said quietly. “The things you heard.”

I nodded, warmed by the concern in his voice.

He sighed. “So much has happened around this house lately, I don't think either of us knows if we're comin' or goin'.”

Wasn't that the truth. “It has been rather interesting.” I shuffled my feet. “Well, I just . . . wanted to apologize. I have to get Robert and Clarissa up now.”

“Okay.” He smiled at me. That smile felt very good. I leaned down to give him a hug, and he hugged me back. Which felt even better.

He and I could get through just about anything as long as we stayed close, I thought as I left the kitchen. In fact, hadn't we already in the last two years?

Church felt more like a three-ring circus that day, given the not-so-grand entrances of the Delham and Matthews families. Looking back, I think it's a wonder Pastor Beekins could preach at all. In the first ring, Robert proved quite the popular boy as he clumped down the aisle, every hand outstretched to greet him. Church folk of every generation asked how he was doing. Was the leg healing, did it hurt anymore? And his team certainly could have used one of his home runs yesterday, couldn't they?

Afraid so, Robert replied countless times.

Daddy and Katherine graced the second ring, him with his bruised fingers and head, Katherine with her bruised ego. At least it should have been bruised, although seemed to me she held her head mighty high. “Oh, my, what happened?” fired the inevitable questions as we milled in the fifteen minutes between Sunday school and church. The older ladies clucked about Katherine like hens around a golden egg.

“I heard a man broke into Bobby's house.”

“Snuck through the back door, didn't he?”

“One of those stalkers, like on TV!”

“Bobby, are you all right today?” Grandma Westerdahl touched the back of his head with care, purposely turning away from Katherine. “I still can't believe this happened in Bradleyville, in your own home.”

And in the third ring, the Matthews and Greg, wearing his clothes from the night before and a tie most likely borrowed from Celia's daddy. His cheek bloomed green and reddish-purple, a stunning sight on his handsome face. He saw me, and his expression lit up. My heart nearly melted.

Celia greeted old friends enthusiastically, blonde hair swinging as she hugged one after another. They all then turned to Greg for introductions, hands on their mouths at the horrific sight of the heroic young man whom God had placed in the Delham's household at just the right moment. Funny, I hadn't thought much about God's having anything to do with it. Mrs. B out-animated everyone, as usual. Her wrinkled mouth hung open in a huge O, her arthritic fingers shaking as she held out her hand to Greg. Mr. B followed her, pumping Greg's arm jovially. “It's good to meet ya, boy, it's good to meet ya. Danny Cander's brother, can you imagine that!”

“Glory!” Alison breathed, clutching my arm as she caught sight of Greg. I wasn't sure what gripped her more—his good looks or battered cheek. “He's gorgeous. And wounded, and . . .
gorgeous.”

“So—where's Jacob this morning?” I asked her with a meaningful raise of my eyebrow.

“He'll be here. And I was just lookin', so don't be like all protective.” She continued to stare. “Are you gonna sit with him?”