Embers (52 page)

Meg sighed and said, "You bet," and curled up next to him, instantly soothed. She sat in silence, listening to the steady beat of his heart, wondering how it was that he could make her feel so safe from harm. That was
her
job, to reassure people. And yet, when she thought about it, shouldn't there be someone to reassure the reassurer?

Tom was the one.

After a while he murmured, "You know how you told me to let it go, back in
Acadia
?"

She nodded.

He said, "Well, it's time for you to let this go."

"I want to," Meg admitted. "They won't let me."

"They? Are we dealing with more than your grandmother here?"

"Yeah. I think Orel Tremblay's in on this, somehow. I don't know
...
sometimes when I stare at the dollhouse I get a sense
—
not of her, because with her there's always an overpowering sadness
—
but of Mr. Tremblay, egging me on. A kind of 'May-the-Force-be-with-you' thing. Don't laugh."

He rubbed his chin on the top of her head. "Nothing funny about that. Ask any cop."

"Mmmn. It's all the same, isn't it?" she said, sighing.

Sometime after that, Meg fell asleep. How long she slept, she had no idea. Her sleep was deep and dreamless, the sleep of someone who's been piling sandbags against a flood all day and night. It was the kind of sleep that would've carried her easily into the next afternoon. But a wail, tremulous and heart- stopping, sent her bolting upright in the middle of the night.

God in heaven!
She sat on the couch, alone and completely disoriented, heavy with sleep, listening to the wail: shivery and high-pitched at first, then descending into a kind of bloodcurdling whimper.

Oh, God, it's not over. It's
still
not over,
she thought, her head sagging with sleep, her body weaving in a kind of drunken fear. She was drenched in sweat.
It can
never
be over.

The wailing stopped, as if whatever it was had died or been killed. But then it started up again, as a series of soft, eerie trills, almost purring sounds. Meg jumped up from the couch, unable to stand it anymore.

And then she realized what it was.

An owl; it's only an owl.
It wasn't a sound she ever heard in town. She was relieved; but now she was awake. She turned off the small red lamp that Tom had left lit for her and walked up to the window, hoping for a breeze, hoping to draw some comfort from the other, kinder sounds of the woods: the crickets, the frogs, the silky swaying of the trees.

But no night was all gentle out there, and she knew it. Creatures were hunting and being hunted; it was the way of the woods. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck, hot and tense and irrationally depressed by the thought. She wanted someone to tell her that life was fair and the good guys always survived and the bad guys always got caught.

It was the least he could do.

She went into the bedroom, the one other room of the cabin, and walked over to his bed. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see that he was lying on his back with his arms folded behind his head. His clothes were slung over a nearby chair; he had on boxer shorts.

His voice was low and musing. "What the hell is that thing wailing out there? I hear it all the time. A coyote?"

"An owl," she said, looking down at him.

He laughed softly at himself. "Jeez. Wasn't even close." She loved the sound of that laugh, loved the intimacy of it, and the way he could make fun of his city-slicking ways. She loved him.

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, aware of the danger.

He said tautly, "Not there, Meg. Not a good idea."

"You're right," she said in a voice overflowing with regret. "You're right." She sighed and reached her hand to his face and stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Another time, another place
...
"

She could feel the muscles in his jaw working as he said, "Right. You never know."

This was insane; why was she torturing them both? She stood up to leave. He sucked in his breath
—
whether from relief or disappointment, she couldn't even say.

Go, go,
she told herself. He was doing his part; why couldn't she do hers?

But the bed was closer than the door, and the thought of being with him was infinitely more compelling than the thought of walking out of his life. She turned back to him and fell to her knees beside the bed, then buried her face in her arms on the edge of the mattress. In a muffled voice she said, "I can't be with you. I can't hurt her. Don't hate me for this. I couldn't bear it."

"Stop."
He reached for Meg's hair and threaded his fingers through it and rubbed his hand against
her skull
. His breath came and went in a staccato pattern as he waited for her finally to leave.

She lifted her head. A sound caught in her throat, a stifled moan of deprivation and despair. She got partly to her feet, then leaned over him. One kiss. And then she'd go. Feeling hungry and entitled and resolved, she lowered her mouth to his.

The taste of his warm mouth against hers was electrifying. Something opened between them, some trapdoor that sent them both hurtling through oblivion. Suddenly there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to hide behind. Suddenly she was reeling from the freedom of it all.

"No more fine words," he said hoarsely, pulling her down to him. "No more reasons."

He kissed her hard and long, taking the kiss to deeper depths, higher heights, than she had ever known. She couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe; she wanted only this headlong free fall into oblivion. More than anything else, she didn't want to know where she was going.

She wanted to say, "Ravish me, make it not my fault." But she was on top, straddling him. It was her fault. She pulled off her shirt; he undid her bra. She undid her shorts; he pulled off her panties. And in all the sliding heat, she leaned over repeatedly to kiss him: wanton, aching kisses, because she had waited so long
—
all of her life
—
for here, for now.

His kisses were hot and deep and utterly desperate. She had the sense that he, too, knew that the free fall couldn't go on forever. He called her Margaret and Meg, wrapping the names around her repeatedly like silken threads. But she broke free, and undressed him, and sat on top of him. Something inside of her, something honest and uncompromising, made her say to him, "I want this. Let me do this."

He let her do it all. She dictated the pace, the pauses, the frenzied acceleration to her climax, then his. She was completely selfish about it, taking her pleasure, savoring it, with no apologies, no regrets.

And when she collapsed on his breast, exhausted and sated and wet from heat and exertion, he gently kissed the damp curve of her shoulder and said, with lingering wonder, "You always seemed like such a
nice
girl."

Her laugh was weak and love struck. She buried her face in his shoulder, unwilling to admit to him that she'd never been that way before with a man, afraid that if he knew, he'd realize how deeply she loved him. Better to have him think she was a wildwoman.

She slid off him and lay alongside, wrapped in his arms, drunk with the mere closeness of him.

"Can I stay?" she asked once more.

He gave her a kiss of surpassing tenderness. "If you left now, I think I'd die," he whispered.

His words, even more than his kiss, were a drug in her system. How could she leave him now? She was hooked. She looked at the small lit clock on his nightstand. Two
A.M.
The Inn Between would be fast asleep by now, and she could stay, at least for a little while longer.

They listened together to the moaning and groaning of the screech owl, which somehow sounded more comical now than scary
—
like someone who's afraid to jump in the pool because the water's too cold.

"I can't believe I woke up so frightened," she said.

"You? I
thought it was a vampire, my first night here."

"City boy."

"Town girl."

He kissed her again, a lingering, interested kiss with none of the fierce, raw urgency of their earlier ones. His hand slid over the dampness of her skin and cupped her breast; he lowered his mouth to it in a fiery tease that left her gasping for air.

In a voice that was low and seductive and altogether new, he said between kisses,
"Now,
Margaret Mary Hazard: Will you let me
...
make love to you properly
...
the way a gentleman should
...
who's wanted you since the day you threw him off your front lawn?"

She was pleased and incredulous. "You wanted me
then?"

"Basically," he murmured, kissing the hollow between her breasts. "Only I didn't know it then."

"How could you not know it?" she wondered.

He lifted his head. Even in the dark, she could tell that he was confused himself about the answer. "I guess I was too dazzled," he said softly.

All the air that Meg had been sucking in seemed to come back out in one long sigh. "Yes," she said, turning her head aside. "She's dazzling."

He laid his hand
under
her cheek and turned her face back to his. "Meg," he said. "I
was
blinded. But now
—
truly
—
I can see. Let me make love to you. It's all we have."

The image of Allie, bright and beautiful and trusting, hovered in front of Meg like a ghostly presence, and then vanished. It was a last-ditch effort by Meg's conscience to get her to leave him, and it failed completely. Meg lifted her hand behind Tom's head and drew him down to her. "Please
...
more," she said simply.

They made love again, with Tom very much in charge this time. He drove her to new heights of passion and then, when she thought she couldn't stand any more, drove her higher still. It didn't seem possible that a body could absorb so much heat and not melt down completely, but Meg's life was full of impossible things.

After the second time, the night took on a life of its own. The more Meg made love, the more she wanted to make love. And Tom, who laughed at first and said it couldn't be done, not at his age anyway, somehow turned serious and came through for her.

"When do you go back?" she'd asked him.

"Next week," he'd answered.

She'd read of lovers like the two of them, people who were driven to desperate bouts of passion before some great crisis: before their city was overrun by an enemy army; before the foot soldier headed off to fight on the front lines; before the king married, for the good of the kingdom, some duchess he couldn't stand.

But their own tragedy was less melodramatic than all that. The front line for Tom Wyler was on the streets of
Chicago
, and their enemy army was the dawn. As for the duchess, Meg didn't even want to speculate.

She and Tom made love
—
wild love, hot love, slow love, exhausted love
—
until the first birds sang. And then they fell asleep.

****

She heard her sister calling her name; that was what woke her up. The knocking came immediately after; that was what woke Tom up.

"Oh my God!" Meg said, wide awake. "What time is it?
Nine?
Oh my God."

"Shh," whispered Tom, reaching for his pants. "Just stay here. I'll take care of it."

He slipped into his khakis and grabbed a T-shirt on his way out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Meg sat stunned for one full second after that and then grabbed wildly at her clothes, fumbling with the hooks of her bra, pulling her yellow T-shirt over her head in a blind rush, zipping her shorts so hastily that she caught her skin in the zipper and had to suppress a cry of pain. Through it all, she heard every agonizing word in the next room.

"Tom! Good
morning!"
came Allie's voice, as bright as the sunshine pouring through the windows of the cabin. "I brought your books back. Meg's here already? She gets up with the roosters; I swear I've never seen her sleep late. What's she doing here, anyway? Your blueberry bushes don't look ready to pick yet."

She must know. She can't
not
know.

"Yeah
...
Meg's here," Tom said quietly. "She came about the dollhouse."

That's right,
Meg thought.
I did.
She began to have wild hopes that Tom could pull it off without being despicable.

"Oh, yeah
—
Mr. Peterson. I don't know why I stormed out of dinner like that. Uncle Billy just gets to me.
Meg?"
Allie yelled. "Where is she?"