Fireworks Over Toccoa (11 page)

Lily retrieved the sack, removed the Cokes, and placed them under a loose floorboard near the wall where some dirt had been removed. The cold Georgia red clay served as a makeshift cooler. In the clay hole, next to the soft drinks, also protected from the heat, was a Hoosier-style glass jar that contained a few clean tubes of oil paint.

Under the shelves Jake saw numerous Coca-Cola bottles, which were standing in a fairly large pile of broken bottle glass. Then Jake noticed a wooden table, on top of which was a partially completed mosaic of broken bottle glass. Lily watched closely as Jake went to it.

Interesting pieces of painted broken Coke bottle glass had been glued onto a piece of old wood. The glass chunks were big and small, smooth and sharp, a fascinating juxtaposition of sizes and textures. Each shard had been painted with oils. A vivid though thoughtfully restrained palette of natural tones had been used. The painted glass was affixed to an aged piece of stained wood, about three feet across, probably broken off some decaying outbuilding. The glass was arranged in an imaginative pattern resembling a tree with impossibly bright fruit set against a strange background of a dark wavy sky. The light fruit set in relief against the darkness was improbable and evocative and even a little unsettling.

“This is beautiful,” said Jake.

Lily could only nod in acceptance as Jake saw several more glass mosaics leaning against the table and wall. Intrigued, he walked over to them. Some of the pieces were small and did not portray anything recognizable. Others were larger, with whimsical depictions. All used rough-hewn materials—painted bottle shards on salvaged strips of barn wood and found timber—but in a deliberate and artistic way.

“This is
your
work?”

“Guilty.”

“Lily, seriously, this is beautiful art.”

“Oh, I’m not sure what it is exactly, but you certainly can’t call it art. A lot of my parents’ friends are big collectors, and this definitely does not fit the definition.”

“Have they seen this?”

“My parents’ friends?” Lily laughed. “Oh, sure, I can just see the Havertys and the Woodruffs hanging my broken Coke bottles up right next to their Renoirs.”

“I don’t know about your parents’ friends, but I think people would love this.
I
love it.”

“Yes, well, you’re…different from everyone else I know. And that’s a good thing.”

“Who else has seen this?”

“Just you.”

He took that in, wondering if this was the reason she took him here today. He looked hard at her. Until now, he thought he knew her entirely. He was wrong. There was a depth of soul to Lily Davis Woodward that he was certain no one knew, perhaps not even Lily herself, the kind of soul that creates stirring mosaics of bright glass, or moves someone to create fireworks to express how she makes him feel. Looking back and forth between her vividly colored glass mosaics and her keen eyes, he felt as though he was getting a glimpse into those depths. And he wanted more. He wanted to go deeper.

“I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

“You’re sweet, Jake, but trust me, breaking Coke bottles is not considered art around here. In fact, it’s heresy. Which is precisely why I started doing it.”

Lily explained how she first started sneaking off to the cabin as a child when something had made her angry. In defiance of her parents, she would come out here and smash the bottles in the fireplace. She’d smile politely on Doyle Street and “yes, ma’am” her way through a tea and nod gracefully to the ladies who lunched at the club, and then she’d come out here in her cabin in the kudzu in the woods and express her rage at the rules and rituals by throwing those holy bottles, smashing them up as she sometimes wanted to do to the world. Defaming the sanctified Coca-Cola Company was certain blasphemy in Toccoa, and on more than one occasion Lily would whip a few bottles into the stone fireplace and then genuflect and curtsy to the broken pieces while giggling aloud the radio jingle “Drink Coca-Cola!” as though she were snubbing her nose at society and all that it expected of her. If there was a hell, she sometimes wondered if this was the sort of thing that sent a girl there. Still, such concerns did not stop Lily Davis and now Lily Davis Woodward from her acts of desecration, which, perhaps in an even bigger snub, she turned into a secret art.

In adolescent years, before marriage, she came out here with oil paints. When her mother gave her an extravagant gown for a birthday instead of the paints she had begged for, Lily used her own money that she had saved to buy them. The heat and humidity eventually got to them, but she recently bought herself some new ones, even better colors, the ones in the glass jar in the mini-cellar.

Lily watched as Jake took in her secret. She had thought many times about bringing Paul out here but was never quite sure how he would respond. What would he think of someone who enjoyed smashing up his beloved company? What would he think of her hiding out by herself in the woods? What would he think of her art? Lily never quite knew, and when she was completely honest with herself, as she was right now, she delighted in having something just for herself, a secret of her own. But she also had to admit that she was even more thrilled to be sharing it with this man whom she had met. And she felt amazingly safe doing so.

Jake looked around, silently understanding how important this place was in her life, how it was a part of her about which she chose not to tell, dared not tell, anyone, not even her husband. Jake nodded in that knowing way of his that made his grasp of complex emotions apparent, and she felt an unexpected and powerful bond with him, because he knew, he understood from his sensitivity as well as his
own
experiences, how feelings could explode and fuel a person’s need to act and create. She saw in his gaze the belief that he had found more than a friend in her but also a like-minded traveler, a kindred soul. The protective shroud Jake had carried around him when they first met, that layer of aloneness, seemed to have faded, his eyes bright and exposed and fully engaged with hers.

She picked up one of the bottles from the floor, put it in a small burlap sack once used to hold coffee beans, and pulled the sack shut with its sewn-in tie.

“I don’t care what kind of day you’ve had, this is the best medicine in the world,” she said.

Then she pulled back her arm and, as hard as she could, threw the sack with the bottle into the fireplace. It hit the big stones in the back of the firebox and the bottle shattered.

Lily laughed.

She marched up to the fireplace and retrieved the sack, the broken glass inside jangling as she walked back. She looked exhilarated.

“Wanna try?” she said to Jake, her eyes wide with joy.

“Sure.”

She opened the sack and dumped the new shards onto the pile of broken glass. She put another bottle into the sack and pulled the tie closed. Then she tossed the sack to Jake, who caught it expertly.

“Go ahead, let ’er rip.” She walked over and stood next to him. He glanced at her and they shared a smile. This was fun.

As hard as he could, Jake threw the sack into the firebox. It hit the stones and shattered explosively.

Jake let out a little shout, but not as loud as Lily’s. She loved this. After all these years of doing this alone, of coming out here alone, of being alone, Lily was overcome with the joy of sharing everything…throwing bottles and her glass mosaics and her kudzu cabin and her forest and her secrets and dreams…sharing everything with another person, with the right person, with Jake Russo. It was all so exciting and new.

They laughed together, close to each other. His face near. And his lips touched hers. There was no forethought. It was as natural as breathing. His lips stayed on hers and hers on his. And they kissed.

Their laughter stopped and they continued to kiss.

After a moment, they paused.

She looked into his eyes and in that moment with that look they said everything to each other. Slowly, he leaned into her again. Thoughts raced through her mind, but to utter them now would be like talking to a river.

He put his lips on hers and kissed her again. Slowly. Softly. At once exploring her and reaching out to her. He brought his hand to her and touched her face. He ran his open fingers through her hair, grazing the top of her ear, cradling the back of her head. Impulsively he pulled her closer and kissed her deeper.

A rush of new warmth spread through her and her heart went mad and her breath quickened. He heard her and it made him tremble.

He pulled his mouth off hers, put both hands on her face, and willed himself to take in a long, steadying breath.

Then he put his forehead on hers and took in the scent of her and the sound of her. Gently, barely making contact, his face slid down hers, his nose touching her eyelid, grazing her hairline, crossing and lingering against her ear and moving even slower down her jawline. His lips made the slightest contact with her skin and he stopped and began to kiss her neck.

He savored her, though he was afraid that at any moment something inside him would become abruptly unfastened and he would pour into her and tear into her and rip the world apart. His heart pounded completely unrestrained.

She felt him shaking as he touched her. She continued standing there, as if in a dream, and allowed herself to be savored. She felt at once both vulnerable and excited and let him explore her and take her in until she just couldn’t stand it any longer.

She moaned, low and involuntary, and grabbed his head and pulled him up and kissed him. Her tongue in his mouth, they kissed passionately without reflection. Without consideration. Restraint gone. Never in her entire life had she ever been more certain of the rightness of a thing than this moment right now.

He ran both hands down her neck, slowly unbuttoned her dress, and slid it down and off her. He tugged the thin straps of her slip off her shoulders and ran his hands over the exposed skin of her upper back. She leaned into him and her slip fell to the ground.

He wrapped his arms around her back and pressed his face to her chest and ran his cheek down her body, his hands behind her, stopping at her belly to kiss her there and take her in there until neither of them could endure this one second longer.

Lifting her up, he gathered her into his arms and he kissed her again, more intensely, as he carried her to the blankets that he kicked open on the floor, and he laid her down on top of them and began to devour her.

He removed his shirt and ran his chest across her. The living swathe around the cabin made the midsummer air seem damp and heavy, and their bodies warmed it further. He reached for her bra, but she had already removed it. She lifted her hips so he could slide her underwear down her legs and off her. Like a stream coursing over her body, he seemed to be everywhere on her at once, kissing her breasts, his hands on them, his lips moving down her stomach again, his fingers rising to her neck and to her mouth, his tongue moving across her. Seeking, caressing, his hands ran all over her with a rising urgency, slipping over her and down her, exploring her, his fingers in her, his mouth on her, his tongue in her.

She cried out and it could have ended there for her, but he kept going, losing himself in her.

He wanted to know every piece of her, all her secrets, everything she hid from the world, what gave her pleasure. He wanted every single part of her body and spirit, and he wanted to at once both have her and consume her.

She lay there as he knelt over her and quickly removed his belt and pants, and for a brief moment in a diaphanous column of light she saw all of him, this man whom she had met in a field yesterday. Then he leaned over and put himself on her and then, slowly, into her.

She rooted her fingers into his upper back, his muscles hard and expansive as he held his weight above her. His chest rubbing lightly against her breasts, his abdomen on her belly, their fevering bodies sliding together skin to skin, his kissing and touching and holding enveloping her to where she was wrapped in him, suffused in him, it was dizzying, overwhelming, and now to be filled with him, feel him simultaneously moving in her and all around her, sense him touching all parts of her, body and beyond, the rising swirl of sensations and emotions brought her to a threshold and she began to cry, partly from the pleasure of it and partly from what the pleasure was setting into relief, the juxtaposition of what she had and what she hadn’t had, in all ways, in all ways possible.

He didn’t ask her why she was crying and she didn’t try to explain. He knew exactly why, and she knew that he knew.

He continued making love to her, kissing her tears, and she realized that this right now was inevitable. When she had been dancing alone, this was who she was with. When she had imaginary partners, this was who she had imagined. And from the moment she saw his firework exploding in the sky over her house the die was cast. His fireworks were calling to her, leading her to this, and if she wasn’t here right now with him she felt as though she would be dead.

He pulled her up. She sat on him and they held each other like that, still as one, both quivering. They kissed, ran their hands tenderly down the entire lengths of each other’s arms and sides and backs, and looked into each other. In her hazy eyes he could see that he was not alone, as he had felt for so long. He held her face, adoringly, lovingly, and kissed her eyelids. Spellbound, he stroked her hair, drawing it away as if to open her further, reveal another layer of her, and then pulling her close, her chin moving back and upward, mouth open with the bliss, and he kissed her softly, lips moist, hot-breathed, all along her throat and neck, mesmerized, almost pained, by how delicate and exquisite a thing she was.

They stayed like this for a long time, hugging, until, ever so slightly, she began to move her hips. She felt herself swelling and then tightening on him again, a flushing spreading as her blood heated, and she found herself uttering words and sounds entirely involuntarily, and she gave in to this, tossing aside control in a way she never thought she could or would, and finally, when he could not remain still any longer on this plateau, he shoved her over and he pushed her knees back toward her and he fell, and rose and fell, with her, arms before him, reaching for her, needing her, casting off his contained self, with its quiet and damage, and connecting with her, fully and deeply and entirely, leaving behind the remains of restraint and giving in to the building rhythm of human bond.