Gabrielle's Bully (Young Adult Romance) (8 page)

“I can just imagine my father’s reaction to that,” I said into his shoulder.

“He did seem a little stunned,” Heath admitted, talking over my head.

Poor dad. Overwhelmed by the evidence of Heath’s solid citizenship. I stepped back from Heath reluctantly, wiping my eyes.

“You are too much,” I said, “bringing all that jazz over here to show him.”

Heath raised his eyebrows. “Hey. Did it work? Are we going, or are we not?”

“We are going.”

He brushed a strand of hair back from my cheek. “You know, I came here to talk to him because I knew you wanted to see that show, but it didn’t matter to me where we went. Seeing you is what matters. Where is only incidental.”

He remained with his hand touching my face, and I looked up at him. I wanted him to kiss me, and he looked like he wanted to kiss me too, but I guess he thought it was too risky with my parents and Craig ten feet away. Instead he brushed his thumb across my lips. I shivered; I’d felt it like a kiss.

“Good night, Hippolyta,” he said huskily.

“Who?”

“Hippolyta. She was the leader of the Amazons in Greek mythology. I have a picture of her in one of my books at home, she looks just like you. Tall and slim, with pale skin and hair like yours.” He stroked it gently, putting his hand into my collar and pulling it out, running it through his fingers. I closed my eyes.

“Such beautiful hair,” he said softly. “I never saw such beautiful hair.”

Through a mist of pleasure I thought, Stacey Trumbull, eat your heart out.

“What do you call this color?” Heath asked.

“Red,” I said stupidly, unable to think for the touch of his hands.

“Oh, no,” he said firmly, withdrawing from me, “you don’t have red hair. Orphan Annie has red hair. Yours is . . . well... the exact color of a sorrel horse.” His hands fell to his sides, the fingers curled inward.

“I guess that’s what it is, then,” I answered. “Sorrel.”

We stood looking at one another, mute. I wanted to ask him to stay longer, forever, if you want to know the truth, but I didn’t want to push my luck with dear old dad. I picked up Heath’s coat and handed it to him. “Thanks for coming over,” I said, as he put it on.

He hooked his arm around my neck and ducked my head against his shoulder, just for a moment. “For you, anything.”

He released me and went through the door, leaving behind a blast of cold air as a reminder of his passage.

I leaned back against the closed door, feeling the grooves of the paneling through my blouse. Had he just been here, had he just said those wonderful things? I could almost convince myself that I had made it all up, conjured his presence and his words from every daydream I had ever had. Then I heard the sound of his car’s motor in the street, and I knew that it was real. I hugged myself with the sheer joy of existing in the same world as Heathland Lindsay.

When I rejoined the group in the den my father said, “That’s quite an unusual boy, Gaby.”

“I’d have to agree with you there, Dad,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Likable, though,” my father went on. “A very likable young fellow. I think that he can be trusted to take this trip with you, and your mother agrees.”

My mother rolled her eyes at me and went back to her novel. This trip, Dad said, as if we were going to backpack through the Blue Mountains. He sure knew how to make a big deal out of nothing.

But the important thing was that he had given in. The first crack had appeared in the wall. Would others soon follow? I pictured myself en route to all sorts of adventures with Heath, who certainly knew how to deal with Jack Dexter, insurance mogul.

I picked up a magazine from the rack on the floor and flipped idly through the pages, singing softly a golden oldie I’d heard on the radio:
“Something tells me I’m into something good.”

Chapter 5

For a change, I knew exactly what I was going to wear to Middlebury. I had gotten a neat rust colored sweater for Christmas, embroidered at the neckline and wrists with tiny yellow daisies. It went really well with my thin-ribbed corduroy jeans. After I got dressed I got my boar’s hair brush and brushed my hair until it shone, clinging to my fingers and crackling with static electricity. I rummaged in my top bureau drawer for the small gold hoops for my ears. I didn’t want to overdo it, but a little jewelry never hurt.

As I was applying my lip gloss I leaned forward and surveyed myself critically in the mirror. What did Heath see that he liked? I looked ordinary enough to myself, but I’d been looking at myself all my life. I tried to be objective, peering at the girl who stared back at me from the glass.

Pretty? No, pretty was Barbara. Attractive? No, that was for older ladies, like “handsome” or “stylish.” My mother was attractive. What then? Striking? Maybe. My coloring was vivid, hard to miss, and my slimness and height drew the eye. I could never get lost in a crowd, people always spotted me first, which I had found to be a distinct disadvantage on a number of occasions. I sighed and dropped the lipstick in my purse. I hoped I was striking. Heath deserved striking, at the very least.

Downstairs, my mother was baking a cake for some Cub Scout ceremony Craig was attending the next afternoon. Craig was working on his monster models in the basement—the strong smell of the glue drifting upstairs was unmistakable. My father was on the telephone in the den, talking business, doubtless trying to convince somebody he needed more insurance than he could afford. A typical Saturday night on the home front, except that instead of reading or watching television, I was going out on a date. In a few minutes, Heath would be here.

My mother glanced at me and told me to take my scarf and gloves, since it was very cold. As I was walking away she called after me that the weather report had said there might be snow. I stopped in my tracks. Rats. I hoped the evening wouldn’t be cut short by a storm.

I went to the closet and got my lined duffel coat and angora mitten set, and put them on, sitting on the couch afterwards wrapped up like a mummy. Like a child, I hoped that being ready earlier would make Heath arrive faster.

I sprang up when I heard the car outside and ran to the door.

Heath came in, bundled to the ears, holding a book under his arm. “Take a look at that later,” he said.

Curious, I reached for it, and he grabbed my hand. “Let’s go,” he said in an undertone. “Don’t give your father a chance to change his mind.”

That hit home. “Heath’s here, Mom,” I called into the kitchen. “We’re leaving.”

“Good night, Mrs. Dexter,” Heath added, steering me to the door.

My mother trailed after us, her hands white with flour. “Have a good time,” she said. “Eleven-thirty, Gaby,” she reminded me. “And watch the roads. If it starts to snow hard, you come home.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Heath said as he pushed me through the door, “if the weather turns bad I’ll bring Gaby back early.”

I knew he was trying to reassure my mother, but I wished he hadn’t said that. His definition of “bad” and my mother’s were sure to be light years apart. She thought an inch of snow was a Colorado blizzard.

We ran down the steps together like two prisoners released from jail. The icy wind was penetrating and bit through our clothes. I was glad to reach the warm car.

“So,” Heath said to me as we pulled away, “where’s Middlebury?”

I turned to stare at him.

He shrugged. “I saw the advertisement for the theater in the newspaper, but I’ve never been there.”

“Heath,” I began in a dangerous voice, “I’m not sure ...”

He chuckled, that low intimate sound that was more an exhalation than a laugh. “Relax,” he said, interrupting. “I’m only teasing. I got directions this afternoon.”

I punched his arm.

“Lady,” he said, “don’t attack the driver.” Then he reached across the seat and touched my shoulder.

“Move over here,” he added. “I can hardly see you.”

I slid over on the seat, next to the gearshift, until our knees were touching.

“That’s better,” Heath said softly. He pulled onto the highway, his eyes shifting to the road.

I put my head back against the rest, content to be with him, and looking forward to the hours ahead.

* * *

We sat in the first row of the balcony in the old theater and hung our feet out over the lower floor. The crowd was sparse, and the immense second level was as drafty and chilly as a barn. Heath took off his coat and put it over both of us, his arm draped over my shoulder. I felt warm and protected nestled against him, and enjoyed the movies about ten times as much as I had in the past.

When we got outside, it had begun to snow. Large, wet puffballs drifted slowly to the ground, covering everything with a fine layer of white down. Middlebury is a quaint colonial town with a long row of 18th-century stone houses on the main street. The lights in their windows cast pools of yellow on the walk, and street lamps illuminated the dancing, falling flakes.

“We’d better start home,” I said anxiously.

Heath scanned the night skies like an astronomer. “Nah. The flakes are too big and wet to stick. It won’t accumulate, it’ll melt after it hits the ground. Feel how much warmer it is? It’s not cold enough to freeze to the roads.”

It
was
warmer. The wind had died down, and the temperature had risen. I shrugged inwardly. Heath ought to know about snowstorms after living in Massachusetts all those years.

We stood on the sidewalk outside the theater, silent, struck by the scene. The other patrons dispersed around us, some murmuring in appreciation when they saw the snow. I had to agree. No matter how much trouble it causes on the roads, snow is worth it. What else has that serene, fresh beauty, that quiet loveliness? I’ve always felt sorry for people in tropical climates who have never seen snow.

“When I was little,” I said to Heath, “and it snowed like this, my mother would say that the angels were having a pillow fight.”

He smiled. “They must be at it again tonight. Would you like to take a walk?”

I nodded. Without the wind, the night air was brisk, invigorating, and the scenery too pretty to resist.

We strolled along the street, past the vintage homes and the closed and darkened shops. Everything was still, with that hush that seems to blanket everything when it begins to snow. Our muffled footsteps made the only sound.

“Did you ever read that story about the kid who’s losing his mind?” Heath asked. “He’s fascinated with snow, and as he withdraws further and further from reality, he imagines it’s snowing all the time. At first he sees it outside, like through a window, but at the end he thinks it’s snowing in his room.”

“Good lord. That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, no,” Heath said dreamily, “it was a pretty good story. I liked it. I had it in a literature class at Wilbraham. At the time a lot of things were going wrong for me.
 
I could really appreciate why somebody would want to just opt out like that, and create a dream world where everything was beautiful and nice.”

“But Heath,” I said, a little afraid of his tone, “that’s mental illness. That’s what sick people do, give up trying to deal with their problems and pretend they’re someplace else.”

“I didn’t say I was going to do it, Gaby,” Heath said dryly. “I merely said that I understood.”

I stopped under a street lamp and glanced up at him. Snowflakes glistened in his hair and matted his eyelashes. He watched me with that quiet intensity that was uniquely his.

“What was happening at home to make you understand?” I said.

He looked away. “Oh, family stuff. My mother had just died, and her kids were fighting over her money.”

“Her kids? You have brothers and sisters?”

He smiled without humor. “Each of my parents was married before they were married to each other. I have two half brothers from my father, and a half brother and sister from my mother.”

I absorbed that piece of information in silence. My mother was going to freak when she heard this. The most exotic thing anybody in my family ever did was marry again when the first partner died. My Aunt Helen had remarried when her husband died of cancer, and they had talked about her for twenty years. Conservative didn’t adequately describe them.

“But you are the only one from their marriage?” I asked.

He snorted. “Yeah. They were hardly married long enough to have me.”

“Where are your brothers and sisters?”

He gestured vaguely, at the universe in general. “Everywhere. They’re all older than I am and living in different places.”

“Do you ever see them?”

His eyes narrowed. “When somebody dies. They generally surface to see what they were left in the will.”

How awful. I was afraid to speak, because I was worried my voice would give away my feelings, and I knew he wouldn’t want me to be sorry for him. I was surprised he had even told me this much; he must be starting to trust me. After a few moments I cleared my throat.

“You see your father regularly,” I pointed out, trying to be positive.