House of Skin (25 page)

Daryl leaned forward. “We know you told us all you know, but—”

“Could you wait outside, Deputy Applegate?” the sheriff said without looking at him.

Daryl sat up straight and opened his mouth to speak.

“Deputy?” Barlow repeated.

Daryl shrugged. “Sure.” He stood and nodded at the girl, who stared at the tabletop in front of her.

The morning air felt good against his face as he wandered across the lawn. It was getting warmer, the dew on the grass evaporating. The mist hung in smoky sheets over the long yard. Applegate followed it, liking the way the moisture coated his skin. Away from the house, nearer the woods, the air was redolent with wet buds, dripping branches.

He watched his rubber-soled shoes slick through the unmown lawn, and when he first noticed the garden, he was almost upon it. Nestled as it was back by the forest, it was no wonder he’d missed it. A pair of tomato cages had toppled over and lay threaded with weeds. Wild rhubarb struggled here and there to gain traction in the tufted ground.

Daryl frowned.

Then, an ugly grin curdled his lips.

Before he could move forward, pick up the shovel lying discarded in the grass, he heard the screen door knock shut. He spun and jogged toward the house. Seven years ago, he thought as his footfalls slowed, during his days as a three-sport athlete he could’ve made the distance in five or six seconds. But by the time he rounded the corner of the house and saw Barlow leaning on the porch rail saying his goodbye, Daryl’s lungs were burning with a feverish heat.

As they climbed into the car Daryl asked, “Did she give you anything?”
 

Without speaking Barlow started the cruiser.

Daryl watched the sheriff turn around in Julia’s drive. “Think we got ourselves a lethal hottie?”
 

The sheriff scowled at him. “Remind me to leave you at the station next time.”

Though the house still smelled to Paul like an unwashed armpit, he decided there was no sense in Windexing the windowpanes again, sweeping the foyer or dusting the wooden surfaces one more time. The place was as clean as it was going to get.

He’d gone halfway to the Civic before pausing and staring off through the large green lawn. He rolled the keys around in his fingers, considering. Checking his watch, he realized that he was very early; he wasn’t to pick up Julia for another forty minutes.

In the middle of the lawn, he saw the firepit he’d dug. At the brook he’d found enough stones to border the hole. He imagined roasting marshmallows tonight with Julia. It was corny, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t wait to see her again.

Paul breathed deeply of the late-afternoon air. It was humid, but the air whispering out of the forest still carried the scent of green, vibrant life. Even better, the grass he’d cut yesterday with the ancient lawn tractor looked like a golf course. He’d bagged the grass and dumped it in the woods so that their legs and feet would not be itchy tonight as they sat watching the fireworks.

He hoped he’d estimated rightly. The Fourth of July display was to take place in the city park, only four miles from Watermere. Unless the town skimped and used low-flying rockets, the fireworks should be easy to see from his back yard. He’d driven twenty miles to buy good wine for them to sip after they grilled out. He’d even considered buying his own bag of fireworks, though in the end he guessed she’d rather laze on a blanket than run around playing sparkler tag.

The winding screech of the cicadas began to sound hesitantly from the woods around him. He loved July. Pocketing the keys he wandered out into the yard, thinking about the night to come. If the smell didn’t bother her, he was sure she’d love the house. From the outside it was a stunner. He couldn’t imagine a woman with her literary imagination being unimpressed by such an exquisite Victorian structure. The inside, too, was looking better and better—less like a dilapidated museum and more like the center of town social life it must have been back in his uncle’s prime. Paul tried to see the house through her eyes. The carved mahogany banisters serpentining downward toward the black and white checkered tile of the ballroom. The vast great room with the cathedral ceiling and marble fireplace. The carvings and paintings, many of them done by Myles Carver himself.

Yes. She’d be impressed.

Even the mosquito-fogger he’d puffed through the yard last night seemed to have worked. Though the sounds of insects echoed through the forest, there were no buzzing flies, no persistent throng of gnats seeking his ears.

He checked his watch again: 5:25.

He peered at the Civic, but it was looked incongruous with the beautiful things surrounding it. That decided him.

He set off toward the path to Julia’s. Though he’d only taken it once—and that with the sheriff—he thought he could trace his way through the rises and shallows to her little farmhouse.

The wooded air filled his lungs, its languid heat drawing a mist of sweat on his chest and temples. Rather than oppressing him, the sweat felt good on his skin.

His tromps up and down the lane were helping. He’d been walking for—he checked his watch—ten minutes, over knolls and through overgrown places where he had to crouch or sidle to pass through, and he felt as strong as he had before he’d begun.

Thinking about Julia, he took an alternate route toward her house.

One that wouldn’t take him past the graveyard.

“Fashionably late?”
 

She sat on the porch, reading. He sat down below her on the bottom step and leaned against the base of the steel rail.

“I’m sorry. I thought I’d left myself plenty of time to get here, but those trails…” He gestured vaguely toward the woods. “They’re a little confusing. Not for you, I’m sure, but I’ve only been on them a few times, and most of those were in the dark.” He looked up at her, squinting through sweat. “You’re mad, aren’t you.”
 

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “To tell you the truth, I’m kind of impressed.”
 

“Impressed that I’m fifteen minutes late?”
 

“Impressed that you’re walking now instead of driving everywhere. It’s good for you, even if it does make you late.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“That’s up to you. I’m not making it easier on you.”

“I’d kiss you, but I’m too sweaty.”

“What would that accomplish?”

“Ouch.”
 

She marked her page and ran a hand through her long black hair. “I told you I wasn’t going to make it easy on you.” She set her book on the porch.
The Collected Poems of Lord Byron
, Paul saw. Pulling herself up by the porch rail, she dusted off her backside and offered him a hand. He took it and was shocked at how easily she pulled him up. Standing as he was, three steps below her, his face was bare inches from her exposed midriff. He liked the way her flat stomach tapered down before disappearing under the khaki rim of her shorts. The skin there was dark and smooth, and for one crazy instant, he considered embracing her waist, drawing her to him and running his tongue along her stomach. He could even smell her as he stood there before her, feeling like a worshipper before some pagan goddess. Whether it was the scent of the flowers blooming in her window planters or some light perfume she wore, the smell streaming into his lungs was maddening.

She said, “You’re pitted out.”

He smiled uneasily and took a step back. He was in the process of peeling his sweaty shirt away from the skin of his chest when she descended two steps, reached out, and placing one long-fingered hand on the sweaty nape of his neck, drew him forward and kissed him. They’d kissed only once before, on their last date, also here on the porch steps. The kiss had been brisk and dry and dizzying.

Yet this kiss was searching, needful. Her full lips moved against his, her tongue sought and licked, and for a moment, he felt her thighs press into him. The erotic, summery smell of her made him harden.

She pulled slowly away and led him toward the trail that would lead them to Watermere.

They sat on the fuzzy blue blanket with their sweating bottles of beer leaning against the cooler. Paul had worried about the height of the trees but they were able to see the fireworks just fine. Each time a rocket went off he would turn a little to watch the moonburst reflection in Julia’s eyes, a billion little stars falling to earth on a light green canvas. She was so beautiful she made him self-conscious. Most of the time he was able to bullshit himself into playing things cool, to let things come rather than forcing them. But tonight her silences were too long, his need to keep her entertained too great. She was content to watch the light show and listen to the booms and crackles as the rockets broke up over the woods. He remarked how nice it was to be able to drink and not worry about driving home, meaning she could drink more than one or two glasses of wine if she wanted. What it came out sounding like was either he expected her to leave at some point, was dropping hints about it, or he was trying to liquor her up. Neither was true and he was pretty sure she’d taken his intended meaning, but he felt the need to explain himself. He started to when a thunderclap spawned glittering purple rivers and she kissed him, letting it linger as the rivers dried on their way to earth.

She touched his chin. “You’re quiet tonight.”
 

“I was thinking the same thing about you.

She arched her eyebrows. “So you’re not bored by my company?”
 

He leaned forward, kissed her and lowered her to the blanket. They lay on their sides facing one another, the aromas of cut grass and cold beer swirling around their bodies. A few feet away the embers burned a dusky orange in the firepit.

He said, “I can’t believe no one’s snagged you yet.”

“No one’s ever interested me enough.” Her pretty face resting on her arm. “Or I’ve never interested them.”

“Then you’ve only met idiots.”

She grinned crookedly. “That include you?”

He rolled her onto her back, kissed her deeper.

When he pulled away, she sighed. “That was nice.”
 

“Just ‘nice’?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Try me again.”
 

Paul leaned toward her, a flurry of flashes exploding above the trees.

She said, “That was even better.”

“Good,” he said. “I was worried I might be losing my touch.”
 

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “How long has it been?”

He paused.

“Did you have a girlfriend?”
 

He nodded. “Emily.”

“Pretty name,” Julia said and sat up.

“I guess.”

“How long ago did you two date?”
 

He looked at her then, the fireworks ringing her head in a dazzling corona. “Pretty recently, actually.”

“Yeah?”
 

“We broke up just before I came here.”

Julia watched him. Thinking it over, he could tell. Over her shoulder a firefly glowed, darkened.

She said, “Do you miss her?”
 

Paul thought about it. After a time he shrugged. “Not really. I was afraid of being tied down, I guess.”
 

She lay on her back beside him, a hand behind her head, the other on her stomach. “Are you still afraid of commitment?” she asked him.

Paul watched the long fingernails move slowly on her belly, the strip of bare skin. The way her stomach rose and fell as she breathed, he could look down her shorts, see her panties, low-cut with little frilly things near the top. He felt his face grow hot.

“I’m growing out of it,” he answered.

She watched him for a moment, touched his face. She drew him to her and kissed him long and deeply. He leaned forward and let his chest rest on hers.

They kissed.

She wanted to see the library.

Paul said great, that was fine with him, held her hand as they walked up the stairs together. He felt quivery, wondering if they’d retire from the library into the bedroom. It had been so long since he’d slept with a woman, he wondered if he’d remember what to do. He caught Julia smiling at him so he smiled back, hoping she couldn’t read his thoughts.

Once in the library she became engrossed scanning titles, making comments about books she’d read or needed to read. Most of the time Paul only grunted, not wanting to sound stupid. He’d only read a handful of the titles she called out. Her tastes were more refined than his.

She was making her way along the south wall when she spotted the manuscript, the one he couldn’t remember writing, sitting beside the crushed velvet chair.

“Um,” he started to say.

She picked it up and gave him a questioning look.

“I meant to get rid of it,” he said, furious with himself for leaving it out.

“Why would you get rid of it?” she asked, all eyes now, one finger tracing a pattern over the front page.