Jezebel's Blues (20 page)

Celia braced herself this time. All the way over, she’d reminded herself of Eric’s physical details, calling up the most stunning of them in particular, so they wouldn’t be such a shock.

It didn’t help. He was like a sunset; she could remember the beauty and the sense of awe she felt, could summon the words for the details that so enchanted her, but each time she saw him was a brand-new experience, more compelling than her mind could hold for memory’s sake.

The sight of his big, dark head, bent over the mournful notes of his harp, sent a wave of desire washing through her belly. Then he caught sight of her and stood up, broad and graceful and strong, and simply looked at her. He was polished, as if for special company, and Celia allowed herself a small smile, for she knew that was Laura’s doing. His hair was carefully brushed, his shirt pressed, his feet shod in boots.

“Hello, Celia,” he said.

She wanted to close her eyes against the sound of that dark, raw voice, but forced herself to stand there as if he didn’t bother her, as if she were composed.

For another minute, they simply stood there, Eric on the porch, Celia in the yard, the cat between them. A breeze lifted a lock of his hair. It was impossible to read anything in his expression—his walls were firmly, rigidly in place.

Laura appeared at the screen door, a flutter of red silk and gold fringe. “Why, Eric Putman, your manners are in the sewer.” She banged out the door and brushed past her brother. “I apologize, Celia—you are Celia?—he’s been among men for too long.”

Celia glanced at Eric. He smiled, as if sharing a secret with her. Infinitesimally, he shook his head.

Celia looked at Laura. “It’s all right.”

“Come on in,” Laura urged, taking Celia’s arm. “I’m just about to set the table. You and I can get acquainted while I’m doing it.”

Overwhelmed, Celia let herself be led up the stairs, past Eric—who still grinned, as if in relief—and into the house.

* * *

Whatever she’d been expecting, this night was not it, Celia thought later as Laura served fat slices of chocolate cake. Eric sat directly across from her, speaking little, avoiding her gaze except for the occasional glimmer of humor she caught over one thing or another Laura did.

Laura herself was quite a surprise. The song Eric had sung on Celia’s porch of the delicate, vulnerable woman looking for a home and gentle arms to hold her had nothing to do with the talkative whirlwind who served burned biscuits and cherry Kool-Aid with a supper otherwise wonderfully well cooked. She flitted around the room like a scarlet bird, her long, black hair flying, her jewelry glittering. Dazzling.

“So, tell me, Celia,” Laura said as they ate the sinfully rich cake. “You plan to stay in Gideon?”

“Definitely,” Celia replied. “I spent most of my life trying to get here.”

“That’s nice. I hope we’ll be friends.” With a droll glance toward her brother, Laura added, “I love Gideon, except when it comes to shopping. I go into Dallas for the big things. Have you been there?”

“No,” Celia admitted. “I’m a little afraid of the freeways.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. Next time I go, I’ll call you. I know all the best little spots to find bargains.”

Celia glanced toward Eric, who silently ate his cake, outwardly calm. But she could sense the restlessness that brewed just below the surface and wondered what was bothering him. “Do you like Dallas, Eric?” she asked.

He lifted his shoulder in a single shrug. “I guess.”

“Do you like anything tonight, Eric?” Laura asked.

He looked at Celia and heat flashed in his eyes for an instant, a heat laced with hunger and loneliness. It could only have lasted for the space of a heartbeat or less, but in that moment, she saw that he still wanted her as desperately as she wanted him. Flushing, she lowered her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said to his sister. “I guess I’m just a little restless tonight.”

“Why don’t you play something for us?” she suggested. “That’s usually what you need—to play some music. I haven’t heard you play guitar for a long time. I miss it.”

Celia bit her lip at the charged silence that met Laura’s suggestion. For a moment, she was confused—didn’t Laura know about Eric’s inability to play? Why would she be so cruel?

Then she caught the flame in Laura’s starry blue eyes, a hard flicker of challenge.

“Laura, I don’t play guitar anymore. And you know it.” A wash of dusky red stained his cheekbones.

Reminded of the day that he’d stumbled on the stairs at the high school, Celia spoke up. “I’ll have to let you two settle this between yourselves,” she said, dusting her lips with a napkin. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to get home.”

Eric’s expression of gratitude was ample payment. She gave him a small smile in acknowledgement.

“Oh, do you have to run off?” Laura protested. “We were just getting comfortable.”

“I’m afraid I do,” Celia said. “It was wonderful. Maybe I can return the favor sometime soon.”

Laura nodded, and in her eyes, Celia saw the intelligence and steadiness that lay behind the fluttery, gypsy externals. There was also an entreaty in those eyes, one Celia didn’t quite understand.

“Eric, drive her home,” Laura said as Celia stood up.

“That’s not necessary,” Celia protested. “It’s a beautiful night. I like walking.”

“I’ll drive you,” he said.

A well of panic rose in her chest at the thought of him sitting in a close space with her, his scent and voice washing over her in the dark. “No,” she said, and looked at him, suddenly angry. “I’ll walk.”

A muscle tightened along his jaw, and he fiddled with a fork idly as he absorbed and deflected her fury. It was as if he knew he deserved it, as if he welcomed it. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, finally.

Celia lifted her chin. “Thank you again,” she said to Laura. “Feel free to drop by. It’s still a mess from the flood, but I’d love to see you anytime.”

Laura smiled, a curl of pretty lips matched by a secretive, triumphant expression in her eyes. She winked. “I’ll see you soon.”

Had she missed something? Celia sighed and headed for the door. After coping with one new society after another as a child, she would have imagined the social structure of her own country and people would be a breeze. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Tonight she felt subtly manipulated, seduced, placed in position in line with someone else’s plan. When would she learn the codes around here?

Eric followed her silently out to the porch. “Sure you won’t let me drive you?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Well, let’s go then. It’s a long walk.”

Celia froze. “I’ll be fine, Eric.”

“I know.” He took her hand with gentleness. “I just want to talk to you in private for a few minutes.”

“Will you stop this, Eric?” Mindful of the open screen door and Laura with her secretive smile sitting just beyond, Celia stepped off the porch. “Oh, just drive me.” At least it would be over more quickly that way.

She waited while he fetched his keys, then led her around the side of the house to a gray Volvo. “It still smells like river water,” he commented as they settled inside. “But at least she’s runnin’ again.”

It was a new car—maybe not brand-new, but no more than a year or two old, and no expense had been spared on the extras. It wasn’t the kind of car she would have expected him to drive.

What
had
she expected, then? She frowned, sneaking a glance at his profile, and had to choke back a chuckle at the picture that presented itself. Maybe a truck, old and lovingly maintained, or a Cadillac with fins. She shook her head at the stereotypical offerings.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s a nice car,” she said, unable to control the puzzled smile curling her lips.

“I love her.” He patted the dashboard fondly. “Never has given me a minute of trouble. I looked at some others, but one just stole my heart.”

Celia couldn’t help it. She giggled.

He glanced at her. “What did you expect? A broken-down Buick with a V8 and worn paint, the vinyl roof peeling?”

“Something like that,” Celia admitted.

“Well,” he drawled comfortably, “you’re not alone. I get more ribbing over this car than anything else.” He made an adjustment on the dashboard. “Truth is, though, I drove a 1969 Buick Skylark for a lot of years and spent more days broken down in little bitty towns than I can count. When I started getting real money, a good car was the first thing I bought.”

“I guess having to be on the road all the time it makes sense.”

“Not bad for an old country boy without a high school diploma, eh?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “You’re so terribly disadvantaged,” she said wryly, and realized with a little shock that she meant it. He may not have had the benefit of a formal education, but he was a literate, thinking man. Self-taught, as so many of her own ancestors had been.

In acknowledgment of her point, he chuckled. The sound was rich and hot in the small space. “Don’t tell anybody, all right?”

The car purred into the drive toward the farmhouse, and with a pang of dismay, Celia realized she’d done it again—grown comfortable with her prickly, moody drifter, allowed herself to lose her anger and feel pleased to be listening to him. Loving him.

She fell silent as he pulled up in front of the house. A lamp burned in the living room, and another upstairs in the attic, so that she wouldn’t have to stumble up the stairs in the dark.

“This is how it looked the night of the storm,” Eric said quietly, viewing the house through the windshield. “Warm and safe.”

Celia swallowed.

He looked at her. “And it was—just like the woman who took me in.”

She saw him leaning closer, his broad shoulders blocking her view as he inclined his head. Don’t, her mind cried, but her heart was already in her throat.

It might be her last chance.

The thought gave extraordinary clarity to the moment. She noted in acute detail the slope of his cheekbone in the soft moonlight, the cut of his lips thrown into silhouette against the night. He smelled of himself, something hot and male and irresistible. She remembered when he had stood in her kitchen the night of the storm, gulping down popcorn, his lip bleeding—and it seemed impossible that so much had gone between them, that now that same beautiful, rough-edged man was bending his head over hers, that she could feel his moist, warm breath whisper over her lips.

So when his mouth touched hers, seductive and hungry and gentle all at once, she nearly shivered at the shock of pleasure it gave her. Her hands flew up to land in the mass of his long, wavy hair, silky and cool and heavy against her fingers. A sound of hunger escaped her throat.

He moved closer, ignoring the limits of bucket seats, tugging her against his chest. His fingers dug into her back with fierce pressure. Celia felt herself spinning away as he kissed her mouth and her chin, her forehead and eyes, talking in between in his dark, raw voice. “I can’t help myself, Celia,” he whispered as his mouth moved over her cheek. “I can’t stop thinking about you, can’t stop wanting you.”

His mouth touched her temple, her ear, her neck. “I keep telling myself to leave you alone, and I keep breaking that promise and I’m sorry.”

The tip of his nose trailed the length of her neck until he nuzzled into the curve of her shoulder. The car’s engine still purred. “I wish…”

“Never mind.” Celia hugged him, releasing all of her anger, all of her wishes and silly fantasies into the night. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.” Then, when she could find the courage, she slowly released him. “You’d better get back to your sister,” she said.

For an instant, it seemed as if he would not let her go. Then he straightened, nodding.

Celia opened the door, put one foot on the ground, then turned back to him. “Don’t leave without telling me goodbye. Please?”

With one finger, he touched her cheek. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “Go on, now, before the mosquitoes eat us both alive.”

E
ric dreamed of his hands, whole and strong, flying over the strings of his guitar. He dreamed of his mother, pretty and soft and smelling of L’Origan, holding him in her lap.

And he dreamed of Celia—Celia laughing, Celia singing, Celia kissing him in her open, undemanding way.

He awakened to darkness. For a long time, he lay there, staring at the shadows cast by a tree beyond his window. Then, he rose and dressed, took his guitar case from beside the couch and walked out into the damp, near dawn. A path led from behind the house down the bluff that protected it from the river. Jezebel, singing the blues, beckoned him.

Overhead, the sky was indigo, washed clean of stars with the approach of morning. Eric settled on the banks of the river and breathed deeply the coppery scent mixed with pine needles and rich silt and fish. Home.

As a child, he’d not understood that Jezebel had taken his mother. He’d been afraid of storms for a long time, but never of this river. As a boy, he’d spent long, long hours at her side, listening to the musical sound of her stories, imagining she was a benevolent angel sent to keep him safe. He’d run here to escape his uncle’s drunken ramblings, to escape the disapproval of the small minority of the town that held him in contempt for his bastard status. He’d come here to practice guitar when Wild Willie had begun to teach him, and it seemed that Jezebel had been as much a teacher as Willie. Steadily she held a beat. Unconditionally, she listened.

So tonight—or rather this morning—he took his guitar from its case with his broken hands. And to Jezebel he played his blues, knowing she would not mind the imperfect sound of his clumsy fingers, that she forgave his ragged transitions and the harsh grate of the wrong pressure of his steel slide.

To Jezebel, he made his offering as dawn filled the sky. To Jezebel he sang his blues, his loss, his sorrow. When he had finished, morning had dawned.

And Eric knew it was time to go.

* * *

Celia stood on the back porch, her hands on her hips. The steps were still missing, but she’d found a milk crate to stand in for them until they could be replaced. Beyond, stretching in dark, rich promise, lay her newly planted garden, the rows neatly furrowed as Lynn had instructed, each row sturdily labeled with hand-lettered stakes: popcorn, butterbeans, squash, even watermelon, which Celia had never thought to grow, but Lynn insisted would do very well.