Jezebel's Blues (21 page)

As she surveyed the plot in the lowering late-afternoon light, Celia felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The turning of the ground and the planting itself had been a hard job. Her muscles were weary. A shower had eased most of the soreness, and she was left with a distinct, powerful sense of accomplishment and pride.

In memory, she saw the orderly rows of her grandmother’s garden—the popcorn, waving green fronds in a summer wind; the hills of squash; the red flowers of scarlet runners. She smiled. Oh, yes. This was what she’d been made for.

Now that the garden was in, she could begin to repaint the interior of the house. From a catalogue, she’d ordered new furniture out of Dallas, and they had promised delivery at the first of next month. Soon, very soon, her life would be back to normal.

The doorbell rang, echoing faintly into the back through the house. Smoothing a wisp of hair from her face, Celia went to answer it.

Her footfalls echoed in the now-empty rooms. With Lynn’s help, she had torn up the soggy, smelly carpets and hauled the ruined furniture out to one side of the house for collection by a clean-up crew—whenever they could get to her. The bare windows gleamed with the washing of vinegar and water she’d given them.

Odd how different everything looked now, Celia thought. She would never have thought she’d want to change anything—but all kinds of ideas were cropping up. A few of the wood pieces were salvageable, and in combination with some of the new things she’d ordered, the rooms would contain the best of old and new. She’d like to leave the big front window bare. It was arched, framed with good mahogany—

Her heart lurched. Standing in that very frame of mahogany, with the graceful branches of the pecan tree giving him a picturesque background, was Eric.

Eric. She touched her hair, feeling suddenly self-conscious, wishing she had bothered to put her makeup on, that she was wearing something other than baggy shorts and an old tank top.

She wished she were wearing something sinful, something that would tempt him to stay.

At the door, she paused, looking up at him through the time-darkened screen. “I guess you’ve come to tell me you’re leaving,” she said.

He swallowed, his eyes lost and lonely, and nodded.

She took a breath and pushed the door open, coming outside to stand with him on the warped boards of the porch. “I wish I could convince you to stay,” she said honestly—and to her horror, tears thickened her throat.

“I know,” he said. His voice was rough and low, as if there were something in his throat, as well.

She looked up at him, and as she had once before, she impressed the details of him into her mind for later reminiscing—the deep hue of his irises, the way he towered over her, the tenderness of his mouth in the hard lines of his face. With a crooked smile, she said, “You’re as pretty as a movie star.”

He grinned wistfully. “You’re one bold woman, you know it?”

Celia nodded, smiling ruefully.

His gaze shifted, lighting on something over her head for a moment before flitting back to her face. “Ah, hell,” he said with an air of defeat, and opened his arms. “Come here, will you?”

Celia felt as if she floated toward him, had no conscious memory of telling her feet to step closer. One instant she was standing in her bare feet looking up at him; the next she was crushed in his arms, enveloped in the scent and feel of him. He held her hard, his heart thudding against her ear. And once again she felt the odd, passionate trembling of his arms and legs as he held her, as if he were fighting some great and terrible battle within himself.

She lifted her head to kiss him. He resisted, not actively, but passively, allowing her to touch him, but not returning it. The infinitesimal trembling increased.

“You have to go,” she said. “And I have to stay.” She let her hands rove over his broad, muscled chest. “Leave me something to remember you by.”

“Don’t, Celia,” he whispered as her hands slid over his sides and tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants. She kissed him again, a wild hunger building within her. This time, he was not quite so passive. A small groan escaped his throat as her hands found his bare flesh below his shirt—silky, supple skin, hot to the touch.

“I can’t sleep sometimes,” she whispered, pride gone. His hands slipped downward, almost reluctantly, to cup her bottom and pull her close against his arousal. She opened her mouth against the triangle of skin his shirt exposed. “I think of you touching me and I can’t sleep.”

“Celia, God help me.” Eric grasped her head hard and kissed her, his tongue plunging into her mouth, his teeth bruising her lips. He steered her toward the door and Celia broke away.

“Let’s climb the stairs like civilized people this time.”

His nostrils flared. “Like hell.” He scooped her into his arms. “I’m not feeling civilized,” he growled, and lifted his chin in the direction of the door. “Reach down there and open that.”

A swelter of arousal made her hands shake as she reached for the handle, and a wild, giddy terror descended as they passed over the threshold.

Eric kicked the door shut behind him, then settled Celia against it and pressed her back against the wood, his hands trapping her wrists at either side of her head.

Deliberately, he pressed into her. “I’m not a real civilized man,” he said, and kissed her as if to illustrate, his tongue thrusting deep, his teeth plucking at her lips.

And Celia didn’t care. His savage loss of control pleased her, thrilled her—for at last she’d broken through his barriers, every single one of them. In return, she arched against him and moved in invitation, letting go of the inhibitions of a lifetime. Since he held her hands, she shifted and wrapped one leg around him, pulling him closer still, and heard the groan of his pleasure.

This was not the man who remembered to please his woman first, who took pride in his knowledge of ‘doing it right.’ Instinctively, she knew his prowess as a lover had been one way of earning approval, of trying to connect his lonely heart with that of another.

Deliberately, she pulled back to look at him square in the eye. Sunlight flashed across the vibrant sapphire irises. “I love you,” she said.

He made a sound of pain and kissed her, letting go of her hands. With clumsy haste, he pushed up her blouse as Celia unbuttoned his shirt.

He shuddered at the press of their chests together, and as if he could not help himself, he slipped his hands between them to spread his fingers over her breasts. His broad, scarred palms cradled her. Celia struggled against her need to tumble into the exquisite sensation and concentrated on freeing the stubborn buttons of his jeans. He didn’t help her, seemingly lost in the feel of her flesh in his hands, in the taste of her tongue and lips. But when she managed the last button and pushed his jeans from his lean hips, he growled and grabbed her tight.

They tumbled onto the bare floor, covered with only thin scatter rugs. There, in front of the closed door, in a patch of bright yellow sunlight, half-dressed and bruising each other with the violence of their hunger, they joined. His jeans scraped her thighs as he thrust into her, and his shirt fluttered around her sides, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. They were joined, body and soul. Hands and hearts tangled; lips and minds danced to the bittersweet blues of their parting. And as if to emphasize the perfection, Celia felt her body gathering for its explosion just as Eric made a dark, ragged sound in his throat. Wildly, he kissed her.

Once again there was a magic flaring, an electric shimmer that moved the air around them and passed between them.

Celia opened her eyes. His hair fell over his forehead and neck, mussed by her restless fingers, and a high stain of color flushed his cheekbones. His mouth, parted slightly, was soft and somehow vulnerable. His eyes were closed.

But as she watched, as the pulsing between them ebbed, his lids lifted slowly. A dizziness spun through her, a sense of perfect union that was only rawly expressed through words like
passion
and
hunger
and
love
; a sense of union that made her feel as if the molecular structure of their bodies had come undone, all the atoms spinning together as they made love, only coming back together now, but all mixed, so that parts of her were in Eric and parts of him were in her.

And as he opened his eyes, she saw his tears, a wash of moisture that gave the extraordinary eyes a starry vividness. She pulled him close, cradling his head against her shoulder, pressing her cheek into his hair. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

* * *

In the deepest heart of the night, Eric awakened. Without words, they’d moved to this attic sanctuary, and there they had stayed without eating or talking—only touching, loving, exploring. He felt like a soldier going off to a war from which he might not return.

Beside him, nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, Celia slept like a child. A fan of silvery hair sprayed over his arm, and her ripe mouth was parted gently. An angel, he thought. So pretty. He trailed a finger over her jaw, lightly so as not to awaken her. Her slim body was curled next to his, trusting and sweet.

In all the hours they had spent together, she had not asked him to stay, not by word or deed. She had not wept or begged, whispered pleas or coerced him. She only stared him straight in the eyes and told him she loved him. Simple. Like Celia. She wasn’t afraid to be herself, to tell him her thoughts, to love him—even if he didn’t love her in return.

Hollowness struck his heart as he began to ease away from the warmth of her form, a millimeter at a time. She barely stirred. In the darkness he found his clothes, and in darkness he dressed, his throat tight.

When he was ready to go, he paused at the edge of the bed, staring down at the ethereal beauty that was Celia. He thought of braiding her hair and remembered her clenching her fists as the snake crawled over her feet and the way she’d brought him brownies.

But mostly he thought of her steadiness. Upon learning of her career teaching algebra and calculus, he’d thought it was ill suited. Having known her, he knew it was right. There was order in Celia’s world, a constancy and reliability he’d never known. She was a woman of her word.

And for that reason, he could not take her with him. Not that she would go, even if he asked. She loved him, and that love had been the most peaceful thing he’d ever known, as soothing as the song of Jezebel on her way to the Gulf. It tempted him to forget his ramblings, tempted him to try to live up to the man she thought she saw. For Celia, he wanted to try.

And as he stood there, filling his eyes with her slight, sleeping form, he felt tears well up in his throat and in his eyes. He felt them come without surprise. He had never cried, not as long as he could remember—not over anything, but with Celia, everything came apart and as he watched her breath sough in and out, the tears spilled over his cheeks, and he let them flow.

He loved her. Loved her as he’d never loved anyone or anything in his life. He loved her for all the things she made him feel, loved her for the light sound of her laughter and her bold kisses and her steadiness. But most of all, he loved her for being absolutely, unapologetically herself.

For one long instant, he realized he was no soldier, only a restless wanderer, that if he wanted to stay, she would welcome him. He nearly knelt, once again, on the soft mattress they had shared and took her into his arms.

But into her stable world he’d brought only chaos. Into the serenity of her simple life he’d brought dark passion and heavy burdens. He had nothing to bring to their union—not even the songs he might once have offered. If he stayed, he would not be giving, he would be taking.

Celia deserved more than that. Much, much more. He’d told her he would not leave her sleeping, but this time he didn’t think he could bear to say goodbye to her open, guileless eyes. With an ache in his chest, he turned and left her, slipping down the stairs like a night wind.

At the car, he looked back to the house, thinking of her father, who had loved Celia only when he had time. Eric would not leave her with that same thought about him.

Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed his guitar. In his hand, the weight was familiar and beloved, and for a moment, he nearly wept again for a different loss, for that loss of his hands. He swallowed.

In the gathering light, he climbed the steps to the porch. He left the guitar where she’d find it, leaving one love to the other, hoping Celia would understand.

* * *

The sound of the car driving away awakened Celia. It was still dark and it was that darkness that panicked her, that made her clutch the sheet around herself and race down the stairs to the front door. It was the darkness that made her cry out when she saw the tiny red lights already gone down the road. “Eric!”

The sound of her cry thinned and spread to nothing in the still, morning air. He was gone.

In grief she bowed her head against the screen door, a wide ache exploding through her chest and belly, a grief so deep, she could hardly bear it, could not weep it away. As she struggled to control it, to find some handle to keep the pain at bay, she cursed herself.

Because there had been a part of her that had really believed he would stay. His trembling touch, his warring heart, his need of her last night—he loved her.

She had not let him go without making love to her because she’d hoped one last night together might change his heart, might open his eyes to what could be between them. She had hoped that if she loved him unconditionally enough, his wounds would be lanced and he might begin to believe in himself.

Raising her head, her dry eyes, she saw the guitar on the porch. For one long moment she stared at it, then sheet and all, she stepped outside and picked it up.

Inside, she sank to the floor and opened the case. She’d known he had played, that he loved blues guitar, and she had seen the scars that had rendered him unable to make his music. But she hadn’t even seen the instrument upon which he lavished his love. It was made of a hard wood and was finished with a dark blue glaze that made her think of the color of his eyes. It had taken its share of knocks over the years. There were worn places on the neck, places worn away by his thumbs and fingers.