Magnolia (21 page)

In the meantime, Ryder and I play two games of Scrabble. I win both, but I'm not sure that he didn't throw the second one. By lunchtime, we're both a little stir-crazy. The worst of it has clearly passed, but it's still pouring, with occasional gusts of wind strong enough to rattle the windows. Ryder manages to retape the tarp over the window while I scrub the floor clean of all traces of blood.

With nothing else to do after lunch, we decide to take a nap. This time, when Ryder and I climb into my parents' enormous bed, we put as much space between us as possible. We curl up on opposite sides, awkward now. So much has changed between us in the last twenty-four hours. I'm not even sure what to think about him anymore.

I want to figure it out, but I'm tired. So tired. It doesn't take me long to drift off. When I do, I dream about Ryder.

I'm walking down a narrow aisle, dragging what feels like heavy weights behind me. It's a dress, I realize—a wedding dress—so heavy that I can barely walk, barely breathe. I desperately want to stop, to sink to the ground in a puddle of white tulle, but someone's pushing me, coaxing me on.

I look up to find Ryder there at the end of the aisle, waiting for me with a scowl on his face. He's wearing a tuxedo—a white dinner jacket with a wilted red rose in his lapel. As I approach he shakes his head, shooting a warning glare in my direction.

Behind me, I hear applause. I turn to find Captain Jeremiah D. Marsden and Corporal Lewiston G. Cafferty there watching, clapping. Both wear their gray Civil War uniforms, tattered and torn, flat forage caps perched on their heads.

I turn back toward Ryder and find our parents flanking him now. They're smiling—grinning, really—their eyes gleaming almost maniacally. Ryder's dad has his fingers clamped tightly on his son's shoulder, holding him in place, keeping him from bolting.

“We did it!” Mama says to Laura Grace, who nods enthusiastically. They reach for me, beckoning me to join them there at the altar.

I try to back away, but I can't. The dress is too heavy, the pressure from behind too strong.

I bolt awake, sitting up with a start. My heart is pounding, my palms damp as I clutch the bedsheets in tight fists. I shake my head, trying to clear it.
Just a dream,
I tell myself. But I'm rattled. I mean, c'mon . . . it doesn't take a degree in psychology to figure out
that
dream.

I glance over at the far side of the bed, but it's empty. After a quick trip to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, I head to the kitchen. My stomach's grumbling, and I'm suddenly craving a piece of Lou's caramel cake.

But I stop short at the sight of a piece of paper on the kitchen table with my name scrawled across the top.

Couldn't sleep,
it says in Ryder's cramped script.
Walked over to Magnolia Landing to make sure everything's okay. Be back soon.

I stare at the note blankly, sure he's lost his mind. It's not safe out there. The water's knee-deep and full of debris. And what if he comes across another moccasin? What then?

He's going to
walk
a half mile across a flooded field and through woods strewn with downed trees? With cut feet and a bandaged hand?

What the
hell
?

I briefly consider going after him, but dismiss the idea just as quickly. I have no idea what time he left. I slept for a couple hours—he could be back any minute now. Plus, there's two possible routes he could have taken, either following the creek or the road. And since both are flooded . . .

I shake my head in annoyance. I'm seriously pissed that he didn't even bother consulting me before setting out. Couldn't he have waited? Conditions'll surely be better by tomorrow. Besides, even if Magnolia Landing
is
a pile of rubble, there's not a single thing he can do about it, not now.

And what am I supposed to do? Just sit here like a good little girl, waiting for him? Worrying about him? Making his dinner?

Yeah right.

I glance over at the caramel cake sitting on a plate on the counter and notice that he somehow managed to put half of it away before he left. I pull the plate toward me and grab a fork before digging in, not even bothering to cut a piece. That's
what he gets for setting off on this . . . this . . . stupid freaking
suicide mission
without telling me.

I take a bite, savoring it.
So good.
I need to ask Lou for the recipe someday. As for Ryder Marsden, I hope a tree falls on him. I hope his cuts get infected. I hope a water moccasin gets him good. That'll serve him right, the self-centered jerk. I mean, what is this? I bare my soul to him last night, telling him all about the film-school thing. And then he confesses the truth about the dance back in eighth grade; he says that he thought—
thinks
—I'm the prettiest girl in all of Magnolia Branch.

And
then
he gets all standoffish on me, taking off while I'm sleeping. What the hell? He
needs
me out there—me and Delilah both. In case he's forgotten, I saved his life yesterday.

I've made a mess of the cake. I push the plate away with a sigh, licking frosting from the corner of my mouth. I need to kill some time, but how? A bath, I decide. Now, while it's still light out.

The hot water holds out just long enough to fill my mom's enormous tub. There's no electricity to power the jets, but that's okay. The lavender bath salts are plenty relaxing, making me sleepy, despite the nap.

I'm half expecting to hear Ryder come clomping through the front door any minute now. But he doesn't—not while I'm in the tub and not after I'm out, dried off, and changed into
clean clothes. With no power and thus no hair dryer, I work my hair into two braids. When I'm done, I take a good look at myself in the mirror. I'm not wearing a stitch of makeup, and with my hair in braids, well, I could easily pass for thirteen. The freckles across the bridge of my nose don't help any. Somehow, Nan managed to escape the freckles, but not me.

Oh man . . .
Nan
. I've been doing such a good job of
not
thinking about her. But it's there, in the back of my mind, hovering like a dark, ominous cloud. I grab my cell to check the time. She should be out of surgery by now, or close to it.

Please let her be okay.

I set my useless cell aside with a sigh—still no bars. I would give
anything
for a working phone right now. I've got to figure out a way to kill some time, or I'll go crazy.

I take the dogs out to do their business and then decide to put on work gloves and see what I can salvage in the sleeping porch. I stop working when twilight comes, the sky a pale lavender, the rain reduced to a light patter now. It's too dark for me to see what I'm doing. I have no idea how much time has passed, but I've managed to clear the floor of debris and pull out all the pillows and cushions, setting them aside in the family room to dry.

I peel off my gloves, dropping them in the laundry room before rounding up the dogs and cats and feeding them their dinner. Once that's done, I help myself to a tall glass
of lukewarm tea, draining it quickly and then pouring myself another. I glance out the window above the sink, watching the sky deepen to violet as the sun sinks below the horizon.

Where the
hell
is Ryder? It's almost dark out, and he's nowhere to be seen. He's been gone for hours now—way too long. My heart accelerates, my stomach lurching uncomfortably. He should be back by now. Unless something's happened to him, that is.

A half hour later, I'm starting to panic. An hour later, I'm near frantic, pacing back and forth by the front door. Every few minutes, I pause, gazing out at the inky darkness, hoping beyond hope to see him. Each time, I'm disappointed.

Ten more minutes pass before I decide to go after him. He must be in some sort of trouble—it's the only explanation. I run through the list of possibilities in my mind: A snake bit him. Floodwaters swept him away. A tree fell on him, crushing his spine.

I've already pulled on my rain boots and jacket when I see it—a flickering light cutting through the darkness, moving toward the house. All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.

I run out onto the front porch, trying to slow my racing heart as I peer out into the night. The light gets closer and closer, causing hope to blossom in my chest.

“Hey!” a familiar voice calls out, and I nearly weep with relief.

He's back. Thank God.

But the relief is immediately replaced with anger. “Where the
hell
have you been?” I ask, my voice shaking.

He clicks off the flashlight and makes his way up the porch steps. “Didn't you see my note?”

“Are you kidding me?” I sputter. “Do you have any idea how many hours you've been gone?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. The house was fine, but the pool was a mess. A tree fell through the screen, and the roof was ripped off the pool house.”

“You're sorry? That's all you have to say?” I take two steps toward him, fury thrumming through my veins. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? God, Ryder! I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere. I thought you were hurt, or . . . or . . .” I trail off, shaking my head. “I was about to go looking for you, out in the pitch-dark!”

He reaches for my hand, but I slap him away.

“Don't touch me! I swear, I can't even
look
at you right now.” I turn and reach for the door. But before I can fling it open, Ryder pulls me toward him, his hands circling my wrists.

“Look, I'm sorry, Jemma. It took me forever to get there, what with all the flooding and everything. And then I was trying to clean stuff up and . . . well, I guess the time just got away from me.”

I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “I didn't mean to scare you,” he says.

“Well, you
did
scare me.” I manage to pull one hand loose, and I use it to whack him in the chest. “Idiot!”

“I'm fine, okay? I'm here.”

“I wish you weren't!” I yell, fired up now. “I wish you
were
lying in a ditch somewhere!” I stumble backward, my heel catching on the porch's floorboards.

“You don't mean that,” Ryder says, sounding hurt.

He's right; I don't. But I don't care if I hurt his feelings. I'm too angry to care. Angry and relieved and pissed off and . . . and, God, I'm so glad he's okay. I thump his chest one more time in frustration, and then somehow my lips are on his—hungry and demanding and punishing all at once.

I hear him gasp in surprise. His mouth is hot, feverish even, as he kisses me back. The ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. I stagger back toward the door, dragging him with me without breaking the kiss. Ryder's tongue slips between my lips, skimming over my teeth before plunging inside. And . . .

Oh. My. God. No one's ever kissed me like this.
No
one. His hands and his tongue and his scent and his body are pressed against mine. . . . It's making me light-headed, dizzy. Electricity seems to skitter across my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. I cling to him, grabbing fistfuls of his T-shirt as he kisses me harder, deeper. I was meant to do this, I realize. I
was
made
to kiss Ryder Marsden. Everything about it is
right
, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.

Somehow, we manage to open the front door and stumble blindly inside, past the mudroom, where we shed our boots and jackets. We pause right there in the front hall, our hands seemingly everywhere at once. I tug at his T-shirt, wanting it off, wanting to feel his skin against my fingertips. His hands skim up my sides beneath my tank top, to the edges of my bra. Shivers rack my entire body, making my knees go weak. Thank God for the wall behind me, because that's pretty much all that's holding me up right now.

With a groan, he abandons my mouth to trail his lips down my neck, to my shoulder, across my collarbone to the hollow between my breasts. I tangle my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, clutching him to me—thinking that I should make him stop, terrified that he will.

This is insane.
I'm
insane.

But you know what? That's just fine with me. Because right now, “sane” seems
way
overrated.

J
emma?” Ryder murmurs, his mouth hot against my skin. “Is this okay?”

I tilt my head back against the wall, catching my breath. “Yeah,” I say, panting. “It's definitely okay. Okay?”

His forehead is resting on my shoulder now, his hands skimming my hips. “You sure? I don't want to . . . I mean, I know things are kinda weird right now, but—”