Pictures of Emily (14 page)

“We have to do something,” Sonny said. He grabbed her by both arms and swung her around to face him. “You said you used to come here when you were little. Did you ever watch your grandfather light the lamps?”

“All the time. He let me help him.”

“Do you remember how to do it?”

“Yes. It’s very simple—”

Before the last word left her mouth, Sonny was urging her in the direction of the iron staircase that led to the tower room. They ran up the stairs, with Sonny leading the way, the hurricane lamp held high, its glow casting bobbing shadows on the white stone walls.

When they reached the trapdoor, he quickly passed the lantern to Emily. He had some trouble with the iron latch, finally managing to swing the door open with a crash of metal against metal.

Sonny disappeared through the small square opening. Emily followed.

As soon as she felt the metal of the tower floor beneath her feet, she rushed to the nearest lamp and unscrewed the lid. The wick was still in place and smelling of oil, but the lamp was empty. She hurried to another one, with Sonny doing likewise.

“They’re all empty,” he said, his voice echoing in the small chamber. “Would there be any oil someplace else?”

“I don’t think so. It used to be kept in drums downstairs. But they aren’t even there anymore.”

She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. What would her grandfather do if he were here?

Suddenly a memory came to her, like a scene taken from a movie, vivid in clarity. Her grandfather was standing beside the white cellar door. Flowers—red tulips, grew nearby.

“I always keep some oil put away,” he said. “My emergency supply.”

The cellar. Her eyes flew open. “The cellar. There might be oil in the cellar.”

Emily waited in the dark tower while Sonny went to check the cellar. What seemed like hours later, but in reality must have been but a matter of minutes, he returned, his hair plastered to his head, his clothes soaked. But under one arm he held a dusty, five-gallon drum.

While they filled the lamps, Emily periodically cast a glance out across the water, straining her eyes to detect any small glimmer of light that might indicate a boat or ship. But each time she looked, she saw nothing but darkness. Luck seemed to be on their side. Or maybe her grandfather was smiling down on them.

In a tiny cupboard Emily found the long wooden matches her grandfather had once used. She was ready to strike one when she felt Sonny place a restraining hand on her arm. “Go downstairs while I light them.”

She hesitated.

“Emily—it could be dangerous.”

“I have to do it. I want to do it. Don’t you see?” She was the lighthouse keeper’s granddaughter, carrying on the flame. She had to be the one to light it.

Sonny was watching her closely. “Okay,” he finally said.

Thank you for understanding, she told him with her eyes.

He smiled and nodded.

She struck the match and held it to the first lamp. The wick hadn’t quite absorbed enough oil yet, but it finally caught.

She’d never thought to again feel the excitement and wonder she’d experienced as a child when her grandfather had lifted her up so she could light the flame, a flame that would guide people she would never see, never know. But it was in her again. That reverent sense of awe.

Together, she and Sonny filled and lit the remaining lamps, ten in all. When they were done, Emily looked through the thick tower glass, past the protective iron bars.

A path of light cut across the churning water. How could ten small flames create so much light? “The concave reflectors multiply each flame by at least fifty times, creating the equivalent of five hundred candlepower,” her grandfather had once told her.

Wondrous. Magic.

And she and Sonny were standing right in the middle of all that brilliance.

They looked at each other. His hair and clothes were rain-soaked.

She smiled.

He smiled, a little drunkenly almost. And she knew how he felt. She felt the same.

The scent of his damp skin and rain-kissed hair drifted to her. She didn’t know how he did it, but standing there soaking wet Sonny still managed to maintain an elegance. He wasn’t huge biceps and rippling muscles. He was lean and smooth. Perfect symmetry.

With her senses fully focused on him, she could feel his light. He exuded a spiritual purity that was at odds with his strong sexuality.

It occurred to her that the light in the tower was Sonny’s light.

“We did it,” she said, her voice level, at odds with the firestorm going on inside her.

Outside, rain beat against the glass, thunder rumbled, and the wind howled.

His hands were somehow on her waist. “We did it,” he said. He pulled her closer. His eyes reflected the light around them, plus something new, something that an hour ago would have seemed impossible: joy.

“Have you ever been kissed in the center of a white hot flame?” he asked.

Her breath caught. “No.”

She watched him, mesmerized. “Have you?” Her voice was no longer level. It trembled.

“Not until now.”

She didn’t question. She didn’t dare tempt the Fates.

She only prayed he wouldn’t draw away, wouldn’t disappear the way Sonny so often disappeared.

He didn’t.

He pulled her closer. She could feel his fingers pressing against her scalp, his hand supporting her head.

“I want you—” he said, his eyes shining with rare intensity, the words torn from deep inside him, spoken with something near anguish.

And then suddenly, wondrously, his lips were on hers. He was kissing her with desperation, as if it might be their last kiss. His hands were everywhere. Fingers skimming her face, lacing through her hair, sliding beneath the hem of her sweater, his rough-smooth palm kneading her skin.

She clung to his arms, feeling the play of sinewy muscles beneath his damp shirt.

And the white-hot flame was inside her.

The combination of passions, too long suppressed, vibrated around them, seeming to overpower the very brilliance of the room.

“Emily…” He groaned against her lips. “I want to touch you. I want to taste you. I want to feel you around me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, head tilted back. “Yes.”

Together they sank to the floor, the metal surface jarringly cold—a hard reminder of where they were, who they were.

Sonny pulled away, as she’d feared he would. As she’d known he would.

He was on his knees, his face looming above her. Pain and remorse flashed in his eyes. Then he was rolling from her.

He sat with his elbows on bent knees, rib cage rising and falling, one hand over his face, trying to catch his breath, fighting for control.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice harsh and rasping. “I can’t believe I came close to taking you, right here—”

His hair had fallen forward. She couldn’t see his face. Emily scooted across the floor and lay a hand on his shoulder. “Sonny, you don’t need to apologize for almost making love to your wife.”

“Not my wife. You.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Oh, Lord. You don’t understand.”

Maybe if she’d been more versed in the ways of men and women, she could have understood. But he was right. She didn’t understand. “Is it something I’ve done? Something I’ve said?”

“No. It’s nothing you’ve done. It’s you.
You
.” When she continued to stare blankly at him, he said, “I can’t make love to somebody like you!”

The air seemed to leave Emily’s body. She felt empty. Bereft. As if she’d lost everything that ever mattered to her in the world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, speaking more to herself than to Sonny. Such a small thing to hurt so big. “I didn’t know… didn’t realize I was—” she groped for the right word, but could find none “—bothering you,” she finally said.

He made a strange sound and started to move.

She didn’t wait. She couldn’t take any more. Without looking at him, she scrambled to her feet and hurried down the spiral stairs.

“Emily!”

His voice echoed off the stone walls. But she didn’t stop. She reached the heavy wooden door, jerked it open and ran out into the darkness, into the lashing rain.

Emily gained the security of her room, careful to close the door behind her. Mechanically, she stripped off her wet clothes, put on her nightgown and crawled into bed.

Don’t think, just don’t think.

But it didn’t do any good. She couldn’t stop the thoughts that tumbled one after the other. She’d married Sonny for the wrong reason. Oh, she’d loved him, but he hadn’t loved her. That’s where her logic had gone astray. What was that grade school chant? First comes love, then comes marriage?

She had done it all backwards, hoping to make him eventually come to care for her simply by willing it. But you can’t make somebody love you.

Her throat felt raw, but she wouldn’t cry.

She’d grown up in a world of seasons, a world where waiting was a part of life. She’d thought all she had to do was wait and everything would gradually fall into place.

But it hadn’t happened that way.

And now he was leaving. He didn’t love her. Those were the two things she must face. The lesson for today. This week’s memory verse.

He’s leaving. He doesn’t love me.

Say it again, with more feeling this time.

He’s leaving. He doesn’t… doesn’t—

From nowhere came a sob, tearing at her throat, frightening in its intensity. She wanted her father. She wanted her mother. She wanted her sisters.

She wanted Sonny.

But Sonny didn’t want her.

She heard the front door open, heard quiet footsteps cross the living room.

Sonny.

Quickly she reached out and switched off the bedside lamp, tugged the covers over her shoulder and turned her back to the door. She tried to hold her breath, tried to stifle the hiccupping sobs that were coming one after the other.

She heard his footsteps in the hall, stopping in front of her closed door.

She could feel him listening.

“Emily?”

If she kept quiet, maybe he would think she was asleep. She didn’t want him to know he’d made her cry. He wouldn’t want to know he’d hurt her. And if he found her in tears, he’d realize just how foolish she was. He would know that she was in love with him— just like all the other silly million-and-one women in the world.

Behind her, the door creaked. A shaft of light crept across the room, spilling on the wall opposite her face. She was trying to breathe shallowly, but when she inhaled she made an involuntary shuddering sound.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Emily.”

That single word carried with it a multitude of emotions. Reproach, hurt, sorrow, love.

Love? No, not love. It couldn’t be love.

He must have been barefoot, because she hardly heard him as he crossed the room.

The bed creaked and dipped, but she didn’t move.

“Emily… ?” He was sitting behind her, on the opposite side of the bed.

“Please go away.” To her further humiliation, her voice came out sounding as if she had a bad cold. Now he would know she’d been crying.

“Emily, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’d never hurt you intentionally. Never.”

She sniffled.

He left the room, but returned almost immediately. This time he came around the bed and sat down in front of her. The bed dipped and she rolled against him, her thighs pressing against the warmth of his back.

“Emily—come here,” he coaxed. “Sit up.”

She didn’t seem to have much willpower where Sonny was concerned. She levered herself to a sitting position, surprised to find that he had set a box of tissues on the bed. Then, as if she were no older than Babbie, he helped her dry her tears and blow her nose.

“I wanted you to like me,” she mumbled, eyes downcast, staring intently at the bedspread.

“I do like you, mermaid.”

Oh, the gentleness of his voice. The gentleness of his hands.

“You like me like a sister. Somebody who bothers you. Not somebody you want to… want to hold.”

“You bother me all right. You bother me so much I can’t sleep. You bother me so much, I can’t think. When I do manage to sleep, I dream about you. I dream of touching you. I dream about holding you as close as a man can hold a woman. Whenever you’re around, it’s sweet torture, because I remember those dreams. Yes. Lord, yes. You bother me.”

Wonderful words!

“I bother you.” She chanced a peek. “Like that?”

He lay a palm against her cheek and stared into her eyes. “Like that.”

Her heart was hammering madly. He dreamed about her. “In your dreams,” she whispered, reaching to touch the back of his hand with shy fingertips, “where do you touch me?”

“Everywhere.”

Her breath caught. “Everywhere?”

His hand wrapped around hers. “With my hands. My mouth. My body…”

“That sounds…” because it seemed to be the word of the hour, she said, “magical.”

“It is.”

“Sonny… I want you to touch me the way you touch me in your dreams.”

He made a tormented sound deep in his throat. “Emily—I’m trying to be strong. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have. We can end this now and nobody will be hurt. I can leave here tomorrow.”

“I don’t want it to end,” she said desperately. “I don’t want you to leave.” Why had he told her all of this, if only to end it? “The only way you can hurt me is if you turn away. Please Sonny, don’t turn away.”

It was going to be okay.

She could see it in his eyes. Slowly, as if afraid of startling her, he pulled her near, into his arms, against the warmth of him. His head came down, and his mouth touched hers.

Cold.

Warm.

“You’re so cold,” he whispered, his arms tightening around her.

“You’re so warm.”

His lips moved over hers. Slow. Lazy. He’d kissed her before, but never so sensuously. It took her breath away, sent blood pounding to her toes and fingers.

Then she felt the wetness of his tongue slide across her lips, urging them open.

His tongue slipped inside.