The Marriage Bed (31 page)

An image of shoes outside his bedroom door came to mind unbidden, and he remembered the tears in his wife's eyes when month after month her time came again and again.

Will you ever Jorgive me?
he wanted to ask her, but didn't dare. He had been so lost in his own pain that he had had no room for hers. And what had all his careful protection brought him, but a pain even greater than his own—the sight of her hurting.

"Have you gotten any of that laundry done?" she asked, looking at the empty washline accusingly. In truth, he had rinsed out a few under things so that at least they didn't offend his nose. But the thought of seeing her touching his belongings, hanging things on the line, as if life were normal, was a temptation too great to resist.

He gave her his guiltiest look and a weak smile.

"I suppose I could do a few pieces this afternoon," she said. "After all, I do owe you for—"

He cut her off. "You don't owe me, Liv. Not for anything. But if you've a mind to see me in a clean set of clothing, I'd appreciate it."

She nodded and turned toward the house. "I'll just get you a fork for the pie and then get to it."

He jumped in front of her, blocking her way. All she had to do was step foot in that house and she'd know that all he'd eaten for as long as he could remember at this point was her cherry pies. The kitchen was stacked with tins. The table held every plate they owned, each smeared with the remains of her no longer appreciated pies. "It's a mess in there," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and holding her at arm's length. "Me living alone, and all. And hot. It's real hot in there." That was the truth. The dirty remains of the pies had attracted every fly in Wisconsin, and he'd had to keep all the windows and doors shut or the buzzing drove him crazy.

"Well, I've got to get the laundry, even if I'm going to wash it outside. And I would like to see you enjoy some of that pie."

"Yes," he agreed. "Absolutely. But, please, let me get a couple of plates and forks and bring out the laundry. I don't want you lifting and carrying all that stuff.''

"Spencer, I've never seen you like this. I'd swear you were nervous." She blinked those big eyes at him a couple of times as if trying to get him into focus.

"Embarrassed is more like it," he lied. Pretty wasn't even the word for her, standing there in that pink dress, the bodice all covered with little embroidered flowers, and her old bonnet covering her hair. Beautiful didn't even do her justice. "You just wait outside, okay?"

"Well, I could go check on Miss Lily," she said.

The barn! "No!" he shouted, startling her. "Hot. Very hot. Don't go in the barn."

"Well, if it's so hot in the barn, I'll bring her out. Are you hoping for more spoiled milk?" She tried to pass him, but he grabbed her arm. Soft flesh gave way under his fingers and his knees nearly buckled.

"Will you just wait right here?" he begged.

"You are acting very oddly," she said, crossing her arms and nodding at his request.

"Me?"

"No, Curly George," she said sarcastically.

He smiled the crooked smile that used to melt her heart when they were younger. "Must be expectant father stuff."

"Spencer, you don't think I'm . . ." she pointed toward the house with a bewildered look on her face. "The heat? Lifting and . . ." She shook her head sadly. "Spencer, I'm not . . . that one-time didn't . . . if you thought . . ."

"No, no," he said quickly, realizing what she meant. "I didn't think you . . . I meant Peaches . . ."

He hadn't realized until that moment how much he had been hoping that perhaps she was in the family way. Lord knew, it only took one time. He patted her shoulder and then climbed the steps to the porch slowly. And they'd only had that one time . . .

It didn't take long for him to set up the wash kettle outside just where Livvy had always done their wash in the summer. A few more minutes and she was shooing him back to the fields and holding his clothes at arm's length with her head bent away from the smell as she tossed his clothing into the big tub.

He dragged himself only as far as the closest of his fields, not wanting to risk missing her go toward the house or the barn. He hadn't even hooked up the hay rake yet and the day was nearly over.

A fine job he was doing. He'd win her back and then they could all starve together. And those little ones never seemed to have far to go, starting out so thin and frail.

He wondered how they were doing. His Miss Louisa was changing daily, her figure becoming harder and harder for her to hide, though he noticed that she hadn't given up trying. And soon he suspected there would be shoes outside her door, too, if he didn't miss his guess.

And Neil. He came over nearly every day to help Spencer with what little farming he was doing. It had gotten so that Neil was doing a better job than Spencer, and considering how poor Neil was at raking, it was amazing there was any hay left to haul.

Spencer began to make his way down toward Livvy, thinking how all that was needed to make perfect the picture of his wife hanging up his laundry was Josie to hand her up the pins and the sound of their voices on the breeze.

She must not have heard him come up behind her, because she jumped sky high and clutched the wet clothes to her body when he spoke her name. "My word, Spencer!" she said, catching her breath and pulling the dripping balbriggans away from her chest. "You scared the living daylights out of me!"

She had taken off her bonnet and a good portion of her hair had slipped out of its bun, trailing down her chest like arrows pointing the way to two dusky nipples that showed faintly through the wet pink fabric of her dress. He swallowed hard and tried to find his tongue, but had the terrible notion it was hanging out of his mouth.

"Did you want something?" she asked, all innocence.

He tried to talk and found frogs had made a home in his throat. They went well with the butterflies in his stomach.

She reached up to hang his underthings on the line and he fought to keep his eyes on her face instead of her breasts, which changed shape before his eyes as she stretched. "I was wondering," he said after clearing his throat, "how the children were."

Her features, already soft and misted with the dew of hard work, softened even more at his words. A smile graced her full lips. A dreamy look came into her eyes. "They're fine," she said as if she were embarrassed to gush over them.

"Louisa's not giving you any trouble?" The girl had proven to be the biggest handful of all, rather than the most help.

"It's not easy being twelve, especially in a house with boys around the same age."

"Well," he said, remembering how his Miss Louisa enjoyed her privacy, "that'll be over soon."

"And Neil, poor thing, is on the sofa, and at Sacotte Farm that seems to put him smack in the middle of everything that's going on."

"He won't be on the sofa long, Liv." He thought of the blue bed that was just the way Neil wanted it, just what he had asked for. He was only sorry he couldn't give him Sacotte Farm, too. A boy like Neil had an appreciation for his heritage and the land of his ancestors. "I'm just sorry the boy can't have everything he wants."

"I got a telegram from Julian," she said, looking at the ground. "He's asked me to bring the children to him."

Julian? It took him a minute to realize who she even meant. He'd thought Julian out of their lives, had begun to think of the man's children as his own. To him Julian was dead and the loss had gone unnoticed.

Now he felt like he'd been smacked in the gut with a two by four.

"I don't have too many options," she said quietly.

"You have a home, dammit, Livvy, right here. You belong here, in my house and in my bed, and I've been damn patient up until now, but I'll be dead and buried before I let you go off to the likes of Julian Bouche."

"But the children—" she began.

"Damn them, too," Spencer said, his patience coming to an abrupt end in the hot afternoon sun. "I want you, Livvy. Look at yourself—" He pointed to her bodice, soaked through and plastered to her skin. "How much do you think I can take? I've told you I'm sorry. I've done everything I can to show you I was an idiot. And now you come waltzing in here looking like that and telling me that Bouche is making some kind of claim on what's mine?"

She was looking for something with which to cover herself, her gaze darting around only to settle on the front door. She took a step in that direction and he grabbed her from behind and hugged her against his chest.

"Tell me you're not going, Liv. Tell me so I can breathe again."

She tipped her head back against his chest and her body seemed to melt against his. "I'm not going."

His breath ruffled the few hairs that weren't plastered to her head by soap and water and sweat. "No matter what?"

"Things will have to be different," she said, but her voice was as husky as his and he knew from the weight of her against him that he'd won.

"They will," he promised, tipping his head back with relief and dragging in a gulp of air. "You can bet they will be."

He let his hands begin to wander, cupping her breasts, riding her ribs, touching her belly.

"Not just in bed, Spencer," she warned.

"Wherever you want," he said, his hand reaching down lower to cup her femininity.

Her hands reached up to cover her burning cheeks. "I didn't mean . . ."

He laughed. It had been a long time since he had laughed so heartily and so well.

"It has to be different with the children," she said seriously.

"I promise you that," he said, imagining Josie on his shoulders and the bigger ones, polished and pressed, between himself and Olivia as the strode down the aisle at church for St. Anne's Devotion. "You can count on everything being different than when they came."

"What about Julian?" she asked, pulling the damp telegram out of her pocket. "He wants them back."

Spencer let her go reluctantly and took the telegram from her hands. Reading it quickly, he was convinced that Julian clearly didn't want the children. He wanted the money. And Livvy. It dug at him even to consider it, but if they sent Julian his share from the sale of Sacotte Farm, perhaps that would satisfy his greed. Amazing how quickly the man had managed to respond to the smell of profit and to the scent of a woman alone. Spencer's stomach churned.

"You never ate your pie," Livvy said, mistaking the rumblings in his stomach for hunger.

"When did you get this?" he asked, trying to remember something that seemed to elude him.

"The pie? I made it this morning, just before Philip came home with the telegram."

"Not the pie," he said. "The telegram." He realized she'd inadvertently answered him. "Oh. This morning."

"Yes, this morning," Livvy repeated, looking around for the pie and pointing to the porch steps. "Oh, there it is."

She took his hand and led him to the steps, sitting and uncovering the pie.

"Why?" she asked, searching for a fork and then shrugging and picking out a cherry with her fingers. Watching her, he almost forgot his train of thought.

She popped the cherry into her mouth and licked her fingers, shrugging apologetically. "Just testing it. A couple didn't come out all that well."

"Maybe you had your mind on something else," he suggested, and couldn't help laughing at her blush.

She looked around again for a fork and then, biting gently on her bottom lip as if she were fighting with herself, pulled out another cherry and offered it up to his lips with her fingers.

Livvy made good pies. Great pies. Extraordinary, exceptional pies. And he'd had enough of them in the past week to know. Still, not one had tasted as close to heaven as the morsel she had placed on the tip of his tongue. It made him forget, for a moment, the business at hand.

"Wait a second," he said, swallowing one cherry and anxiously awaiting another. "Just when did you write to Bouche?" He captured her fingers and let them slip only reluctantly from his mouth as he waited for her answer. How had he ever managed to stay away from this woman for so long? Now every second that went by without touching her, taking her, seemed as long as a century.

For want of anything on which to wipe them, she licked her fingers before answering him. At first he just didn't hear what she said.

"What?" he asked, almost dizzy with need.

"That's the amazing part," Livvy said, fishing out still another cherry for him. "Only the day before yesterday. And my letter got all the way across the country."

He opened his mouth for the cherry, willing to take all she would feed him no matter how much pie he had already consumed. She looked at the dark red goo that coated her fingers, and before she could stick them in her mouth, he took her hand, meaning to lick the fingers himself.

Instead a memory flashed across his mind. A pie-covered finger . . . Spencer reaching out for a wrist . . . Makeridge.

Of course! Pieces of the puzzle fell into place one after another. And Makeridge was the centerpiece.

Just maybe he could have it all. Livvy, the kids, the farm.

He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and began trailing kisses toward her sweet wet breasts, kissing and suckling right through the wet fabric and leaving cherry stains everywhere his lips alighted.

"Spencer," she said, an embarrassed giggle in her voice as she looked around. "We're outside where anyone could see. Can't you be content with your pie?"

"I'm not hungry for pie, Livvy-love," he said, wishing he could do more than ogle his wife and steal a kiss or a feel.

But he couldn't take her in the house. He couldn't take her in the barn. And he wanted to do it right this time, wanted everything perfect for his Livvy-love even more than he wanted the blessed relief of burying himself inside her. He set her away from him and let her right her garments.

In his head he did the calculations. How many hours to finish carving their bed, then painting the beds, letting them dry. "How's Tuesday?" he asked.

"What?"

"Tuesday. Would you consider moving back home next Tuesday?''