The Summer Bones (14 page)

A nod. “She says she needs to do some shopping.” He stood there and she could see that he had changed from dusty overalls into a crisp, short-sleeved shirt and slacks. His craggy face was tired. “And on Mondays now I take her to her church meeting in town. I don't want her driving herself. The boy said he told you why.”

“Yes.” Victoria put down the paper. This morning her grandmother had been entirely lucid and aware. It made the need for a nursemaid seem ridiculous, but only if one forgot those startling moments of confusion and loss of memory. “I could take her today, if you like,” she offered. “I thought you and Damon were taking in hay.”

He seemed to hesitate, standing there in the kitchen, the lines in his cheeks and forehead more predominant in the unkind face of a bright morning sun. But he shook his head, white brows drawing together. “I thought you might drive the big truck. You've done it before this. It's not that hard. Just stop often enough that the boy doesn't kill himself.”

The heat outside was descending in a lethal curtain. Victoria pushed the damp hair off her neck and nodded. In past summers, she had driven the hay truck. It wasn't fun, but she could do it.

The old man stood there, hands at his sides, looking at her. “It's supposed to break a hundred this afternoon.”

“I understand, Grandpa. I won't let Damon kill himself with overwork.” She smiled.

“I wasn't going to do anything but drive that truck, anyway.” It was a thought, spoken out loud.

“So … no reason why I can't stand in, is there?” If he'd asked her to do this, Victoria knew he wanted to take her grandmother to town himself. She really couldn't remember the last time he'd ever asked her to do anything. Elmer Paulsen disliked being beholden to others, even his family.

“It'll be hot as Hades in that old truck cab,” he warned.

“I won't melt.” Her job would be the easy one. It was Damon who walked behind and heaved the heavy bales into the bed of the truck. No wonder he had those sculpted muscles.

“It won't be fun.” It was a statement of fact.

She grinned. “It never is, I remember. Your tongue feels like a piece of old cotton after the first five minutes. Your skin sticks to the seat. The cab smells like manure and stale hay.”

A glimmer of amusement came into her grandfather's fierce old eyes. “And that's the good part, young lady.”

“Yes, sir.” She got up from the table. “I guess I'd better change. He's probably waiting.”

He eyed her linen shorts and nodded.

The sound of a truck starting came through the open screen with a roar that was unmistakable. She grimaced. “And don't worry, I'll stop so often Damon will feel like he just walked through the park.”

The white brows lifted and the craggy mouth moved a millimeter. “Victoria, I do want to get that hay in.”

She laughed. “I'll compromise.”

“You do that, child.”

She ran upstairs and changed, absurdly relieved at the idea of having something to do. Tugging on a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a sleeveless pink top, she ran careless fingers through her hair and shrugged off the notion of makeup. It would be running down her face in minutes, and she didn't have to impress Damon. Why bother?

Her grandparents were already leaving. She could see the big Buick going down the drive in a plume of dust. From the window by the dresser, the whole yard was visible, including the pond. Through the trunks of the trees came a silver gleam of water.

She turned and went down the hall, descending the stairs quickly and going through the kitchen. Emergence into the outside was like entering an inferno. The sun beat down on her bare head, scorching her scalp.

The big truck was by the barn, running. Damon stood, head cocked to one side, listening to the rough sound of the engine. It was an ancient vehicle with a huge flat bed, perfect for hauling. Like everything else, it was well used but well maintained. Air-conditioned, it was not. That was Victoria's ill luck.

Damon had already removed his shirt and sweat was trickling down his bare chest. He grinned as he saw her, shouting above the cough of the running motor, “Are you up for this, Tori?”

“I've done it before,” she called back smartly.

“You were younger then.” His smile was angelic.

She was just as sweet. “So were you. And my job is much, much easier. Climb aboard.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the bed of the truck.

“You do remember how to drive this monster? I don't want you running over me by accident.” He was only half joking. Farm accidents were a real job hazard.

“Vaguely,” she retorted, but then relented, “I think so, Damon. But maybe you'd better stand aside while I back her up.”

He hoisted her up into the cab as easily as if she was one of the drying hay bales. She groaned as her bare thighs hit the seat. It was like an oven inside, and the steering wheel felt hot as her hands touched it.

Her backing job was imperfect but it got the truck turned around enough so that she could point the ponderous nose toward the dusty lane. In the rearview, she saw Damon give a jaunty thumbs-up before he jumped into the bed of the truck.

And we're off
, she thought.

* * * *

The taste of dust, Damon decided, swallowing hard against a thick throat, was not something he ever got quite used to. The rest of it—the sweat and grime and aching muscles, those were a very real part of his life now. But the grit of dust between his teeth still made him feel dirty.

Following in the wake of the truck, he waved an arm so that Victoria could see the signal in the rearview mirror, and then bent to pick up a bale and heave it onto the flat wooden bed. Bits of hay flew, sticking to his skin. His hair clung to his skull like a cap. Even his eyelids scraped open and shut in a film of grime. The sun was relentless in a cloudless sky that he would have admired had he been lying on a tropical beach somewhere under an umbrella
.
But it made working in the fields horrific.

Two hours
, he thought,
is plenty—too much, in this heat. The rest of the hay will have to wait. It isn't like there is any rain in the forecast anyway.
He didn't wave Victoria on, but instead walked slowly around the truck and opened the passenger door. From the driver's seat, she gave him a questioning look. The engine rumbled like a thunderstorm.

“Enough,” he shouted. “Lunch. Let's go in.”

She nodded in relief, moving her hands toward the gear levers. He clambered in. The cab of the truck was possibly hotter than outside.

Victoria's face was shiny with perspiration and her thin shirt was damp. She drove with concentration, her forehead wrinkled and her mouth compressed.

The truck bumped and rolled. He watched with approval as she gave herself plenty of time to brake and handled the wheel with firm hands. Driving such an ungainly vehicle, especially with a full bed of hay bales, was not easy. When they finally came to a squeaking stop by the barn, she struggled the gear lever into place and sighed, switching off the engine. Blessed silence surrounded them. She pushed the hair out of her face, leaving dark streaks on her forehead.

“Not bad,” he said, smiling.

“Not bad? I was good.”

“City life hasn't made you completely forget your roots.”

“Not on your life.” Blue-green eyes regarded him with a twinge of humor. “You look like a scarecrow.” Her mouth curved.

“And I don't smell like a cheap brothel anymore,” he agreed, finding her smile made the taste of dirt in his mouth just a little more palatable. Involuntarily, he felt his gaze drift from her flushed face to where her shirt clung to the curves of her breasts.

She didn't appear to notice. “Neither do I.” She grimaced and dropped her hands from the ignition keys. “I'll fight you for the shower, Damon.”

“We could share,” he teased, reaching for the door handle, tearing his wayward gaze away. “Seems to me we have before.”

Victoria stifled a small laugh. “I think I was three at the time.” She opened the door to the cab and slid out, landing with a thud in the dust. “Michael might understand about the early bath, but I doubt if he would—”

They both noticed the car at the same time. A silver Mercedes parked discreetly next to Victoria's car. The laugh died on her lips.

“I wonder why Ronald is here?” she said quietly.

Damon came around the truck. The flush had receded from her cheeks and her eyes had darkened. Her tousled hair was shot with gold. “Don't assume it's bad news,” he chided.

“It's hard not to.” She started for the house. “He must be inside.”

He followed, walking across the grass, noting with dispassionate expertise that the grass was drying to the point of death in several spots and that Gran had again neglected to water the wilting roses in her precious garden, a sure sign of her slipping mental condition. Drooping crimson heads lined the walkway between the house and lawn. He went up the steps more slowly than his cousin, wondering why Ronald had decided to make the trip from Indianapolis. Through the screen he could see Emily's husband at the table, and Victoria moving toward the sink.

“Sorry about yesterday,” Ronald was saying.

“It's all right.” Victoria turned on the water and began to wash her hands. “I was worried, for a second outside, that you had bad news.”

The screen creaked as Damon pushed it open.

“I can't cope with the worry, that's all,” Ronald continued in obvious apology to Victoria. He ignored Damon's entrance, his eyes on her back. Sitting in a chair, his blond hair neatly brushed back from his forehead, wearing an expensive tennis shirt and light slacks, he looked much like the man Emily had married five years ago. Except for the grainy pouches under his eyes. Except for the twitch to his mouth that showed a calm facade kept tightly in place by a thread of will.

“I understand,” Victoria said from the sink. “We're all so on edge. I just wish someone would hear from her.”

Damon took a breath. His mouth felt like it was full of old felt. He automatically stooped and removed his shoes, placing them on the mat beside the door. Then he crossed the room to the refrigerator. He could almost feel the shift of Ronald's gaze from Victoria's back to his. It made his skin crawl. Whatever had happened yesterday, he wasn't going to ask about it.

“Paulsen.”

“Ronald.”

He got out a pitcher of iced tea and then turned to the cabinet. His fingers were black with dirt against the clear glass. He poured tea into the glass and raised it gratefully to his lips. Outside, the sun beat down without mercy. The kitchen was flooded with light and heat.

“Why don't you ask Damon if he's heard from Emily?” Ronald said clearly, with force. “As close as they are, he might be the one she would call.”

It was too much to hope that Ronald wouldn't drag out all the old fears, the old persistent insecurities. Damon gave a small mental curse and washed the grit of the field out of his mouth and down his throat. His eyes hurt and he closed them as he drank.

“Or maybe you didn't know, Vicky, just how cousinly he and Em had become, eh?”

The glass was empty. Pouring another, Damon said as casually as possible, “This is old ground, Ron. I thought we had cleared this up.”

Victoria had turned from the sink. Her lips parted in surprise.

“Old ground? The fact that you slept with my wife?” Ronald's voice was hard. Damon turned his head and looked at him without expression.

“I never touched her,” he said. He could feel the muscles twitching in his cheek in reaction. These words had been said before, in several ugly little confrontations. It hadn't helped much that Emily wouldn't deny it. She would just laugh and tell Ronald he was acting like a fool. At first, Damon had found the whole thing just slightly embarrassing. Later, when Ronald became truly accusatory, he'd been irritated at being dragged into their marital circus.

“Never touched her?” Ronald splayed his hands on the tabletop. “Then why was she always running over here? Half the time I would call her office and she'd be out. I'd find out later that meant here.”

“In case you haven't noticed, this is a pretty popular place if you're a Paulsen.”

“She isn't a Paulsen anymore.”

“No, she isn't,” Damon agreed, feeling little spikes of anger and disgust beat into his blood. “She's your wife. Even if she wasn't my first cousin, even if she was the slightest bit my type, that alone would make her off limits. I'm not interested in that kind of scene. If Emily was sleeping around, it wasn't with me.” He held his second glass of tea in his hand.

Victoria said in a shocked little voice, “You're being ridiculous, Ronald.”

“The hell I am. And I don't buy that self-righteous crap either.” Ronald's voice was thick with emotion. His chair creaked as he moved restlessly.

“For God's sake, of course Em came here,” Victoria said. “If I lived closer, I'd be here all the time, too. This is home, Ronald. You know what our childhood was like.”

“Give it up, Tori,” Damon told her tightly. “He's too paranoid to listen to the truth. We've played this game before. It always ends the same.” He set down his glass on the counter with a click and started to walk out of the kitchen.

Ronald surged to his feet. His fists were half raised, his face dark with insult and rage. Blocking Damon's path, he lifted his hands. His chest heaved. Slowly, he asked, “Tell me something, Paulsen. When you were fucking my wife did you pretend she was Victoria?”

Damon stopped dead. He stood still, arms at his sides, willing himself to control. Sunlight poured across the floor. The silence was lethal.

“Convenient, isn't it? Twins? Same face, same body.” Ronald's voice was low. “Makes it damn easy to pretend you're having one instead of the other.”