He spoke before his courage died. "Keep me company while I eat."
She stopped; the uncertainty on her face grew stronger, brighter, touched with wary fear. She gripped the back of a chair; her knuckles were white. "I don't think—"
"I'm not asking you to think," he said slowly. "I just want some company, that's all."
Her indecision was almost painful to watch. But then she swallowed, nodded slightly, and let go of the chair. "All right." She said the words, though her tone told him it was anything but all right. Rand didn't give a damn. He didn't care what made her stay, just that something did, and when she glanced at the stove and said, "I'll get you some supper," he felt such a clean, hot stab of relief, it made him weak.
Rand pulled out a chair and sat down, waiting while she dished stew into a bowl and cut a thick slice of bread for him. It was strange watching her. He couldn't remember that she had ever served him before, and it was such a womanly, wifely thing to do, it made his throat tight. But he said nothing as she set the food before him, along with the pot of coffee.
"D'you want some?" he asked, motioning to the pot.
She sat gingerly across from him. "All right." She scooted her chair back, just an inch or so, but it was enough to show him how nervous she was, and when he poured her coffee, she drew it toward her, stirring in sugar with careful, stiff movements.
He nudged the pitcher of cream with his fingertip. "Cream?"
"All right."
"Do you think you could say something besides 'all right'?"
"All—" She caught herself and glanced up at him, and a smile touched her lips; sheepish laughter flashed through her eyes before it vanished in caution. She glanced away. "Yeah. Please pass the cream."
"That's better." He pushed the cream toward her, watched as she poured it, so much, it nearly turned her coffee white. He watched her take a sip, watched her short, slender fingers as she set the cup down again. She sat back in her chair, turned so that she was looking at the tub in the middle of the floor but not at him, and he tried to think of something else to say to ease the tense silence, wondered what had happened to all those conversations they used to have. Had they just disappeared? Or did they linger somewhere, whispering in the air, in the weedy scent of the canal, in the sunlight?
He hated that he missed them so much. So much, it ached inside him. "Did you get all the apples picked?"
She nodded shortly. "Yeah. Mama made pie." She started to rise. "I'll get you—"
Rand surged forward, catching her wrist before she could go. Her gaze shot to her hand, to him, and it was so full of apprehension that he released his hold instantly. She jerked her hand back—too fast—and looked away, and he saw that she was trembling, just as she had this afternoon, in the barn.
His breath was a tight knot in his lungs. "I don't want any pie," he said.
She sat back again, but her body was stiff. She looked like a nervous colt ready to bolt at the slightest movement. She kept her hands in her lap, took a deep breath. "All right, then. No pie."
Silence again. Rand took a bite of stew. It was heavy in his mouth, and it took all his effort to chew and swallow. He grabbed the thick slice of bread, tore a piece off, and tried to think of something else to say, something even more innocuous than before. Finally he blurted the first thing that came into his head. "You were back late last night."
He cursed himself the moment he said the words, knew they were stupid, that they would bring up things he didn't want to talk about, shouldn't talk about. But despite that, he couldn't dismiss them, couldn't tell himself he didn't want to know. He did. He was burning to know.
Her head jerked up, defiance flashed in her eyes. "Charlie and I went over to Hooker."
He tried to keep his voice casual even though the words sent jealousy surging through him. "Did you win any money?"
"We didn't play poker."
"You just talked."
"And drank." Her jaw tightened, her expression was faintly hostile. "Why d'you care? I figured you'd be so busy with Marie—"
"I was." He looked down at his plate, noting with surprise that he'd shredded the piece of bread into tiny pieces. "We talked. About . . . things."
"Things?" She raised a sarcastic brow. "What kind of things? Lydia maybe? Or Cort?"
Her words froze inside him. When he spoke, his voice sounded harsh. "No, nothing like that."
"She didn't tell you Lydia told her all the gossip?"
His heart twisted. "No."
Belle made a sound of disbelief. She stared into her coffee. "Well, she did. But I don't guess you need to worry. Marie doesn't believe anythin'."
"She doesn't." He knew he should feel relief at Belle's words, but he didn't. He didn't feel anything at all.
"No." She kept her gaze focused on the cup in her hands. "I guess you prob'ly haven't told her the truth."
"No."
"Are you goin' to?" She asked in that flat monotone, that voice he hated. It wrapped around his heart, his throat.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "Should I?"
Her gaze snapped to his; her brown eyes were full of surprise and uncertainty and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like pain. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I don't know what kind of marriage you want, Rand. If I was her, I think I'd want you to tell me." She looked away again. "But I'm not her. And I—I know you're . . . ashamed ... of me anyway. You've got this whole town believin' a lie, and I guess—I guess there's no reason to change." She shrugged. "I s'pose Marie'll be happier that way."
Her words were like blows, pounding against him, knocking away his breath. He heard the pain in her voice, the way she struggled to hide it, and he felt guilty and contemptible. He remembered Sunday dinner at the Millers' two weeks ago, when he'd told her he was ashamed of her and meant it. When he'd hurt her with words because it was easier than hurting himself. And now he knew it wasn't easier. That hurting her tore him apart inside, that what he'd told her had all been a lie.
He wasn't ashamed of her. He had never been ashamed of her. He was ashamed of himself. Now more than ever. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was to find her staring at her hands.
"Belle," he said. "Look at me."
She did. Cautiously. Guardedly.
He swallowed. "I'm not ashamed of you. I—I was never ashamed of you."
She frowned. Something—hope maybe?—flashed through her eyes, disappeared quickly. "But you said—"
"I was angry when I said those things." He laughed self-deprecatingly, looked down at his hands because it was safer than looking in her eyes, than imagining hope and wishing he could bring it to her again, wishing she would look at him with trust, the way she used to. He took a deep breath, and his words fell out before he could stop or think about them at all. "You know, the other day, I was . . . remembering that time down at the river, when we were fishing with Cort, and he was teasing you about—about something."
Her voice was soft. "About how stupid I looked fishin' with a bunch of boys. He said the whole town was laughin' at me."
"Yeah." Rand nodded. He remembered the scene as if it were yesterday, remembered the soft gurgle of the river, the way the sun fell through the leaves to dapple the ground. He remembered her standing on the bank, barefoot, her skirt hiked up around her knees while she tied a cork to her line. "I remembered thinking then how . . . special . . . you were. Like God had given me this gift. . . ." He shook his head, trying to find the right words, feeling suddenly as if the rest of his life depended on them, as if they were the most important thing he would ever say. He looked up at her. "You were the best friend I ever had. I was never ashamed of you."
He saw the soft flush creep up her throat, over her cheeks. She glanced down, and he knew by the way she bit her lip, by her tiny smile, that he had embarrassed her, and he knew that he should feel embarrassed himself. He'd revealed too much, much more than he wanted, and he already felt the change between them, the softening, the comfortable familiarity growing in the wake of his words. But though he knew he should feel afraid, knew that he shouldn't have said anything to bring her closer, he didn't care. Suddenly all he wanted was the Belle he used to know, the friend who shared his secrets, his hopes, his dreams.
He wanted it more than anything. The urge to touch her, to make her smile, was so strong, he leaned forward, reached across the table until he could lift her chin to look directly into her eyes. His heart clenched; he waited for her to flinch, to move away.
She didn't. She was very still, barely breathing, and he saw the searching look in her eyes, knew she was testing him. He wished he knew what to do, what to say, but he couldn't think of anything, and he felt tongue- tied and desperate, sure she would pull away and leave him, afraid that she would.
"Belle—" he said. "I'm sorry."
She didn't say anything for a moment, and he saw the uncertainty in her deep brown eyes, the hesitation. And then, just when he knew she would never forgive him, just when he was ready to drop his fingers and retreat to his room, to silence and loneliness and shame, she smiled.
Incredibly she smiled.
It was soft, barely there, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it was so startling, he dropped his fingers from her face and stared at her, uncertain whether to trust it, wondering what it meant. He took a deep breath, and then, with infinite care, he said, "So you . . . forgive me?"
She tilted her head, looked at him quizzically, with that enigmatic smile still on her lips. "I guess I do," she said quietly. And then, suddenly, the smile broadened, suddenly it was shy and irresistible and genuine, and so warm, Rand felt dizzy in the heat of it. "Yeah, I guess I do."
Chapter 24
S
he was alone in the house. Lillian and Rand had gone to church, and in spite of the fact that Sarah had gone, too, Belle was not tempted to join them. She could count on one hand the times in her life when she'd stepped into a church, and each time had left her with a bad taste in her mouth. Even being with Sarah couldn't soften the hypocrisy Belle felt in the air, the sanctimonious attitudes of their neighbors.
And more than that, she wanted to be alone. To walk through the house without having to think or react or protect herself. She wanted to just be—just for a few hours—to do nothing but sit in the kitchen and smell the aroma of stewing chicken, to walk in the yard and feel the breeze blowing in her hair.
She wanted to just be home.
Home. It was a funny thought, unfamiliar and new, but true nonetheless. In the last few days she'd begun to think of this house as home again, to feel comfortable walking the halls and coming down for breakfast, to feel like she belonged when she walked through the barnyard. It had sneaked up on her slowly, but now she realized that she felt, if not exactly whole again, then at least close to that, at least more herself than she'd felt at any time in the last six years.
It was a good feeling, and a little bit frightening too. Frightening because being herself meant doing the one thing she had made a vow never to do.
It meant forgiving Rand.
She had not intended to do it of course. She had wanted to be strong, to keep him firmly away from her, to hold the sword of her anger between them. It was what protected her, what kept her from caring too deeply or wanting too much. But last night, when she'd looked into his eyes and seen not passion there, or lust, but simply regret, her hostility had fallen away from her. She'd forgotten that this was the man who hurt her so badly in the past, forgotten that she was afraid of him still. All she saw was the friend she'd missed so badly all these years, the friend who was dearer to her than herself.
And after last night Belle knew she'd been lying to herself about not wanting to trust Rand again. The truth was she did want to trust him. She wanted to confide in him and talk to him. She wanted his keen understanding and that lightning-sudden smile that crinkled his whole face, the smile that had drawn her to him when she was twelve years old and new to Lancaster and needing a friend.
And love had nothing to do with that.
Belle sat on the porch railing, leaning against a pillar, and stared out at the road, at the fields beyond it. No, love had nothing to do with being friends with Rand again. She could learn not to love him. She could learn not to care that he didn't love her.
But despite herself the images from yesterday, from the night before, plunged into her mind. The feel of his body close to hers, the touch of his lips. She tried to ignore them, tried to remember what those things had brought her before—the revulsion in his eyes, the way he'd pushed her away—but the memory seemed blurry and vague, and it shifted out of reach, leaving her only with last night, with the gentle warmth of his fingers against her jaw.
Friends. Just friends, that was all
.
She could do that, she knew she could, she wanted to. Talking to him would be enough. Laughing with him would be enough. She would be happy knowing he confided in her, knowing that he came to her when he was worried or upset, when he wanted to celebrate or have fun. She could bear the fact that he was married, knowing she was the one he'd go fishing with, that she was the one he would sit and talk to on a hot summer day.
While Marie was the one he was kissing.
The image of the singing party swept into Belle's mind, the image of Rand laughing down at Marie, covering her hand with his, and with it came the sick feeling again, plunging through her stomach, into her heart. Belle squeezed her eyes shut. She could bear even that, she told herself. It was a little enough thing—a touch, a kiss. It was little enough to give up for the sake of their friendship. It meant nothing. He'd told her that himself, a long time ago.
"I didn't know you cared for Elizabeth."
"I don't."