Emily, like all the others, looked the dear woman up and down trying to figure out where she’d had plastic surgery. When Martha Q sat down very gingerly, Emily knew what her first guess would be.
At exactly five minutes after seven, Emily started the meeting.
Peter read his poem, explaining how brilliant it was before and after the reading. Everyone agreed with him.
Geraldine read the
next chapter
of her romance set in Washington, D.C. Her heroine had turned in the spy she’d slept with in the last chapter and watched him shot at midnight by a firing squad on the mall. Then, in her grief and shame, she slept with two privates she’d met on the way home from the execution. One to soothe her grief and the other her shame. Neither helped, so she decided she’d have to leave the capital and go back to her plantation. She traveled across the Mason-Dixon line, handing out her cards to any man in uniform she met. When she crossed from the North to the South, both checkpoints searched her completely. The sergeant on the Southern side was too rough so she hit him with her umbrella and demanded he do it over again more gently. Of course, as men do, he asked to marry her and she, of course, turned him down.
When Geraldine finished, Zack said her character gave “supporting the troops” a whole new meaning. He then mentioned that he’d served in the National Guard for six years, and if she needed any research help, he was available.
Only Martha Q had the nerve to giggle.
George Hatcher said he was losing interest in the story and maybe she should come by his bookstore and pick up a few books on the post–Civil War period. He also commented that he doubted women of that era were quite as frisky. Taking all those clothes off and putting them back on must have been exhausting.
Everyone else said the story was moving along fine and
a change of location would probably work as a new twist in the plot.
Simon, the shy closet writer whom George had brought in last week, read the opening of his suspense novel about door-to-door salesmen who were zombies. Peter thought the plot was a little far-fetched, but Lily Anne Loving swore she’d once seen an Avon lady who was a zombie. She explained that that was why, now and then, you see one who has on way too much makeup. They have to get color into their pale faces somehow.
The group took a break and Emily went downstairs to check on the library. Pamela Sue was at the desk fighting with a knot in her yarn. Tannon stood by the door, talking with Rick Matheson. Sam leaned on his broom a few feet away, listening in.
“Joining our group again, Rick?” she asked as she moved close to Tannon’s side.
“Nope. Martha Q can handle it from here.”
“Where you moving to now that your job is over at the B&B?” Tannon asked.
“I don’t know. I’m looking for a place, but Martha Q offered me a room for as long as I want to stay.”
Everyone heard Sam mumbling as he almost brushed the broom over their shoes.
Emily fought down a laugh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s sweet on her,” she whispered when Sam had moved several feet away.
“I’d better watch my back,” Rick added. “I could get swept away. Only, I doubt your theory, Miss Tomlinson. Mrs. Biggs says he comes over now and then to fix stuff for the B&B, and all he does is complain that the old place is too much for Martha Q. When he helped with replacing the window glass last week, he told Mrs. Biggs she shouldn’t let Trace and me stay at the place with Martha Q gone.”
“Speaking of that, where’s your shadow?”
Rick looked around. “I don’t know. She was here a minute ago. Might check the roof.”
Emily laughed, but she had the feeling Rick wasn’t kidding.
They talked on for a few minutes. Tannon let his left hand brush hers a few times, letting her know he was near. He must want to touch her as dearly as she wanted to touch him. After all these years, they couldn’t seem to be close enough to each other.
When Emily hurried back to the group, her cheeks were red. As she’d turned toward the stairs, Tannon had let his fingers brush across her back. It was only a light touch no one could have noticed, but Emily knew it was a promise, a whispered
later
.
She stepped to the center of the circle and called the group back to order. “Lily Anne Loving, would you like to read next?”
The girl’s skin was so white it was almost transparent. She stood slowly, wide-eyed and frightened. Her “yes” was so low that everyone leaned forward to listen.
She began her story slowly, almost hesitantly. Her words circled the small area as if haunting the room before settling not in the listeners’ ears but in the dark corners of their minds. She wrote of a stormy night in Las Vegas, New Mexico. An old hotel draped in cobwebs and neglect. She described a rainy midnight where the wind howled like an animal in pain and a fortune-teller wearing black lace sat in the shabby lobby.
“Your future for a dollar,” the old Gypsy whispered as every guest passed. “Your future for a pound.”
No one spoke to the old woman. A few didn’t even seem to see her as they rushed out of the rain and up to the front desk in search of a room for the night.
One young mother, weighed down with a sleeping child and bags, slowed, glancing at the strange cards on the table as she followed her husband.
The old woman looked up and whispered, “I’ll read yours for free if I can feel the beat of your heart, little mother. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that rhythm.”
The young mother clutched her baby closer as she felt as if she were being pulled toward the table. Pulled by a hook deep in her chest. She swore she could hear the urgent click of a blade being sharpened.
Lily Anne stopped reading and lowered her head as she dropped the hand that held her story.
Everyone in the room told her to go on as they waited on the edge of their chairs.
“That’s all I’ve written so far. I only had an hour today to work on it.”
“Well, it scared me plumb to death already,” Geraldine announced. “If you’d written more, I’d be the one having a heart attack and not that poor young mother. That old witch is trying to steal her heart. I’ve heard stories about those who try such things.”
“What makes you think that’s what would happen?” George shouted. “Maybe she’s a serial killer and she keeps the heart as her trophy.”
“I’m sure I’ve heard of such a thing in Greek mythology,” Peter chimed in, as if he were the voice of reason in the box of nuts.
Emily watched the room explode. Everyone was talking at once, even Simon. She looked at the landing and saw Tannon rushing up the stairs.
When he saw her, he asked simply, “Riot?”
She nodded and, to her surprise, he turned and went back down. Obviously, a riot was something he thought she could handle.
When the world of writing finally settled, Martha Q began her story about a widow who owned a bed-and-breakfast. Most of it was a description of the house and the still-beautiful innkeeper who solved the problems of everyone in town.
The group was kind and encouraging, except for Zack, who fell asleep during the reading. As always, each person had suggestions for the plot and no two ran in the same direction.
The group was still talking and arguing when they left. Apparently taking over someone’s story wasn’t off-limits.
Emily cleaned up, put the chairs back in order, and went downstairs.
Pamela Sue had already left, but Tannon was waiting for Emily when she rushed down the stairs.
He looked out of place behind the desk and she wondered if he threatened anyone who dared check out a book.
“Let’s go home,” she said as she neared. “I’ve had all the zombies and witches I can handle for one night.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ve got supper already cooked and the heater turned up at my place. The temperature’s been dropping since dark, so I thought you might like to stay in tonight and eat.”
He followed her out, locked the door, and pulled her close to him as they ran for her car. Once she was settled in, he closed her door and crossed to his truck.
On the short drive to his office building, she thought of how quickly they’d become comfortable with one another and how good it felt to have a close friend. She had the feeling that, like her, he rarely let people close. He’d built a shell and she’d hidden away in her books. They both knew hundreds of people and called many “friend”—but not the kind of friends they were and always had been to each other.
The bridge between them had shattered once. Emily blamed the accident at first, thinking it must have been hard for him too. He might have even thought that it was his fault. Later, in college, she went in one direction and he in another. She guessed he thought of her as often as she thought of him, almost like a family member who’d moved far away. There had been a hundred times she’d almost called him. She wanted to ask where he’d been that night, why he had never visited her in the hospital. Later, in college, she’d just wanted to talk, but the bridge had fallen from their own neglect.
As she parked beside him in front of his office building, she wished they hadn’t waited so many years. For years
they’d been within a few blocks of one another and hadn’t connected.
He opened her car door and took her hand with his left as they ran for the elevator. It was after nine, and the building looked abandoned without lights or people.
Emily laughed, thinking the memory of Lily Anne’s story was coloring her view of the night.
She found supper waiting. Ham, coleslaw, potato salad, and cherry pie. All looking very much like they’d been picked up at the deli counter in the grocery store. She warmed by the fireplace as he set everything on the table. He’d shoved his work to one side and put out place mats that looked new and napkins made from folded paper towels.
“Ready,” he said, and motioned her into the dining area.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, almost laughing at how proud he was of himself.
He held her chair for her. They were halfway through the meal when she said, “Want to tell me about how you hurt your hand?”
“No,” he said. “It was just an accident. I hit a wall.”
She knew there was more to the story because he didn’t meet her eyes when he told her. “Accidents happen,” she said, letting him off the hook.
“Accidents happen,” he echoed, and then changed the subject to the writing group.
When they finished cleaning up, she put on his Hawaiian shirt and sat cross-legged on the bed while he let her change the bandage. The hand was swollen and the skin broken around the knuckles. He didn’t say a word or make a sound as she pulled away the bloody gauze where the doctor had stitched up a few places. His fingers were bruised and scabbed. Without much thought, she leaned down and kissed the injury, wishing one kiss could make things better the way it always had for her when she’d been little.
She felt, more than saw, his body stiffen, but he didn’t pull away.
It was almost eleven by the time he went into the bathroom to change. Emily curled up on the pillows and watched
the lights of the town beyond the windows. Part of her wondered how it could feel so right to be here with him. She’d known girls in college who’d sleep over at different boys’ room every night on the weekends, but she never had. She’d tried going out a few times to meet guys, but she was always the one who didn’t get picked up and had to drive the car home. Or, with boys in class, they seemed to want to study together and weren’t all that attracted to her. They’d call her names like buddy and pal, as if she were just one of the guys.
Not that she’d truly wanted to stay with any one of them. It had never felt like the right time.
With Tannon, it was different. She knew he was attracted to her. He’d insisted they kiss good night. Emily doubted men did that who weren’t attracted, but he was never pushy. Maybe he was happy with the way it was now. They couldn’t go on sleeping over at each other’s houses, but for now, it seemed right. More than friends, less than lovers.
When he came to bed, she pretended to be asleep. He tugged her to him and pulled the covers over her shoulder.
After several minutes, she whispered, “You asleep?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Good.” She rolled closer. Her mouth brushed his before her one word was out. The kiss wasn’t a good-night kiss. If she was going to kiss him, really kiss him, she didn’t want to make a halfhearted effort. If they were truly more than friends it was time they set a few new rules.
For a moment, he didn’t react to her advance, but then his hand plowed into her hair and pulled her close against him.
She opened her mouth and deepened the kiss as her hand brushed lightly over the bare skin of his shoulder, needing the feel of him.
After a few seconds, he jerked away so fast Emily let out a little cry.
“Do you mean this?” He studied her in the soft light from the streets below. “Do you want me to kiss you like that? Because what you just did was a hell of a lot more than a friendly good-night kiss.”
“I’m the one who started it, so of course I mean it, but if it’s too much for you, I’ll understand.” She giggled, knowing that she’d surprised him with her advance almost as much as she’d surprised herself. “You told me once that you wanted me to kiss you back and I thought now might be a good time to start.”
“Start what?” He rolled above her, pressing his chest over hers. “I think I can handle whatever you want, only you have to tell me where the line is.”
She felt like a child being asked what she wanted for Christmas and knowing there was no limit. “How about a few long, slow kisses to start and we’ll feel our way from there.” She moved her hand from his shoulder to his chest laughing at the way his hair tickled against her fingers. “I kind of missed out on that time when couples spend hours just kissing. By the time I started dating in college people were skipping the kissing part and just asking ‘your place or mine.’ I’d kind of like one of those ‘curl my toes’ kind of kisses girls used to talk about in high school. You think we could go back that far and play around with it for a while?”