Then He Kissed Me: A Cottonbloom Novel (9 page)

He
bocked
like a chicken.

She huffed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, but a small smile played at her lips. “Fine. A quick wade up river.”

He retreated before she had a chance to come up with some other excuse.

Chapter Six

Tally woke at dawn, did some intensive dusting to expend nervous energy, but mostly looked out the front window. She had a good view of the parking lot. If he’d been picking her up to go toilet paper someone’s house or deface the side of a water tower, she would have been dusting out of adrenaline-fueled excitement. Wading the river cut too close to old pains she rarely took out for examination.

Her mind worked around the problem of Nash, trying to determine his intent. Was she only a walk down memory lane? Was he lonely and looking for a friend? Or did he want something else? His brown, soulful eyes had cut through her bullcrap and asked for more than she was willing to give anyone. Her wildly inappropriate dreams hadn’t helped clarify her feelings.

But his smile exuded trustworthiness, if she believed such a thing existed in a man. The toast she’d choked down tumbled in her unruly stomach. Was it the imminent step into her past or the thought of present-day Nash ratcheting her nerves higher?

His Jeep-like truck pulled into her lot. White. Like a good knight from his medieval histories. Was that an omen? She locked her door and met him halfway on the steps. He looked around, his eyebrows up.

The exterior of the 1980s-era apartment building was in need of an extensive power washing. Ivy grew out of unkempt bushes around the perimeter and up the sides of the brick. A brown Dumpster took up several parking spots at one end of the lot, adding to the impression of shabbiness. The building housed eight one-bedroom apartments on two floors, bisected by a staircase.

She’d moved into an apartment on the second floor right out of high school. Sharing the small trailer with Cade had been torturous after she’d dropped the bombshell she wasn’t going to college like Sawyer. He’d been upset, but it was the disappointment and weariness in his eyes she couldn’t handle, like she’d failed him somehow. She’d gotten a job in retail on the Mississippi side of Cottonbloom and moved out.

Six months later, certified as a personal trainer and working all over both sides of Cottonbloom, she began to save and scrimp every penny for the next few years. Still, without Cade, she would have had to work for another decade before she could have saved enough money to start her own gym. At this point, she could afford a bigger, better place, but she was comfortable in her apartment. It was familiar and safe.

“What?” she asked, feeling the need to defend her choice.

“Nothing.” His voice was even and gave no hint to his thoughts.

“It’s not much to look at, but I like it.”

He held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it. You’re thinking, why don’t I move?” She strode toward his truck, knowing nerves were driving her pissy attitude.

He followed close behind her to the passenger side of his truck and snaked his hand around her to grab her forearm. “Other side, I’m afraid, unless you’re driving.”

“What are you talking about?” She opened the door and was confronted by a steering wheel. She turned and found herself blocked in by his arms, one hand on the opened door and one on the roof. Her heart tapped roughly against her breastbone. “It’s on the wrong side.”

“For America, yes.” His smile was slow and drew crinkles around his twinkling eyes. His unruffable attitude calmed her. Even as children, he’d had the power to cut down her fears with his logic. With a hand on her lower back, he guided her around the bumper.

“I can—”

“I know you can, but I’m trying to be nice. Let me.” His amused exasperation made her smile in spite of herself.

He opened the opposite door and gestured her inside with a flourish. She slipped onto the leather seat and glanced around her. It wasn’t the most luxurious of vehicles, but the mere foreignness lent it a sophistication her plain sedan would never match.

It started with a rumble. “I brought it home with me. Something to remember my time in Scotland by.” He backed them up with a jerk of gears and got them headed down the road. “Instead of crating and shipping all my books, I loaded most of them into the back.”

At the mention of his extensive library, a measure of tension returned. “You have a ridiculous number of books.”

“I actually pared down some when I moved but selling them felt like getting rid of old friends, you know?”

She hummed. She didn’t know at all. Books were her enemy.

Once they were on the road, he glanced over at her. “So … why don’t you move?”

She chuffed and turned toward the passenger window, the pine trees a blur of brown and green. “It was the first place that felt like home after my parents died.”

The caress of his fingers on her clenched hand drew her attention to her lap. A callus on his middle finger where a pen would rest was pronounced and expected, but the calluses along his palm were not. She’d forgotten he was a lefty.

Without conscious thought, her fingers relaxed under his touch, and he wrapped his hand around hers, squeezing slightly. No more questions came.

They drew closer to their old neighborhood. “If you want to wade behind our old houses, we’re going to have to park on that old dead-end street off McComb. You remember?” She pointed to the right.

“Vaguely.” His voice was far away, and his hand left hers for the wheel.

He turned down the correct street and parked in a graveled area where the pavement was fighting the encroachment of grass and losing. He hopped out. She didn’t give him a chance to open her door, but was at the bumper by the time he walked around.

He wore shorts made of thin, water-resistant fabric and a pair of water shoes with black-soled bottoms and blue straps. All she could find were too-short khaki shorts and a pair of old, beat-up tennis shoes that would be waterlogged in ten seconds.

The river had been a constant in her life, but she’d avoided it for years, coming up with one lame excuse after another when Sawyer invited her out on his boat, until he’d quit asking. The thought of climbing the long narrow ladder to the top of a water tower filled her with excitement, while wading the knee-high river filled her with a nervous reluctance. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but some things didn’t need revisiting.

Nash collected a net, slipped a backpack over his shoulders, and grinned. “You ready?”

His enthusiasm was like an inoculation against the aching sadness, and she found a brief half smile for him. “Looks like the path is overgrown.”

She led the way through sparse new-growth trees toward the river. At one time, there had been plans to develop houses along this stretch, but the draw to newer, more stylish neighborhoods had killed the project.

The closer she drew to the water, the faster her pace. The feeling of being weighed down faded with each step, leaving an anxious need to reconnect with the river with Nash by her side. The air crackled with memories. She stopped and put her hand on Nash’s arm, halting him as well. Their gazes met and held.

The white noise of the river was cut by trilling birdsong. A woodpecker’s rapping crescendoed, then died away only to start again a few seconds later. She pulled off a handful of pine needles and rubbed them between her fingers. Closing her eyes, she breathed them in, the sharp tang firing synapses in her brain that had been lying dormant.

He wrapped a hand around her wrist and leaned in close to sniff them. “You think it’s lost forever, yet it all comes back in an instant.”

“What do you remember?” she whispered, feeling as if they were under a spell.

“Building the lean-to of branches and crawling inside. Lying under the trees on the pine needles.”

“We told each other stories about the squirrels, remember?”

“How could I forget Jubal Grayskull?”

Her laughter peeled through the trees, frightening a pair of mockingbirds into flight and breaking the spell. She’d loved making up stories with him. Stories she wasn’t required to read or write down. It had been fun. “I can’t believe you remember.”

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d forget.”

Did he keep their shared experiences as close to his heart as she did? She couldn’t quite believe it. He had travelled the world, seen more than she could imagine. She walked on and he kept pace beside her, occasionally stepping ahead to push brambles down with his foot so she could step over unscathed. The river grew louder.

They came out of the trees and onto the bank. The river here was only a few feet at its deepest point, but the sides of the bank rose at least ten feet on either side. The gurgling echoed and sounded ferocious. In reality, it was a stream that aspired to great things.

Tally went first, lowering herself over the edge. She found slippery footholds in the muddy bank and jumped the last few feet into the shallows. Her feet sank ankle deep into river mud.

Nash knelt and propelled himself over with a hand on the bank, landing in a crouch a couple of feet farther in. Water splashed her legs and dotted her tank top. She might have teasingly complained, but with the heat already rising, the water felt refreshing. His entry had sent water halfway up his shorts, the thin material clinging to his muscular thighs. Thighs she needed to stop staring at.

“Alrighty, let’s go.” Her voice pitched high as she started upriver.

They walked in silence for a few minutes in single file. The river widened by another ten feet and slowed. He came up beside her, but she kept her focus on where she put her feet.

“You still fish?” he asked.

“Nope. It was never my favorite thing.”

“You did it with me all the time, and I never heard you complain once.”

“That’s because it was
your
favorite thing.” She glanced over to find him staring at her with a soft look in his eyes. A look she wanted to wrap herself in like an old security blanket. Forcing her gaze away, she looked upriver toward a sharp right bend. “Do
you
still fish?”

“Whenever I can. I took up fly-fishing in Scotland. It’s amazing there. Wilder even than our marshes in some ways. Like the waters are veins full of ancient magic.”

When they were kids, he had a way of talking that made her believe in his comic books or the outrageous stories he would spin. After reality ripped their lives apart, she’d lost any feeling of enchantment. No superhero had swooped in to save her, no fairy godmother had appeared, but it seemed he hadn’t lost the ability to weave his spells.

“I’ve hardly ever been out of Mississippi or Louisiana. Cade flew me to Seattle a couple of times. Took me to Mount Rainier. It was cool.” The truth was she’d been homesick the entire trip. Admitting that aloud would make her sound at best provincial but most likely pathetic.

“I’ll bet. I’ve never been that far west. Does Cade miss it?”

“Doesn’t seem to. Do you miss Scotland?”

“I miss the architecture and being able to touch and smell the parchment in the university’s research library. I get the facts, but not the feelings, by reading them online. On the whole, though, I don’t miss it.”

“No Scottish lass pining away for you?” She bit the inside of her lip.

He huffed, but it was filled with more regret than humor. “No. I couldn’t seem to maintain a relationship for long.”

“Why not? You’re—” She bit off her incredulous words.

“I’m what?”

“I’m not going to detail all your good points. Your head might explode. Why didn’t they last?”

“The work was more interesting than the women.” He shrugged and waved the net in front of them. No-see-ums darted in all directions. “Plus, I always knew Scotland was temporary. It never felt like home.”

She was afraid to ask the question that burned to escape. Did Cottonbloom feel like home or was this a temporary stop on his world tour?

They reached the bend that signaled the start of their street. The houses were set well back from the river, leaving no landmarks as to where they were, but she knew.

It would take another hundred years or more for the river to carve a new path over the land. The river would flow the same route as long as she lived. Instead of depressing her, the thought helped wash away a familiar melancholy. Some things couldn’t be destroyed in an instant.

In silence, they trekked upriver and for the first time, Nash took the lead, wading faster against the current. He stopped exactly where she knew he would. The bank was lower here, and they could see over it. Beyond the swaying reeds was the browning summer grass of his old backyard. A playset rose in the distance, the chains of two swings and the start of the slide visible. The house was too far back to see.

“I guess a family moved in. Do you know them?” he asked.

“It’s changed hands a couple of times. Last I heard a family that moved up from New Orleans after Katrina was living here.” Silence settled over them. She wanted to tell him more, but as much as Nash wanted to remember, she’d worked hard to forget.

*   *   *

“Hi there!” A little voice peeped from the bank.

Nash stood his ground, but his heart pounded from a surge of adrenaline. Tally yelped and stumbled backward. A little girl crawled out of the reeds and plopped on her stomach at the edge of the bank, her chin resting on her hands. Her skin was a dark walnut, and her hair was pulled up into two lopsided braids above her ears, different-colored ribbons on each one. If he had to guess, she looked seven or eight.

He sidled a step closer, afraid she might balk and run, but she only watched him curiously, no fear in her face. He tried on a smile, his heart slowing. “Hello there. We didn’t even hear you.”

“I know.” Pride wove the girl’s words, her gap-toothed grin huge. “I snuck up on you. What’re you doing in my river?”

“Well, now this might surprise you, but this used to be my river.” Nash gestured toward Tally, and she moved up beside him. “Our river, actually. And that”—he pointed behind the little girl—“used to be my house.”

The girl shifted to sit on the bank and let her legs dangle over the side, her bare feet dirty, grass and mud smudging her yellow sundress. Her nearly black eyes were fathomless and seemingly wise beyond her meager years. Two hundred years ago, he might claim she had the makings of a wise woman.