Cherry Pie (7 page)

He wiped his hands on his new shorts and then cursed himself. He was trying to keep them nice for a while. They were camo cargo shorts. And a damn sight more comfortable than his jeans in the heat. He couldn’t do anything about the white T-shirt. It was smudged with dirt, but he had a good excuse. He fought the urge to run inside and wash his hands. Instead he just stood there, watching the intersection of Justice and Goodman Streets, waiting for Miss Priss to come into view.

When he saw her, it was like a punch to the gut. He’d had way too many of those in the last few weeks. Damn if this coming home wasn’t harder than he’d thought. She paused at the corner when she saw him. She didn’t wave, just turned and walked his way. She looked older, which surprised him. He’d thought she was ancient when he was little. She was walking so slow he felt self-conscious just standing there. She wore all white, making her brown skin look like dark chocolate. When he was six, he asked her if she tasted like chocolate. Conn had thought his mama was going to have a heart attack, but Miss Priss just laughed.

When she reached him, they just stood there looking at each other for a while. She looked him over from head to toe.

“Connor Meecham,” she finally said in that old-fashioned, formal way of hers. “You look well.”

He nodded politely. “Miss Priscilla.”

She looked pointedly at the gate. Conn looked at it too but didn’t move. She gave him a stern look, and he belatedly opened the gate.

“Thank you,” she said politely. He was worried about her with her cane on the gravel path, so he stepped up beside her and offered his arm. She took it, and they walked to the house and up the stairs. She settled herself on John’s bench. Conn stood there, not sure what to do.

“It is good to have you home, Connor,” she said with a sigh as she settled back in the seat. “Tell me where you have been and why you have not come to see me.”

“This isn’t my house, Miss Priscilla,” he said quietly. “Someone else bought it after Mama died.”

“I am well aware of that, Connor,” she said calmly. “I have not gone soft in the head. A gentleman from California is living here now, or so I’m told. He has not come by to meet me.”

Conn bit his lip to keep from smiling at the disapproval in her tone. “They do things a little differently in California, Miss Priss. I don’t think anyone told him he should go and see you.”

She smiled at the use of the old nickname. “You should have told him,” she chastised him.

Conn nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I should have.”

“You are living here now.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m helping John fix up the house. It had fallen into a bit of disrepair.”

“That is an understatement, Connor. It was a shameful sight that deserved better. I am glad to see the new owner agrees.” She glanced around the porch. “Your mother always wanted to paint the house a stately gray, with white and yellow accents.” She shook her head. “That woman had an unnatural affinity for yellow.”

Conn was taken aback. He hadn’t known that, about painting the house. “Then why didn’t she?”

“White was cheaper,” Miss Priss said matter-of-factly. “Which should not be a factor for the new owner, I’m told.”

“I like yellow too,” Conn said with a smile.

“Of course, you do,” Miss Priss said with a sniff. “As I told you, Barbara had an unnatural attraction to the color.” She looked at Conn and raised an imperious eyebrow. “Are you not going to offer me refreshments, Connor?” she asked. “I have walked all this way.”

“May I get you something to drink?” he asked politely, racking his brain to try to remember if they had any lemonade.

“I would like a lemonade, please,” she answered politely. “And please send your Mr. Ford out to see me.”

“So you know his name,” Conn teased.

Miss Priss gave him an indecipherable look. “I know more than most give me credit for, Connor. I know everything that goes on in my town. Now, if you please, may I have my lemonade? I am parched.” She looked up at the ceiling fan on the porch. “Could you also turn that on, please?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back.” He walked quickly over to the front door and went in, turning the fan on first thing. He hustled back through the kitchen to the back door. “John,” he called. John’s head popped up from behind the fence. He was holding a paintbrush covered in paint. “Someone on the front porch wants to meet you,” Conn told him. “Come on over here. Don’t keep her waiting.”

John put the brush down, walked around the side of the yard, and came in the gate. “Who?” he asked curiously as Conn waved him over. When he got to the steps, Conn grabbed his upper arm and dragged him into the house. “What the hell?” John exclaimed. “Where’s the fire?”

“She walked all the way over here,” Conn said. He was suddenly nervous, worried that John might offend Miss Priscilla. “Have we got any lemonade?”

John gave him a funny look and then walked over and reached for a cabinet. He stopped before he opened it. “In there,” he said. He went to the sink. “I don’t want to get paint on the handle.” He began to wash his hands. “You’ll have to mix it. The pitcher should be on the shelf above.” He laughed as Conn got the stuff out. “You know, when I first saw the front porch, I thought it looked like people should be sitting there drinking lemonade.”

Conn dragged the bin of sugar over and went to fill the pitcher while John was drying his hands. “Well, Miss Priscilla Jones is about to be.” He gestured to the front with his head. “Get out there. And be nice. And polite.”

“Who is Miss Priscilla Jones?” John asked as he walked toward the front.

“Miss Priscilla Jones is Mercury,” Conn answered.

Conn needn’t have worried about John’s manners. Turned out he had a boatload of them. Miss Priss took to him right away, especially when he took Conn to task for not taking him over to meet her. She loved that.

“I understand that you have a great deal of money,” Miss Priss said. “Ordinarily I would not mention it, as it is in very poor taste to talk about one’s personal finances, but I have been told that you have enough money to make it unnecessary to worry about offending you.”

John laughed. “It is true that I am rich enough that people don’t have to worry about offending me.”

“And you earned your fortune on the Internet?” Miss Priss asked curiously. “Do you make computers?”

“No, ma’am,” John said. It was kind of funny, how he’d picked up that Southernism right away with Miss Priss. She just brought it out in a man. “I created a game for the Internet that a lot of people like to play.”

Miss Priss seemed disappointed. “I see. I was rather hoping that you might be considering opening some sort of computer manufacturing facility here in Mercury. But I suppose that was not your purpose for moving here.”

John looked surprised. “No, ma’am. I’m retired, more or less.”

That made Miss Priss raised both eyebrows in disbelief. “At your young age? What on earth are you planning to do with the rest of your life?” She got a worried look on her face. “You’re not dying, are you?”

Conn’s chest constricted so hard he fought the urge to grab it. His gaze shot to John, who was watching him. John shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he answered, still watching Conn. “Perfectly healthy. But I’ve made my money already.”

“You’ve made your money at one thing, Mr. Ford,” she told him disapprovingly. “A man of your abilities and means has a responsibility to turn his interest elsewhere, either industry or philanthropy. To do nothing is a waste of your God-given talents and a disservice to your fellow man.”

John looked amused. “I had planned to spend the rest of my life working on this house. There is a lot to do.”

“Do not be flippant, young man,” Miss Priss replied, and John had the grace to blush. “Mr. Michaels has informed me that you have been a generous benefactor of Epson House since your arrival in Mercury. Is it philanthropy that holds your interest now? There are other organizations that would also benefit from your involvement and not just your charitable contributions.”

John stood up and went to lean against the porch railing. He looked off down the street. “I don’t know, Miss Priscilla. I’m still trying to discover what I want.”

“You are a lucky man to have the ability to choose what you want,” Miss Priss told him, “and not have the choice made for him.” She turned to Conn suddenly, and he gulped down the Coke he’d been drinking, making him cough.

“And you, Connor?” she asked. “Now that you are out of prison, what do you plan to do?”

That little bombshell didn’t help his coughing. John came over and pounded him on the back. “I don’t think he knows either, Miss Priscilla.”

She nodded. “He is also lucky that you have provided the time for him to make his own choice.” She took a deep breath. “I have not had a drink of alcohol in over fifty years, Connor.” Her stare was forthright. “There were times that I desired it more than my next breath. You too will face those times. I found my strength here, among the people in Mercury.” She gazed out unseeing at the street. “But my town is dying, Connor.” She picked up her cane and went to rise from the bench, and both John and Conn stood up and offered her a hand. “I am too tired to walk home. May I have a ride in your fancy little car, Mr. Ford?” She smiled at John.

He laughed. “Yes, you may, Miss Priscilla.” He looked at Conn. “Can you drive her?” He gestured at his clothes. “I’m covered in paint. And you can stop at the store and buy some plants.” He looked at the mess that Conn had dug up. “We can’t leave it like that.”

Conn was still reeling from Miss Priscilla’s revelations. And now John was offering to let him drive his expensive car. “Are you sure?” he asked, his shock evident in his voice.

John nodded with a smile for Miss Priss. “I’m sure.”

Chapter Ten

“Who does the car belong to?”

The question came quietly from the doorway of John’s bedroom. He’d been lying there awake, refusing to watch the clock, afraid to go out on the porch again. He’d heard Connor get up and come downstairs. With his hands clasped behind his head as he lay there, he pretended a relaxed attitude he was far from feeling. “Me.”

“Why did you buy it?”

“I didn’t.”

There was an expectant silence. John refused to fill it. Finally Connor asked, “Is this what it’s like to talk to me?”

John laughed at the unexpected comment. “Yep.”

Connor huffed out a little laugh. “Why is it such a secret?”

John sighed. “It’s not. A man named Steve left me the car in his will.” It was so easy to say it. John was dismayed he’d made such a big deal out of it.

“What happened to him?”

Not “Who was he?” or “What was he to you?” Connor went right to the hard stuff. “He died. In Afghanistan.”

“A soldier, huh? That must have been hard, being with him.”

“An officer. And no, not really. He had his life, and I had mine. And sometimes the two managed to take place in the same place at the same time.”

“Like I said, that must have been hard.”

John rolled over onto his side, his cheek cupped in one hand. “What do you want, Connor?”

There was no answer for such a long time that John rolled back over and leaned up on his elbows to see if Connor was still there. He was leaning against the door frame, his hands crossed behind his back, his head tipped forward. John could see him clearly in the combination of moonlight and the light from his digital clock. He was wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. John fell back in the bed with an inner groan of sexual frustration.

The next thing John knew, Connor was standing at the foot of his bed, watching him. Neither said anything. When Connor climbed on the bed and straddled him on all fours, John lay there frozen.

“I don’t know if I mean it, Johnny,” Connor whispered. “I guess I don’t really understand what that means. I only know that I need you.”

John was torn. He wasn’t sure he could do casual sex at all, and casual sex with Connor seemed an impossible thing. But he wanted Connor with a desire he hadn’t felt since the first few years he’d been with Steve, before he recognized the future he talked about was nothing more than a dream. Before he accepted that a secondhand reality was better than nothing at all. He didn’t want to go there again. He didn’t want to need someone again only to be disappointed and abandoned. But what he wanted and was what happening were two entirely different things.

If he had sex with Connor, he was pretty much dooming himself to that fate. So he could either say no and maintain his lonely dignity, or say yes and at least get the chance to fuck a man he wanted almost more than anyone he’d ever met.
Wow, tough choice.

Connor leaned down. “Please, John,” he whispered brokenly in his ear.

John uncurled his hands from where he’d fisted them in the sheet to keep from touching Connor. He laid them softly against Connor’s upper arms, barely making contact. Connor’s skin was smooth and hot to the touch, and it was enough to make John’s pulse hammer and his balls ache for more. Fate was a goddamn hard-hearted bitch. But he’d known that already.

Connor turned his head, sliding his nose along John’s temple and cheek until his mouth hung over John’s. “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

John almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. They were going to fuck, for God’s sake. “Of course,” he said and then cursed himself for not being more romantic about it.

Connor took a deep, unsteady breath. “With men, it’s not always ‘of course,’ John.”

He’d left John at a loss for words again. For John and his partners, it had always been “of course.” He’d forgotten what Connor had been through. Suddenly he remembered Connor turning away when he’d tried to kiss him the other night. “Connor—” he began, but Connor’s soft lips cut off whatever he might have said.

The kiss was so tentative that John just lay there holding his breath, anticipation making him light-headed. He let Connor gently explore his lips, rubbing against them, tilting his head a little more to the side until he found the right angle. When the tip of Connor’s tongue lightly grazed the seam of his lips, John finally opened his mouth and took over. He slid one hand from Connor’s arm over his shoulder to the back of his head, burying it in Connor’s thick hair, still slightly damp from a shower. Then he held Connor firmly against his lips and tasted every corner of Connor’s mouth. He was delicious. Hot and slick and minty fresh. He’d brushed his teeth, probably right before he came to John. Something about that and his damp hair made John want to cry, which was stupid. He ought to be glad he’d gone to the trouble. But he got the impression Connor hadn’t wanted to give John any reason to reject him. He really didn’t get it. He didn’t know that John would have taken him dirty with teeth unbrushed.