Sunday Kind of Love (21 page)

“Any time,” Hank answered, then tilted her face toward his, his eyes dancing in the meager light, and kissed her.

Though thunder continued to crash all around them, the storm was no longer capable of interrupting their passion. Gwen pressed into Hank and shut her eyes, giving herself over to his touch. When his hand rose from her waist to gently caress her breast, Gwen gasped into his open mouth, the pleasure she felt too undeniable to hold back.

Wanting to feel his bare skin, Gwen started to undo the buttons of his shirt. What followed was a flurry of undressing, as items of wet clothing were removed, one after the other, and strewn into a pile on the floor until there wasn't anything left to take off. Another flash of lightning revealed the full length of their naked bodies, a sight that fueled both of their desires.

When they slid beneath the cot's woolen blanket, Gwen allowed her hands to roam across Hank's muscular flesh. She touched his arms, his broad chest, and his washboard stomach until she finally decided to go lower. She took him into her palm, pleasantly surprised by his size, the ardor of his passion, and the heat that his body radiated. She stroked him gently, from base to tip, causing his breath to catch and a deep, thunder-like moan to escape his lips.

But while Gwen had been busy exploring Hank, he'd been doing the same to her. Although his touch was insistent, his skin rough on account of his work, Gwen yearned for more. She encouraged him with a gasp, a tremor shooting through her body, or by whispering his name into his ear. Hank cupped the heft of her breast before teasing her nipple. He ran his fingers down the length of her rib cage as masterfully as a classical pianist at the keys. His lips and tongue caressed her neck, an earlobe, the curve of her jaw before once again finding her mouth. But it was when his hand moved between her legs, gently yet insistently spreading them farther apart, allowing him to truly touch her, discovering just how excited his advances had made her, that she began to shake with pleasure.

“Hank…” she managed as she arched her back, the storm inside her body rivaling the one continuing to rage outside the window.

“I want you,” he said, nearly breathless.

In answer, Gwen spread her legs wider, encouraging him to come between them, his body raised above her, held in place by his strong arms.

She placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “I love you,” she told him, the words coming from somewhere deep inside, made of far more than physical desire, as heartfelt as they could possibly be. She wasn't thinking about her parents. She wasn't thinking about Kent. Gwen was thinking only about Hank Ellis, the man who had stolen her heart.

With a tenderness in stark contrast to the passion burning between them, Hank entered her. Inch by inch, he lowered himself, so that when their hips were finally pressed together, Gwen was nearly overcome with pleasure.

“Gwen, I—” Hank began, but she kissed him before he could say more.

He started to move in and out, slowly at first, but their excitement quickly escalated, causing Hank to thrust faster. For Gwen, it felt as if she was climbing a musical scale, each note higher than the last. It was so pleasurable as to be nearly painful, but she had no desire to stop. Rather, she wanted it to last forever.

“Oh…oh, Hank…” was all she could manage to say.

Events spooled out before her like a film missing some of its frames. One image came into focus but then was gone, replaced by another: her hands sliding up and down his body, incapable of staying still; beads of sweat dotting Hank's face; another tongue of lightning illuminating the night sky. Over it all, she heard the rhythmic sound of their skin colliding, a melody of lovemaking.

“I can't…I can't last much longer…” Hank gasped.

Gwen couldn't answer. As his movements reached a fever pitch, it felt as if she'd reached the top of an oceanside cliff and then jumped off, plunging toward the water; when she struck its surface, her whole body trembled and shook. One of her hands grabbed Hank's arm so tightly that she feared drawing blood, while the other crimped a fistful of the blanket. An instant later, Hank shuddered, his hips coming to a hard and sudden stop, and Gwen was filled with warmth.

Though he had to be exhausted, Hank didn't collapse on top of her but carefully lowered himself to the side, their bodies sliding apart. Gwen rolled toward him and snuggled close, both of them slick with sweat but fulfilled in every way. As each of their chests rose and fell, sleep beckoned. Gwen surrendered to its sweet embrace knowing that this was what she'd spent her whole life looking for but had never managed to find.

This was love.

G
WEN WOKE TO
the sound of birds singing. She opened her eyes, but the sunlight was too bright so she shut them again. For a moment, she wondered if last night had been a dream, nothing more than a figment of her imagination, but then she felt someone move, warm skin brushing against her own. She turned her head and looked again. Hank slept at her side.

Last night
had
been a dream, but very, very real.

Making love to Hank had been more than Gwen could ever have hoped for. She remembered every touch, every breathless word, every moment of pleasure. Amazingly, she hadn't once thought of Kent. Even though she'd only just ended things between them, the break felt clean, final. The truth was, she had been with the wrong man. So while one relationship had ended, another beckoned, holding out the promise of happier times, of a chance to live the life she'd always wanted.

But that didn't mean there weren't problems, too.

Over and over, like a record needle skipping on a scratch, Gwen thought about what Hank had told her of the night Pete had died. She understood why he'd initially lied; protecting his father was noble, but she couldn't accept that Hank would willingly ruin his own reputation to do it. It was too high of a cost.

Gwen knew that she could always choose to let the matter lie; she wanted to be with Hank regardless of whether people knew the truth about Pete's death. But she wouldn't do it. It wasn't right. Something had to change.

So it was then, lying beside Hank in the cot, looking up at the ceiling of the workshop, that Gwen made a decision of her own.

As carefully and quietly as she could, Gwen slid out of the cot and padded across the floor to her clothes. Fortunately, they'd mostly dried during the night, though they were badly wrinkled. She dressed quickly, her eyes rarely leaving Hank, watching for any sign that he might be waking.

Once she was fully clothed, Gwen dug in Hank's pants pocket, quickly finding what she was looking for: the keys to his truck.

“…gonna try to hit it in the…” he suddenly muttered, an arm flopping out from under the blanket.

Gwen froze, holding her breath, her heart pounding, convinced that he was about to wake. She could only imagine what Hank would think, wondering what she was doing, why she was sneaking away like a burglar. Inevitably, he'd have questions that she would struggle to answer.

But then, just as abruptly as Hank had stirred, he settled, his breathing steady, and returned to sleep, allowing her to steal out the door.

The morning sky was a brilliant blue, though the air was cool, making her shiver in her damp clothes. Gwen opened the truck's door as quietly as she could, cringing when the hinges gave a squeak. She got inside, not bothering to shut the door behind her, and put the key in the ignition. This was the moment of truth. Gwen knew that the second she started the engine, Hank would wake. If she couldn't manage to get the truck moving fast enough, if it sputtered and stalled or she wasn't able to put it in gear, he'd reach her before she could drive away.

What Gwen was going to do was
for
Hank, but he couldn't be a part of it. Not yet. She was convinced that he wouldn't understand.

“So here goes everything,” she whispered.

Turning the key, she heard the engine shudder to life, the sudden noise deafening to Gwen's ears. She pumped the gas pedal, silently praying that it would catch; when it did, she nearly shouted with joy. Grabbing the gearshift, she put the truck in reverse and sped back down the drive so fast that the tires sprayed gravel. Reaching the road, she tromped on the brakes, pointed the truck toward town, ground the gears in her impatience to get moving, and then once again pressed the accelerator. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hank stumble groggily out of the workshop, the wool blanket wrapped around his waist, wondering what in the heck was going on. Seconds later, he was lost from view.

Gwen gripped the steering wheel tight. She wouldn't allow herself to look back. She was determined to keep going, to do what she had to.

Their future depended on it.

The unexpected sound of the truck rumbling to life was like a buzz saw cutting through Hank's peaceful sleep. He shot wide awake and sat up in the cot, so disoriented that he had trouble telling up from down. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, but he looked around anyway, trying to get his bearings. He leaped out of bed, clear-headed enough to snatch up the blanket so that he wasn't running around naked, and hurried for the door. Stepping outside, his feet wet in the dewy grass, he saw his truck back out of the driveway and onto the road before speeding away. There was a familiar face behind the wheel.

“Gwen!” he shouted, waving his arm. “Gwen, wait!”

But it did no good. Seconds later, the truck was out of sight, leaving Hank alone and more than a little confused.

He went back into the workshop, leaving wet footprints on the floor, retreating to the rear room as he tried to make some sense of what had just happened. He noticed that Gwen was no longer curled up in bed and that her clothes weren't piled on the floor; even though Hank had just seen her drive away, in his addled state, these facts seemed firmer confirmation that she was no longer there. He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and started to think things through.

Why didn't she wake me?

Where's she going?

What did I do to make her leave like that?

Hank didn't know the answers to any of these questions, but he imagined that none of them were good. Maybe last night Gwen had been vulnerable, still reeling from the confrontation with Kent and her parents, and had allowed herself to get caught up in the moment. In such a state, she'd willingly made love to him, but the next morning, her head finally clear, she had realized what a terrible mistake she'd made. Wanting nothing more than to get away from him, Gwen had dressed silently, snuck out to his truck, and raced away, too ashamed of herself to face him, to even ask if he'd drive her back to town.

Maybe their relationship was over before it had really even begun.

Leaving his still-wet clothes on the floor, Hank headed for the house. Inside, he took a quick shower, hoping it would chase away the clouds in his head while he figured out what to do next. Dressed, he paced the kitchen, trying to come up with another explanation for Gwen's behavior but failing.

“Think, damn it, think!” he exhorted himself.

In the end, Hank knew he had to speak with her. If Gwen was actually rejecting him, he wanted to hear it from her lips. Even if he had to endure more insults, or take another punch, he had to know what he'd done. He would ask for forgiveness and ultimately accept her decision, no matter whether it was good or bad.

Hank picked up the telephone receiver, then dialed. After about a dozen rings, the other end of the line was answered.

There was a deep sigh. “Yeah…” a sleepy voice said.

“Skip, it's Hank.”

A long pause. “What time is it?”

“I need you to come pick me up,” he said, ignoring the question. “Now.”

“Somethin'…somethin' wrong with your truck?”

“Just get over here!”

“Okay, okay,” Skip said. “No need to get bent outta shape. Gimme fifteen minutes to get it together and I'll be there.”

After they'd hung up, Hank resumed his pacing. He felt guilty for barking at his best friend, but this was urgent. Silently, he vowed to fix what was broken between him and Gwen. Whatever it was that had caused her to drive away, he would make it right. He wouldn't let it end, not like this.

He loved Gwen Foster like he'd never loved before.

He wouldn't give her up without a fight.

Buckton's hospital was a two-story brick building on the north end of Main Street. The doctors' offices were located on the lower floor, while the patient rooms were on the upper. An American flag flapped in the breeze. When Gwen pulled Hank's truck into the parking lot, there were few cars and fewer people; an old man inched slowly along with the help of a walker, while a young mother practically dragged her reluctant son toward the front door, the boy far more interested in kicking rocks than whatever awaited him inside. Gwen shut off the engine but made no move to get out.

You're here. So now what?

There was a small part of her that wanted to drive back to Hank, to come up with an excuse for why she'd left, to act as if nothing had happened.

But she couldn't do it.

Too much was at stake. Even though Gwen had no idea what sort of reception she would receive, she had to face it.

For Hank. For me. For us.

Stepping inside, Gwen was greeted by the receptionist. When she inquired what room Myron Ellis was in, the woman asked whether Gwen was a member of his family; Gwen said that she was, the lie coming so easily that it might as well have been the truth. She was given the room number and climbed the stairs. Standing in front of Myron's door, she took a deep breath and went inside.

Myron lay in the bed, his face tilted toward the window. Sunlight streamed through the narrow slats of the blinds, painting dark lines across his already discolored face. A large bandage covered the cut he'd sustained to his forehead the night before; the smallest drop of red blood seeped through to stain the white material. Dark bruises, a mottled mix of browns and purples, spread out from the wound, another sign of his fall. He looked much older than his years, his cheeks sunken, his hair a disheveled mess, his skin a canvas of wrinkles. There was enough of a resemblance between him and Hank to send a shiver running down Gwen's spine. Myron's eyes were closed as his chest rose and fell beneath his thin blanket.

Gwen had hoped that they might talk, and was therefore disappointed he was asleep. Still, she knew Myron needed his rest. She could wait, go outside for some air, or maybe find some breakfast. That or—

“Issit time for my pills…”

Myron blinked awake. When he yawned, he winced as if in pain.

“I'm not the nurse,” Gwen replied.

He looked her over. “No, you're a hell of a lot prettier than that battle-axe who kept tryin' to jam pills down my throat all night.”

“I don't know if you remember me, Mr. Ellis,” she said, then stepped closer, thinking that it might help if he could see her more clearly. “I'm Gwen Foster.”

Myron ran a hand across his whiskered chin, then nodded. “You're Warren's girl, ain't ya,” he said. “You used to help down at the bakery.”

“That's right.”

“Don't go takin' this the wrong way, but you're 'bout the last person I would've expected to see this mornin'.”

“I hope you don't mind my dropping by like this, but I was hoping we might talk,” Gwen explained with a measured smile, not too bright but still friendly, hoping she might get their conversation off on the right foot.

Myron eyed her suspiciously, “'Bout what?”

“About your son.”

There was a long pause before he asked, “Which one?”

“Both of them, actually.”

This time, Myron's silence stretched longer. He looked toward the window. Gwen worried. Only a couple of minutes in the door and she was losing him.

So she pressed ahead. “A week ago, Hank saved my life.”

“He what?” Myron exclaimed, turning back to her, his expression one of genuine surprise; he clearly knew nothing about it.

“Your son dove into the Sawyer River to keep me from drowning. Since then, over the time we've spent together, I've fallen in love with him,” she explained, acknowledging her feelings for Hank. “Last night, after we found you…” Gwen started, then faltered, pausing to steel herself, “he told me what happened the night Pete died. He told me that he hadn't been driving.”

Myron stared hard at her. “And that it was
me
who done it…”

Gwen nodded.

Once again, Hank's father turned from her, gazing into the distance. She wondered whether she'd said too much too soon, worrying that Myron would now clam up. But then he cleared his throat. “Damn, if my mouth ain't dry as a ball of cotton. You think you could find me somethin' to drink? If I'm gonna talk 'bout this, I reckon I should wet my whistle first.”

Gwen thought he was asking her to get him some booze. Myron must've seen it written on her face.

“Just water, darlin',” he said with a sad frown. “You must think me a hell of a sight. A good-for-nothin' drunk.”

She shook her head. “No, I don't.”

“Wait till you hear my story, then.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I might end up changin' your mind.”

Gwen filled a glass with water from the cooler out in the hall. Myron gulped it thirstily, a little running down his chin. When he was finished, he twirled the empty glass in his hands.

“When my wife died,” he began, sounding a little clearer, “everythin' went to hell. It was like turnin' off a light switch, my whole life goin' dark. I was in so much damn pain that the only way I could make it stop was by numbin' it with a drink. The inside of a whiskey bottle was my church, the only place I could find comfort. I stopped workin'. I spent all my money on booze. I turned my back on my boys when they needed me most. I was a coward who couldn't face the truth of things, so I laid down and quit.” Myron gave a short snort. “It's funny in a way, but right here, right now, startin' with when I fell face-first on the kitchen floor, is probably the longest I've gone without a drink since Eleanor passed.”

Though Gwen was well aware that Hank's father had brought much of his misery on himself, she couldn't help but feel a measure of pity for him, too. Here was a man who had lost someone dear to him, the woman he loved, and was unable to cope with his grief. That weakness had caused him to lose even more.