The Gamble (I) (57 page)

He pulled the ice from his mouth, backhanded his lips, and said, “Go ahead. It’s good.”

She took a lick and got some sawdust. When she spat, he laughed.

“A little sawdust never hurt anyone.”

She licked again and smiled.

“Well, listen,” he said offhandedly, “I’m goin’ t’ see if Leatrice has some cold tea. See y’all at dinnertime.”

He dropped a kiss on her mouth with even less forethought than either of the two times before. His tongue took a single cold swipe at her lips. He backed up, stuck it out, and picked a piece of sawdust off it.

“Sorry,” he said, grinning. And left her standing there, stunned.

Courtship or seduction? Either way, it matched none of her preconceived notions, but the chances of an unexpected kiss made her blood course each time she encountered him.

Gandy found Leatrice in the cookhouse with Mose, smoking her pipe and husking corn. It had to be one hundred five degrees inside.

“Lord, woman, you’re goin’ t’ die of heatstroke.”

“Heatstroke ain’t nowhere neah as scary as what Mose just telled me. Tell ‘im, Mose.”

Mose didn’t say a word.

“Tell me what?”

“Hants is in de pool house now,” Leatrice stated, too impatient to wait for Mose.

“In the pool house!”

“Mose see ‘em. Carryin’ light, too, and lookin’ for folks to pull unduh de watuh.”

“What’s she talkin’ about?”

“I seen ‘em. Lights flickerin’ roun’ down dere deep in de night when de res’ o’ de house asleep. Seen ‘em floatin’ in, like swamp mist, all white an’ shiftin’. Ain’t got no shape atall. Heard ‘em laugh, too, high, like screech owls.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Mose seen it.”

“I seen it. Come up from de buryin’ groun’, dey did.”

“You claimed there were ghosts in the house, too, but you haven’t seen any since you’ve been in there, have you?”

“’Cause I wear my asafetida, dat’s why.”

“Mebbe dey move out. House too crowded, so dey tuk to de pool house instead.”

Maybe they had. It had been some time since Gandy had experienced any manifestations of spirits in the big house.

It lay on his mind the following night when he couldn’t sleep. Beside him, Willy was restless and he wished for a room of his own. But he and Willy doubled up to free more rooms for guests. The sultry weather continued. The sheets felt damp and the mosquito netting seemed to block out any moving air.

Scott rose, slipped on his trousers, and found a cheroot in his coat pocket. Barefoot, he padded out onto the upstairs veranda. He propped a foot on the rail, lit the cheroot, and thought about a night when he’d sat just like this on the sorry little landing he’d shared with Agatha in Proffitt. Lord, it seemed such a long time ago, yet it was less than a year. August, it had been. August or September with the coyotes howling.

An owl called softly and he lifted his head.

At the far end of the driveway a tiny light flickered.

His foot dropped off the rail and he pulled the cigar from his mouth. Hants? Maybe Mose and Leatrice were right again.

He was downstairs in a trice. Not until he was reaching for the derringer in his desk drawer did he realize it would do little good against hants. He took it just the same—hard telling what he might run into at the pool house.

Outside it was no cooler than inside. The air was motionless, thick. Down by the river frogs sent up a full range of notes, from the shrill piping of tree frogs to the basso bark of bullfrogs. Walking barefoot through the damp grass, he stepped on a snail, cursed softly at the squish, and moved on soundlessly. The light was steady. He could see now that it came from a window of the poolhouse.

He approached the building stealthily, backing up against the outside wall—cold against his bare shoulder blades—holding the derringer in his right hand.

He listened. Sounded like someone was swimming. No voices, no movement of any other kind, only the soft lap of parted water.

He eased himself into the lighted door space. His gun hand relaxed and he breathed easy. Someone was swimming, all right. A woman, dressed in nothing but a white combination, and she had no idea he was here. She was on her stomach, heading for the far side of the pool with slow, easy strokes. A lantern sat on the marble steps. He moved beside it, curled his toes over the sleek stone edge, and waited. At the far end she dipped beneath the surface, came up nose first, smoothed the water from her face, then headed for him, on her back.

He waited until she had nearly reached him before speaking.

“So this is our ghost.”

Agatha thrashed around, found her footing, and gaped up at him.

“Scott! What are you doing here?” She crossed her arms over her breasts and ducked below the surface. He stood stiffly, dressed in nothing but a pair of black trousers, his feet widespread, a gun in one hand, a scowl on his face. Lit from below, his expression appeared devilish.

“Me! What in tarnation are
you
doin’ here in the middle of the night?”

She brought one hand from underwater to smooth her hair nervously. “Aren’t I supposed to be here?”

“Hell’s afire, Gussie, there could be snakes in that water!” He gestured impatiently with the gun. “Or you could get a cramp—and who’d hear you yell for help?”

“I didn’t think you’d be angry.”

“I’m not angry!”

“You’re shouting.”

He lowered his volume but propped both hands on his hips. “Well, it’s a damned dumb idea. And I don’t like you bein’ here alone.”

“I don’t always come alone. Sometimes I come with the girls.”

“The girls. I should’ve known they’d be behind it.”

“They taught me to swim, Scott.”

He softened somewhat. “So I saw.”

“And it’s been so hot, I’ve had trouble sleeping.”

So had he—wasn’t that what brought him onto the veranda in the first place? “Doesn’t that icy water bother your hip?”

“Sometimes. When I first get in. But since I’ve been swimming regularly I think it’s better.”

“Regularly? How long has this been goin’ on?”

“Since right after I first got here.”

“But why do it at night? Why not durin’ the day?”

She crossed her arms tighter, gripped her collarbone and looked away. Water dripped from her hair in magnified dribbles, while across the wooden ceiling shards of reflected lantern light danced like fireflies. Scott’s glance dropped beneath the surface, but her bare legs were an indistinct blur.

“Well?”

“We...” She stopped guiltily.

“Gussie, I’m not upset about your usin’ the pool, only about your usin’ it at night when it’s not safe.”

“During the day the guests are around, and we don’t have proper bathing costumes, so we...” Again she stopped, but her eyes came back to his.

A half grin touched his face.

“Ah, I see.”

“Please, Scott. It’s not proper for you to be here. I’ll come out if you’ll go back up to the house.”

He dipped a bare toe into the water, wiggled it. “I have a better idea. Why don’t I come in? It’s a hot night and I couldn’t sleep either. I could use a dip myself.”

Before she could object, he laid the gun aside and splashed down the steps into the water.

“Scott!” she shrieked.

But he paid her no mind whatsoever. He made one clean dive and came up ten feet beyond her with a roar of shock.

“Waaaah!”

She laughed but stayed where she was while he headed for the far end in a powerful overhand crawl. He turned and came back her way, passing her without pause. On his third lap, he said, “Come on.”

“I told you, I’m not properly dressed.”

“Oh, hell, I’ve seen you in your nightgown.” He struck out again and left her behind, absorbed in the physicality of the exercise. He was using one side of the pool. She decided it would be all right if she used the other.

But only her head showed above water while they shared the pool for the next ten minutes.

She was paddling idly on her stomach when his head popped up beside her like a turtle’s.

“Had enough?” he inquired, smiling.

She backed off and clasped her collarbone again. “Yes. I’m cold now.”

“Come on, then. I’ll walk y’ back t’ the house.”

He grabbed her by the wrist and began hauling her out of the pool.

“Scott!”

He just kept hauling.

“Do you know how many times you’ve said my name since I discovered you in here?”

“Let me go!”

Instead, he picked her up and climbed the marble steps and stood her on her feet at the top, where she shivered in a scrap of white that turned transparent the moment she left the water. He glanced once down her length and let her see the grin of appreciation before doing an about-face.

“I’ll keep my back turned.”

He did, while she executed a slapdash job of drying her face and arms, then slipped into her dressing gown with skin that was still damp and underwear that was soaked.

He smoothed the water off himself with his palms.

“Here, you can use this before I dry my hair with it.”

He glanced over his shoulder and accepted the towel. “Thanks.”

She watched covertly as he whisked it over his bare skin and gave his head a quick once-over, leaving the hair sticking up in spikes. Men were certainly more brusque about their toilette than women, she thought, amused.

He handed the towel back and combed his hair in a single swipe with both hands. Then he gave an all-over
shake and grinned at her. “Never saw you with wet hair before.”

She immediately grew self-conscious, bent at the waist, and wrapped the towel around her head. Straightening, she twisted it and secured the ends at her nape.

His eyes made another pass down her body before picking up the gun and the lantern. “Ready?”

She nodded and preceded him outside. On their way up to the house he said, “Leatrice thinks you’re a ghost. Mose saw the lantern down in the pool house and must’ve heard y’all laughin’ down there. He told Leatrice the place was haunted.”

“Must I stop going down at night now?”

“I’m afraid so. But we can set aside a time durin’ the day for you and the girls t’ have the pool t’ yourselves.”

“Could we really?”

“Why not? It’s much more sensible than in the dark. Would y’ listen t’ those frogs?”

They walked the remainder of the way to the house without talking, the chorus of frogs accompanying them. A thin sliver of moon lit the road to a dim ribbon of gray. From the gardens came the scent of night-blooming stocks. Beneath the spreading boughs of the magnolia tree Agatha looked up at the branches lit from below by lantern light. Stepping between the boxwoods, they moved into pale moonlight again. Their bare feet fell like soft drumbeats upon the hollow wooden floor of the veranda. The wide front door swung silently on oiled hinges.

Then they were inside, in the massive rotunda, which swallowed up all but a tiny circle of light from the inadequate lantern that Scott still held. One of her double doors was pushed back. They stopped beside it. She turned and lifted her face, with her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Well, good night,” she said, unable to dream up an excuse to keep him a while longer.

“Good night,” he answered.

Neither of them moved. She stood feeling her heart thump beneath one wrist, and warm water was dribbling down the insides of her legs, forming a puddle on the floor.

Her face was lovely and stark, framed by the white towel, wrapped turban fashion around her hair. He was conscious of the fact that her dressing gown had become soaked wherever there was underclothing beneath it, and that his own trousers clung and formed a puddle that crept along the waxed floor to pool with hers. He wanted to do the same thing himself—cling, pool himself with her.

His eyes dropped to the hollow of her throat, where a pulsebeat fluttered far faster than normal, as did his own.

“It was fun,” she whispered.

“Was it?” he replied, holding the lantern high so it lit their faces to a rich apricot hue. He watched her eyes, wide, uncertain, realizing she was out of her depth in situations such as this, that her guarded posture had come from a life guided by stern moral codes.

Give me a sign, Gussie,
he thought.
You stand like St. Joan, waitin’ for the fire starter t’ touch his flint.
But no sign came. She appeared scared to death, staring up at him with eyes as pale and clear as peridots. A droplet of water fell from his disheveled hair onto his naked collarbone. Her gaze snapped down to follow it, trailing lower and lingering on the wedge of coarse hair upon his chest. He saw her swallow, and the gravity that tugged him toward her became too powerful to fight.

He took her by both wrists and drew them away from her breasts.

Her eyes flew up. “I... should...” she whispered, but the rest went unsaid.

He lowered his head to kiss her, finding open lips, cool yet from the water. He touched them with his tongue and she responded timidly—a soft kiss of introduction and expectancy. He straightened and they studied each other’s eyes, searching for and finding mutuality.

She twisted her wrists slowly until his grip relaxed, then with calculated deliberation curled her hands over his shoulders, looking at them there as if the sight awed her.

He stood stock-still, letting her adjust. “Are you afraid of me?” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.” To prove it, she raised up on tiptoes for a second, longer kiss. Her elbows rested on his chest. When the kiss ended she stood just so—eyes closed, forearms against him, breathing as if a fire had suddenly consumed all the oxygen around her.

She opened her eyes and met his. Her voice was uneven as she whispered, “What I told you the last night in Kansas was true.”

“I know. It’s true now for me, too.”

She held his cheeks. “Then say it.”

“I love you, Gussie.”

Her eyes closed once more and her nostrils flared. “Please, oh, please, tell me once more so I’ll know I’m not dreaming.”

His hands closed tightly on her shoulders. “I love you, Gussie.”

She opened her eyes and ran her fingertips over his lower lip, as if absorbing the wonder of his words. “Oh, Scott, I’ve waited so long to hear that. All my lonely life. But you must not say it unless you’re certain.”