The Sugar Queen (18 page)

"So
that's
what this is all about," he said, and he could have laughed at how relieved he was. "Josey, I didn't just need a date for a function. I wanted a date with you.
You.
Just ask."

She hesitated. "I think I've lost my train of thought."

"Okay, so I'll tell you." He told her about growing up in California and about his competitive skiing days when he was a teenager. He told her about how he ended up here after hearing about Bald Slope's steep runs. How he hadn't talked to the friends he'd gone skiing with since the accident. How he got the job at the post office. He told her about his brother

Brett, that they had different fathers. He told her about his relationship with his brother, that he called every week telling him to come back to Chicago.

"But you don't have any plans to leave," Josey said.

"You've brought that up before. Why? Do you want to leave?" he asked, just joking. He was completely blindsided by her answer.

"I want to leave so badly I can't stand it sometimes," she said vehemently. "Too many people, particularly the people in my mother's social circle, see me the way I was as a child. There are too many stories floating around. Ones I'm sure you've heard."

Adam stopped under the light of an old-fashioned streetlamp and threw away their coffee cups. "What would you do if you left?" he said, staring down at her, something almost like panic in his chest.

"I'd go everywhere, see everything I could."

"What about your mother?"

"Sometimes it seems like I'm just waiting for her to say she's finally forgiven me for all the things I did, waiting for her to say,
You can go now. Go live your life."

"You don't need anyone's permission, Josey. You could do it. I can see you doing it. You have the rest of your life in front of you, wide open. I can't even explain how that makes me feel. It makes my chest hurt. I want to take some of what you have and eat it. I want to feel that way again."

"Do you?" she asked. "Do you really?"

The moon spun a spiderweb of light around her hair. He took a step toward her. "Yes, I do." He bent slowly, stopping several times along the way to gauge her reaction.

"Adam?" she whispered when he was close enough to feel her breath.

He pulled back slightly.

"Don't do this unless you mean it. Don't do it because I want it, or because you feel sorry for me, or anything like that."

"Oh, I mean it, Josey."

"Right. Okay then," she said seriously. Then she seemed to steel herself, becoming very still.

That amused him. He had to turn his face away to compose himself. "Don't make me smile," he said. "I can't kiss you if I'm smiling."

"Sorry."

He turned his face back and slowly, slowly touched his lips to hers. He wasn't prepared for what he felt. His panic and tension suddenly dissipated and he was filled with
her—
open, expressive, hopeful Josey. His hands went to her arms, as if afraid she might disappear, at the same time he angled his head and pressed harder. Did she understand the question? She had the answer. Yes.

His kiss went deeper. He raised her hands and put them around his neck, then he wound his own arms around her, inside her coat, and pulled her to him. To this place. The right place. Right here.

His hands teased the hem of her sweater. She sucked in her breath when his cold hands touched the bare skin of her back under the stretchy-tight turtleneck.

He broke the kiss, his lips still close to hers. "Too cold?" he asked. "No."

He watched her closely as his hands moved to the front, still under her sweater at her waist. Her stomach muscles trembled with the advance of his chilled fingers.

He suddenly kissed her again, hard and fast and deep, taking one hand off her stomach to hold the back of her head, to hold her to him. She made a sound somewhere deep in her throat, a moan, an acquiescence, trembling with need and uncertainty.

Fast,
he found himself thinking.
Faster. Faster.

Suddenly, he stopped and stepped back. It was all coming back to him, how to do this, the sheer exhilaration of
everything.
But he'd always gone too fast. That was his trademark. His downfall. He took an impossibly deep breath, then whooshed it out.

"I . . . I should take you home." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't want your maid to put a curse on me."

"Promise me you're going to mean this again," she said softly.

He laughed. "I'm going to mean this every chance I get from now on." He put an arm around her waist, his fingers tight, like he was hanging from a cliff by them, as if he might fall. She made him feel like he could do this. It was all at once gratifying and terrifying.

Together they started walking again.

"Tell me again,"
Della Lee said into the darkness late that evening, just as Josey was falling asleep.

"He kissed me," Josey said into her pillow.

"No. Say it like you said it before."

Josey smiled. "It was the best first kiss in the history of first kisses. It was as sweet as sugar. And it was warm, as warm as pie. The whole world opened up and I fell inside. I didn't know where I was, but I didn't care. I didn't care because the only person who mattered was there with me."

There was a long silence. Josey had almost dozed off again when Della Lee said, "I think heaven will be like a first kiss."

"I hope so," Josey murmured.

"Me too."

The December meeting
of the ladies' club was the following Thursday afternoon, and Margaret half expected Josey not to take her. She'd even worked up a fair amount of indignation, ready to be left at home, forgotten. Or worse, ready to have Rawley come pick her up to be his and Annabelle's chaperone. Josey was too busy talking on the phone with the mailman and that Finley girl to care about anything else. And she was unusually tired in the mornings, as if she'd been staying up late. Margaret was suddenly suspicious. What was she doing at night?

But exactly on time, Josey walked into the sitting room and asked if Margaret was ready to go.

Josey was a different person than she was even a month ago. She reminded Margaret so much now of Marco's cousins from Italy. They'd shown up in Bald Slope without warning once, early in Marco and Margaret's marriage. They were magical women, with their long curly hair, large breasts and movements like dancers. Their bracelets sounded like wind chimes when they walked. Margaret had been fascinated by them. Marco had ushered them out within hours of their arrival and taken them to Asheville for their stay. He was ashamed of them, of their earthiness and sensuality, of their provincial ways. No one from Italy ever visited again.

"Well, I'm surprised to see you here," Margaret said.

"Why?" Josey asked, putting on her gloves.

"I thought you might have more important things to do."

"No, Mother."

Margaret eyed her critically. That was her only weapon. "Where did you get that scarf?"

Josey touched it briefly. "I bought it from Nova Berry."

"I told you, you look horrible in red."

"I think it looks good on me."

"Did your mailman tell you that?"

"As a matter of fact, he did."

She suddenly realized it was
jealousy
she was feeling. She was jealous that there was a man in her daughter's life who made her happy, who complimented her, who told her she looked good in red. Horrified, Margaret walked past Josey without another word and headed for the car.

WWhen Josey parked in front of Mrs. Herzog's home, where the meeting was held every month, Rawley was already there, helping Annabelle Drake out of his cab. There was a cab in front of him, and another driver was helping another lady out. Between the old society ladies in town and the skiers, Pelham Cabs did a brisk business, operating three cabs and two vans. When Annabelle saw Margaret, she waited for her on the sidewalk and they walked up to the front door together. Josey followed.

"I knew it had gotten too much for him, all those rumors about us," Annabelle said. "Rawley said to me in the cab today, out of the blue, 'It was nice having Margaret ride with us, wasn't it?' I think it would make him feel better if someone rode with me all the time, so everyone would stop talking about us having an affair. Why don't we ride together more often, Margaret?"

Margaret looked over her shoulder. Rawley was watching them walk away.

The meeting was late to begin because everyone was talking about the latest news: a body had been discovered in the Green Cove River that morning. Margaret had heard all about it from Helena at breakfast. Helena was now in a frenzy, hanging pouches filled with God knows what in doorways and jumping at every sound. The Beasley murder case was still fresh in everyone's mind, and the ladies at the meeting were saying,
Was it murder? Again? Are we not safe in
our own homes? Things like this aren't supposed to happen in Bald
Slope.
But Margaret tuned out the gossip. Skittishness was better left to those who were unsure of their own lives and decisions. She was not going to be one of those people. She went to the window and looked out. Rawley was standing there at his cab. She couldn't believe he would say something like that to Annabelle. He had to have known it would get back to Margaret. Since the meeting didn't look like it would be starting any time soon, she turned and walked to the door. Josey got up and followed her.

"Is something wrong, Mother?" Josey asked.

Margaret opened the door. "I forgot something in the car."

"I'll get it."

"No, I will. Go sit down."

"But your
coat ..."

"This will just take a minute," Margaret snapped as she stepped outside.

No matter the weather, Rawley always leaned against his cab and watched the house, watched it as if expecting this very thing to happen, for Margaret to walk out to him. He straightened as she approached.

"Annabelle told me what you said. You will have to find someone else to ride with you so no one thinks you're having an affair," she said bitterly when she reached him. "It won't be me. I never flaunted anything in front of you. In fact, I went out of my way to
avoid
doing that to you. Why, after all these years, are you doing it to me? I will have nothing to do with this. Nothing at all, do you hear me?"

Rawley's brows lowered, but he didn't speak.

Of course he didn't.

"Marco would have ruined you," she said, even though she knew the explanation was too late. "As long as he didn't know who you were, the identity of the man I was with that night, you were safe. You could move on and have a good life with someone who didn't value money and status over the love of a good man. But when Marco died, and you still hadn't married, I thought things might change between the two of us. It was just a tiny thought. I was wrong, obviously. I understand why you still hate me, why you never speak to me. I have always accepted that what happened was my fault. But that doesn't mean you can put me in the middle of your affair with Annabelle. I may deserve it, but I don't think my heart could take it."

She turned and walked back into the house, clinging to the last of her dignity. She would
not
be jealous of her own daughter. She would
not
be jealous of Annabelle. She made her decisions and she lived with them. That was that.

When the meeting was over, Rawley was still there, waiting for Annabelle, but his eyes zeroed in on Margaret and followed her intently, almost angrily, as she and Josey walked to their car.

When they arrived home, Helena met them at the door, closing it quickly and locking it behind them after they entered. She took Margaret's coat and purse, telling them to be careful of the small orange stones she'd placed on the floor at the thresholds.

Josey hurried to her room. Margaret just sighed and walked to the sitting room to wait for Helena to bring her the glass of water and pain pill she always took after a day out. She stiffly sat in her favorite chair.

There was a knock at the door and Margaret almost groaned. She was in no mood for company. Shortly, Helena walked into the sitting room. She didn't have Margaret's water and pill yet.

"Who was—" Margaret started to say, but stopped when Rawley Pelham walked into the room behind Helena.

"If you'll excuse us," he said to Helena, "Mrs. Cirrini and I need to talk in private."

Helena looked at him suspiciously, her eyes darting to the orange stones on the floor. She must have figured, if he could pass the threshold, he couldn't be that bad.

He shut the sitting-room door behind her and turned to Margaret with an ominous look.

"Now," he said, speaking to her directly for the first time in forty years, "it's time to get a few things straight."

Margaret sat up straighter, her body at attention.
He
was speaking to her.
He was no longer a malleable youth. He was a commanding man now. She had both loved and resented the changes in him over the years, how his confidence had grown, how well he'd done without her.

"First, I'm not having an affair with Annabelle Drake. But even if I was, it is none of your, or anyone else's, business. Second, I had no idea that you protected my identity from your husband. All these years I thought he knew. Third, you know very well that the reason I don't speak to you is because you made me promise never to speak to you again in public."

Margaret jerked as surprise entered her body. It traveled through her nervous system, setting every hair on end. "Excuse me?"

"You don't remember?" he asked incredulously. "We stood there on that porch. I was ready to fight your husband, especially after I saw your lip. But all you wanted was for me to go away. You were so miserable that night. I would have done anything to make you feel better. You made me promise to never speak to you in public, that no one could ever hear me speak to you again."

She shook her head in sharp, jerky movements. "That's not possible. I knew I had taken a lot of pills that evening, but I can't believe I would make you do such a thing," she said. "I was always careful about promises around you."