Vows (36 page)

 
"So did I. Did your father say anything after I left?"

 
"No. But he watched me like an eagle all day long. I'm sure he's trying to figure out exactly what's going on between us."

 
"What is?"

 
She backed up a step, resting her mittens on his shearling collar, looking up into his shadowed face. "I don't know," she admitted. "Do you?"

 
"No … not for sure."

 
In silence they studied each other, evaluating, doubting and considering by turns, because it was so sudden, so unexpected.

 
"There are so many things I want to know about you," Tom said. "I feel as if I only met you, since we stopped fighting, I mean. Hell, I'm not making any sense."

 
"Yes you are. I know what you mean. At the beginning we only antagonized each other."

 
"Didn't we, though?"

 
They enjoyed a moment of silence, touching lightly through thick, warm clothes, then Tom asked quietly, "How long have you known Charles?"

 
"All my life. Since my first memories."

 
"Do you love him?"

 
"Yes."

 
"You say that without a qualm."

 
"Because it's true. I've always loved him—who wouldn't love Charles? Even you love him, don't you?"

 
"Yes, I'm afraid I do. I've never had a friend like him." Plagued, he rested his hands on her shoulders and studied a point beyond. After moments he shook his head. "Can you beat him? Building that beautiful piece of furniture for my house? He'd done more than anybody else in this town to make me feel welcome."

 
"Certainly more than I ever did."

 
"That's what's so unbelievable about this whole thing. You, Emily Walcott, the tomboy—I mean, hell, you hadn't even gotten over resenting me before this … this thing hit me like an avalanche. I still wanted to throttle you, even when I started thinking about kissing you. It doesn't make any sense. I wasn't even over Julia yet!" He touched her cheek with a gloved finger. "Remember that day on the turntable when we almost kissed?"

 
"Did we almost kiss that day?"

 
"You know damned well we did. We were pumping like bellows at a full roar. It was only the thought of Charles that stopped us."

 
"Charles and Tarsy. We can't disregard Tarsy."

 
"No, unfortunately Tarsy won't let herself be disregarded."

 
Emily laughed briefly, then sobered. "She does love you, you know. And unless I miss my guess there's probably…" She dropped her gaze, discomfited. "…well, more between you and Tarsy than there is between Charles and me."

 
"Emily, I'm not going to lie to you. Tarsy and I have been close, in some ways. When I came here I was lonely. I spent a lot of time alone, and between Charles and Tarsy, I've had two good friendships to sustain me. But Tarsy is … temporary. She always was, and she understood that. It's Charles who's the permanent fixture between us, and I hate like hell to be sneaking around behind his back."

 
"I hate it, too."

 
"So…"

 
"So?"

 
"We could end it right here and Charles would never be the wiser."

 
"It would be the honorable thing to do."

 
But they hadn't the forbearance to stop touching, even as they discussed it.

 
"Is that what you want to do?"

 
"I…" She swallowed, miserable.

 
"It isn't, is it?"

 
Reluctantly, she wagged her head, averting her gaze.

 
He took her arms and pulled her close to his chest. "Emily, come to the house."

 
"I'm afraid."

 
"Nothing will happen, I promise. Just talk. Just for an hour, please?"

 
"No."

 
"You might have a little pity on me. My toes really are freezing, after all."

 
It was a convenient excuse and they both knew it. But neither wanted to part, and nothing had been settled. The frustration had only mounted.

 
"All right. But only for a half hour or so. Fannie sleeps with me, so she knows I'm gone. I'll tell her I went for a walk in the new snow but a half hour is all I can stay."

 
They walked back without touching, she along the trail they'd both made, he at her side stamping a new one through Stroth's backyard, along the deserted streets, and into the door through which Charles Bliss had brought his heartwarming housewarming gift little more than twenty-four hours ago.

 
The kitchen was as black as the inside of a whiskey keg. Stepping in, Emily paused and heard Tom close the door behind them. "There's no fire in the parlor stove, only in here. This way." He nudged her and she followed, touching his sleeve for guidance across the unfamiliar space, around the table to the overstaffed chair pulled up before the kitchen stove, which radiated welcome heat.

 
"Sit down," he directed. "I'll put some more wood in."

 
He lifted the stove lid, found the poker, and stirred the embers, lighting the ceiling to a glowing red. He added a log and sparks lifted with subtle pops, then a new flame glowed, and he replaced the stove lid, leaving them in darkness. "You can see through the kitchen curtains and I haven't got shades yet," he explained, adjusting the bottom vent. "Best not light a lamp." He tugged off his gloves, shrugged from his jacket, and tossed it into the darkness, where it hit a bench and slid to the floor. He dropped onto a nail keg and began removing his boots. Two clunks sounded as he set them near the stove, then only silence and a faint hiss threading from the finger-sized airholes at the base of the firebox.

 
They sat side by side, Tom doubled forward, resting elbows on knees, Emily perched on the edge of her chair. For minutes all was silent. The fire took hold and Tom set a stove lid aside, giving them a glimmering light by which to see each other's faces.

 
At last he said, "I've been trying to talk myself out of this."

 
"I know. Me, too."

 
"I tell myself I really don't even know you, but the hard part is how can I get to if I can't come calling out in the open?"

 
"What do you want to know?"

 
"Everything. What were you like as a child? Did you have the whooping cough? Do you like beets? Does wool make your skin itch?" Like a typical smitten man, he felt impatient to catch up with the part of her life that had gone before. "I don't know—everything."

 
She smiled and accommodated him. "I was inquisitive and willful, I had whooping cough, I can tolerate beets, and the only thing that ever made my skin itch was poison ivy. Mother had to put mittens on my hands in the middle of summer to keep me from scratching it. I was … nine years old, I think. There—now you know everything."

 
They laughed and felt better.

 
"Is there anything you want to know about me?" he inquired, admiring the pale glow of her face.

 
"Yes. What was my hairpin doing beside your bed last night?"

 
Their gazes caught and locked. Silence for several powerful heartbeats before he said, "I think you can figure it out."

 
"You really ought not leave things like that lying around where your best friend might see them."

 
"Did he say anything?"

 
"No. I don't think he noticed. He was too busy pointing out the merits of the house. By the way, I do like your house very much."

 
"Thank you."

 
They had exchanged so many double-edged remarks it took some acclimating to get used to the sincere ones. The mood grew heavy and she searched for another question to alleviate the pressure growing in her chest.

 
"Is your real name Tom or Thomas?"

 
"Thomas. But the only one who ever called me that was my maternal grandmother."

 
"Thomas. It has … stature. Is she still alive, your grandmother?

 
"Very much so. All four of my grandparents are alive."

 
"You miss them?"

 
"Yes."

 
"And your … the woman you were supposed to marry, you miss her, too?"

 
"Julia? Sometimes. I knew her a long time, just like you've known Charles. Naturally you miss someone like that."

 
"Naturally." She pondered how she would miss Charles if he suddenly were gone, and found to her distress she would miss him considerably.

 
"I got a letter from Julia though, and she's very happy. She's married and expecting a child."

 
"Charles wants children. Right away."

 
"Yes, he's told me."

 
"I don't."

 
"He told me that, too."

 
"He did?" she asked, surprised.

 
Casting her a sidelong glance, Tom remained silent.

 
"So you know more about me than you first let on."

 
He expanded his lungs and shrugged, forcibly relaxing his shoulders. "Would you mind, Emily, if we didn't talk about Charles anymore? Are your toes cold? Do you want to take your boots off?"

 
"No, I'm fine."

 
"Your mittens?"

 
"No, I'm … they're…" She lifted and dropped her hands, clasping them in her lap as if snug wraps could arm her against incipient feelings.

 
When Tom continued studying her without comment, she grew uneasy and looked away, staring at the golden circle of light on the stovetop. He sat hunched forward, chin hooked between thumbs and forefingers, watching her silently. After some time he rose from the keg and walked off into the shadows behind her.

 
He stood at the window, staring out, at odds with his conscience. What did one friend owe another? What did a man owe himself? He turned his head to study the dark bulk of the breakfront at his left. He had touched the smooth top dozens of times in the few hours it had been here, touched it and agonized. He did not touch it now, but kept his hands in his pockets.

 
He turned to study the dim outline of Emily, her bobcap taking on a halo like a rising orange moon, hair winging out below it on either side, creating a bouquet of lightpricks, her shoulders bowed forward as she perched on the chair like a sparrow ready for flight.

 
Charles
, he thought, his heart hammering wildly,
forgive me
.

 
He moved around her chair and stood directly before her, gazing down at the top of her head, at her mittened hands pinched between her knees. She refused to look up. Dropping to one knee, he gently drew her hands free and removed her mittens laying them aside; next her boots, first one, then the other, twisting on his haunches to set them beside his own beneath the reservoir. Pivoting on one knee, he reached for her coat buttons, freed them one by one, then pushed the garment from her shoulders. Last, he dragged the hat from her head, leaving her hair standing out in staticky rays. Only then did she lift her beleaguered eyes to his.

 
"Stop me if I'm wrong," he whispered and, fitting her to his breast, kissed her. There was no bland hello this time, but instant demand, open mouths and seeking tongues. And hands maintaining a shaky propriety, holding fast to the safest places—shoulders, backs. In time he petted her hair, flattening it with the whole of one hand, shaping that hand to her warm skull. He kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth again, until breath became precious and desire weighted their limbs. He bracketed her breasts, kneaded them with the heels of his hands, then did the same with her hips, cradling them with firm pressure.

 
"Oh," she might have said, but he imprisoned the word within her throat, and made of it an impassioned murmur. She touched his head all over—temples, skull, neck, jaws, and throat, learning each new texture as if imparting it to memory.

 
His arms slipped beneath her knees, around her back … lifting … carrying her across the dimly lit kitchen—a scrape on the floor as he jarred a bench, stepped around it, turned her feet aside to negotiate the doorways of the pantry and his bedroom.

 
The bedsprings chimed as he lowered her and followed, dropping his full length upon her. Braced on his elbows, he toyed with her hair and breathed on her mouth, letting her adapt to his motionless weight and the advent of imprudence. Dropping his head, he invited her one step further, delivering moist kisses across her lips and chin, along her nose, until she followed like a birdling for its food, drawing him down to halt his sojourn. Their kisses grew rugged and wet. Reactions exploded and temperance fled. They pressed close, lifting knees, rolling, twining in damp skirts and petticoats. He stroked her breast … both breasts … explored their shape with his fingertips and the heels of his hands, and with his mouth through taut cotton. He buried his face between them and breathed against her, heating her skin and her blood while she cradled his head and gave herself over to sensuality. He slid back up, found her open mouth again, and moved his hips in cadence, a mere rhythmic tipping at first, to the counterpoint of his tongue stroking hers. Prone upon her, he dragged his hands down her ribs and hips, slipped them against the quilt and held her fast from behind, curling his fingers into the folds of her skirt and her flesh. His body flashed against hers with unmitigated desire in each upbeat. She closed her eyes and took the ride with him to the brink of hell.