The Long Road Home Part 28

"What's the matter?"

She exhaled and brought her palm to his flannel shirt. "You'll probably think I'm old-fashioned. I know I'm awkward, but I've only made love to one man before in my life. And that man was my husband. I'm afraid I'm not very good at this. I don't know what to do next."

He held out his arm and a chuckle rumbled in his chest. "My darling, I a.s.sure you. You know by instinct exactly what to do." She slipped into the warmth and he held her tight, thanking G.o.d for this gift.

"Nora," he said, pulling her back and catching her attention, "I don't want you to make love to any other man save me."

"No. Never," she replied.

He swept her to his arms again, hugging her with such force she thought he would suck the air from her. That someone could be so strong, and still so tender, was bewildering. It also filled her with a singular sense of power and responsibility.

Not wanting the moment to end, Nora lingered in his arms for a final kiss, then held on again as he turned to go. "I'll let you go on one condition," she teased.

He raised a brow, his lips twitched.

"You'll come for dinner."

"You know, when the boss makes advances on the employee, that's called s.e.xual hara.s.sment. I could sue."

"Go ahead." She laughed. "Join the crowd and see how much you'd collect."

"You've got a point," he said in mock defeat. "I guess I'll have to exact payment in some other form." He patted her bottom and released her before she could swat him away. "I have to finish my ch.o.r.es, first. Seven o'clock? I'll be there-and I'll be hungry."

He wrapped an arm around her and, b.u.mping hips and matching strides, they headed home.

25.

THE LOVERS PARTED at the barn. Nora raced up the mountain, adrenaline and happiness pumping in her veins, to start dinner. When she stepped foot in her kitchen, she came to a screeching halt.

She stared at the room in horror. It was Dresden after the bombing, Omaha after a tornado, Tokyo after G.o.dzilla. Two G.o.dzillas by the names of Frank and Junior. The boys had left their dishes and paint-splattered rags overflowing from the sink onto the counters. Chunks of stale bread and crumbs were in every possible crevice, and the acrid odors of stale coffee, sour milk, and rotting fruit peels permeated the air.

Nora walked through the house, tripping over drywall and sidestepping wood chips and nails, all the while collecting a film of white dust on her shoes and jeans. It was too much. Her house, her clean, orderly house. It had only been three days! She gripped the stair railing and let out a primeval scream.

She felt silly but better.

"Okay, Nora MacKenzie," she said rolling up her sleeves. "Let's see what you're made of."

Dust flew, water splashed, and garbage was slam-dunked outdoors into bins. She worked so hard her mouth went dry, but she didn't stop for water. With each pa.s.s through the kitchen she glanced furtively at the clock: 5:00, 5:20, 5:45, 6:00. At 6:10 she could delay no longer. She emptied her bucket, washed her hands and put on a clean ap.r.o.n. It was time to think about her dinner.

The refrigerator held little more than milk, b.u.t.ter, cheese and eggs: traditional dairyland fare. What to make, what to make? She settled on a cla.s.sic: a souffle. Out came the ingredients and she whisked the egg whites in tempo with her thoughts.

By 6:50, the cheese souffle was in the oven, the table was set and she had just time enough to shower and throw on anything that was still clean. She frowned as she raced up the stairs. How many times had she imagined what she would wear for a dinner date with Mr. Charles Walker? Here it was and she'd be lucky if she wasn't wearing stripes and polkadots. "Life is difficult," she said as she stepped under the steaming shower.

"Anybody home?" C.W.'s voice boomed up the stairwell.

"I'll be right down," Nora called back, sputtering and grabbing a towel. "Mi casa es su casa." She cringed. How corny.

Down in the kitchen, C.W. smiled at her answer. He surveyed the room and maintained his grin of pleasure. The lady had style. She had pulled a leaf from the dining table, giving it a smaller, more intimate appearance. Covered with crisp, white cotton, white china, and an unusual arrangement of striated rocks and greens, it was elegant.

He knew if there was crystal and silver in the house, she would have used it. Thus he appreciated all the more her clever arrangement of fanned napkins in the simple gla.s.s cups and the obvious shine of the stainless.

Nora descended the stairs. She wore that gray wool dress as if she'd been poured into it. Although he had felt her curves with his hand, he never appreciated her body's symmetry more. Her hair, still wet, was clamped back with a black beribboned clasp, and C.W. promised himself that he'd free it before the night was through.

G.o.d, you're beautiful, he thought. He said, "You look lovely tonight."

She demurred. "So do you. And all this time you were a wolf in sheep's clothing."

He looked at his polished boots and cursed himself for his folly. He, too, had raced to shower after finishing his ch.o.r.es, but his sole recourse had been the Johnston house. He had to endure the suspicious glances of the whole Johnston family when he begged use of the shower.

Not to mention the raised brows and dropped jaws when he emerged from the bathroom in his creased corduroy trousers, cable knit sweater, and, worthy of the stares, an ironed shirt. He cast threatening glances at Frank and Junior as they practically injured each other with their guffaws and rib jabbing once they detected a whiff of his bay rum.

The sparkle of serious teasing was in Seth's eyes tonight, and he would be forever grateful to the old man for rubbing a palm across his smile and holding his tongue. C.W. offered a quick but polite good-bye to Seth, winked at Esther, and grabbing his dirty clothes, ducked out of there as fast as a fox from the hen coop. The glow of appreciation in Nora's eyes, however, made the fuss all worth it.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs and glided toward him, he fought the urge to grab her in an embrace. So he was all the more upstaged when she rested her hands on his shoulders and tiptoed to place a soft kiss on his lips.

Eyes twinkling, he handed her a brown paper bag.

"Here, these are for you. I didn't pa.s.s any florists on the way, and we're long past wildflowers. I thought you might use these someday."

She opened the crumpled bag. It was stuffed full of milkweed pods, their feathery contents overflowing into the bag.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling out a few pods and running her finger in the silky seeds. "They're perfect."

He wrapped her in his arms, his thick sweater covering her like a blanket, and kissed her once, gently, on the forehead.

"You're welcome."

"Now it's my turn. Wait here," she called as she ran down-stairs. In a flash she was back, carrying two bottles of wine: one white and one red. "This one," she said, handing the bottle of red to C.W., "is your housewarming gift. It's rather late, but it should help warm the cabin."

He accepted it and studied the label. He knew the vineyard; he knew the owner.

"It's an excellent year. I'm surprised you found a bottle."

Nora was taken aback by his lackl.u.s.ter thanks. "And this bottle," she continued holding up the white, "is for dinner." Her hand froze midair. "Dinner!" She handed him the bottle. "Open it, please," she called over her shoulder as she grabbed a mitt and ran to the oven.

C.W. held the bottle in indecision. He hadn't had a drink in a year-swore he'd never have another. With a determined yank, he uncorked the wine.

"Just in time," Nora sang as she carried into the room a puffy, golden-crowned souffle. "Won't you please sit down? Once I light the candles we should eat. Souffles collapse within min-oh," she said with a crestfallen look. "Even as we speak."

The puffy souffle toppled and collapsed into a wrinkled, flat-topped ca.s.serole. So did Nora's smile.

"Not to worry," he said rea.s.suringly. "I saw it in its glory. It was perfection."

"It should still taste good. Please." She extended her palm. "Won't you sit down?"

As she served the souffle and salad, she tilted her head toward the wine. "C.W., would you please do the honors?" He hesitated, then filled Nora's gla.s.s without pouring any for himself.

Once finished serving, Nora reached for her gla.s.s, noticing as she did that his gla.s.s was empty. "None for you?"

C.W. drummed his fingers on the table. "I don't drink."

Nora's gla.s.s stopped at her lips. She paused, then set the gla.s.s back upon the table.

"Don't do that," he said gently.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't be nervous. Enjoy your wine. It's all right."

She picked up her gla.s.s, took a small sip, then set it back down. She couldn't taste its sweetness.

"I don't miss it," he continued. "To tell you the truth, my life here is so challenging that I can't afford to be sluggish the next day. I could lose a finger or a foot in one of any number of ways here. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. She fingered the long stem of her winegla.s.s and watched shadows of emotion cross his face.

"My father drank," he said in way of explanation, "and as a result he made some mistakes. He died a broken man." His voice was low, and he used that tone people use when they're talking more to themselves than to anyone else.

"Tell me about him, about your childhood," she urged. Placing his hand over hers, he pulled her closer across the table. The candles glowed. Above them, his eyes shone with such intensity she could see his pupils flicker like the flame.

"My father was a decent man. A brilliant man. He worked at a bank, but home for him was on a horse. We used to go riding together early in the morning-he, my mother, myself, and my sister Nelly-before he went off to the city." He chuckled. "We'd laugh, swap stories-those were the best times of my childhood."

C.W. leaned back with a heavy sigh. "Then my mother died. I was about ten, and everything changed. Father was lonely and remarried. The cla.s.sic evil stepmother. She hated animals, she hated Nelly and me-you know, I'm quite certain she even hated my father."

Nora reached out and patted his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Nelly and I had each other and we did all right. But my father... You know, all he really wanted to be was a farmer."

"Like you."

He raised his eyes. "Like me. Now it's your turn. I imagine you were a sweet little thing with long, yellow braids, a kitten, and skinned knees."

She laughed and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know about how sweet I was." Her smile faltered and she absently traced a line along the damask cloth. "Actually, my father died when I was young too, so I know what it's like to lose a parent.

"He was a baker, a wonderful baker." She smiled. "That's all he ever wanted to be. When he died, the bakery died with him." She sighed. "Mother never reconciled to the fact that she was broke. Times were hard back then, harder for her, probably, than they were for me. Mother dreamed of the day she'd be 'back on top,' as she put it. I guess she saw me as her best chance."

C.W. pursed his lips, understanding. As the eldest and only son of a financial empire, his family had pinned their hopes on him. It was a burden.

"Were you ever married?" she asked, changing from an unpleasant subject.

He smiled and shook his head. "Nope. Never did. Never wanted to. Yet."

"Oh."

He saw her frown.

"There is so much about you I don't know," she said. The muscles in his jaw worked as he wiped his hands with deliberation. Then, with an air of resignation, he tossed his napkin upon the table.

"What do you want me to tell you?"

"Everything. The truth. Why you won't go to town, why you disappear for days, why you keep your past a secret?"

His hands moved to the cup before him and he studied the clear liquid. Nora waited, trying to be patient. Underneath the table her foot tapped.

Slowly, he lifted his gla.s.s and drank water from his cup. The ice clinked in the gla.s.s. "Do you remember when you chose this house site?"

She released an exasperated sigh. "Of course. What has that got to do with anything?"

"You had to build it near a water source," he continued in an even voice. "Throughout history, civilization has developed around a water source. Yet sometimes the well gets muddy. When it does, one has a choice. Either to take the time to clean it, maybe even rebuild its foundation, or to drink from tainted water-and eventually die of the poison. The wise man cleans his well."

He put the cup to his lips and took a long sip. "Ahh," he said with relish. "Fresh, pure, Vermont water."

"You're saying you took time to clean your well-up here-on my farm?"

"Something like that. Nora, I have my reasons for asking you to wait for an explanation, and one will come. I promise you."

"Why can't you tell me now? What difference will a week or a month mean? You want me to believe in you, in your plans for the farm. And yet, you can't confide in me about your past? What do you fear I can't accept?"

A long, strained silence reigned.

Leaning far back against the ladder-back chair, she said evenly, "You expect a lot from me, C.W."

"You're right. I do."

His tone changed and his gaze sharpened. "Do you want to know what I can offer you? Is that it? Nora, I thought you knew that by now."

She felt slapped but kept a resolute silence.

"Ah, this part of Nora MacKenzie I know very well," he said. "So stubborn. So persistent." He sighed. "Very well." Tilting his chair back on its hind legs, he stuck the tips of his fingers in his pockets. He looked to Nora like a gambler about to make a bet.

"What can I offer you? I offer you whatever I have. Right now in dollars that's..." He dug inside his pockets, pulling out a handful of dollars and some coins. Then, taking her palm, he carefully counted the sum into it. "I can offer seven dollars and forty-two whole cents, plus whatever I might have in the bank."

Sitting prim in the wood chair she faced him squarely. "No. This isn't about dollars and cents. I've learned that money isn't the root of security." She held out her palm full of money to him.

His eyes gleamed in satisfaction as he closed her fingers around the coins. "What we have cannot be measured in dollars and cents," he murmured, looking deep into her eyes.

"You ask me to have faith in you. All right, I will. But is it wrong for me to ask the same of you?"

He didn't speak, but his expression told her he had listened. His sigh rumbled in his chest, then bubbled up to burst as a short laugh.

"Touche," he said, smiling and shaking his head. "Give me a week. Two at the most. Then I'll tell you everything you want to know."

"Agreed," she whispered.