Geneva was half dozing in the porch swing when John strolled into her line of vision. For a moment she sat a little confused, trying to remember if she had decided whether or not she was going to be angry at him. She was sure she had made up her mind one way or the other, but when she saw him standing there, bathed in the rays of the afternoon sun so that he seemed nearly transparent, she could not make her brain function well enough to remember her decision. She wisely kept silent until he spoke.
“Hi, beautiful. I see you’ve been tangling with mountain lions again,” he said. His tone was a shade too casual.
“Why, whoever told you that outrageous lie? I got the bullet in the head when I was leading a Chinese demonstration for democracy and broke the arm when I fell out of the helicopter. I was helping James Bond escape from the scene. When did you get your cast off?”
“Yesterday, when you were getting stitched up. I managed to sneak up to see Rachel and the babies, but they wouldn’t let me in to see you. I understand you’ve had an interesting couple of days.”
“Not bad. I try to stay busy.”
“So I heard. You feel like walking?”
She did. She was surprised at how much she felt like walking next to John, especially now that his cumbersome cast was gone. She matched her stride perfectly to his as they strolled into the field.
“How are the Three Stooges doing?” she asked, shyly, half afraid to bring up the subject of cats.
“Fine. Moe had a touch of hypertension when he found out you were missing, but he’s fine now that you’re back. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes, I would,” she smiled. No doubt they had grown since she had last seen them, and she found herself surprised by the fact that she missed them. Besides, the field looked so inviting, she thought it would be nice to stroll over to John’s place with him. Geneva looked up to smile at the sun. It seemed to her like a huge target, and she felt like an arrow destined to fly into the very heart of that sun, so glad she was to be alive and reasonably intact on such a day as this. The wildflowers turned their merry little faces toward her as they passed, and it seemed perfectly right that John would take her hand while they strolled through the avenue of color.
The kittens were rambunctious—more wild than ever. They allowed Geneva to scratch their heads but would not let her pick them up. After only a moment of violent play, they disappeared around the side of the house.
“Let’s go inside and get something to drink,” suggested John. “Maybe you’d like to see my Congressional Medal of Honor.”
Geneva smiled. She liked the game they were playing, now that she knew how to play it. Their conversation seemed to be effortlessly crafted, but perfectly matched, like a string of apt metaphors, like rhymed couplets. “Okay,” she said, mounting the steps to the porch. “I happen to know medals of honor pretty well. I have dozens of them myself.”
She paused to glance down at the nail upon which she had torn her shirt not three weeks earlier. Since then her life had become amazingly eventful, but Geneva did not mind. It was nice to stay busy. John stood beside her, leaning on the rail, looking out over the next field. There was a long, comfortable silence, then John stirred and dropped his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low but solid, nearly palpable in that transparent air.
“I’m sorry I misled you with all those stories I told you,” he said. “I don’t suppose it would help if I said that I didn’t mean for you to really believe them.” He smiled a little sheepishly. “I tend to do stupid things like that. You know, make up tales just for fun.” His smile broadened. “I should have been a professional storyteller. Maybe I’d get it all out of my system.”
“I understand,” she replied simply, tossing her red-gold mane and letting her lips curve into an arch little smirk. Pay-back time, she thought, and said aloud, “Some people are just born liars. You have to make accommodations for them.” She couldn’t help but add with a twist of lemon in her voice, “I happen to be someone who loves the truth.”
John’s shoulders sagged. He turned his gaze back to the ground. Geneva could feel his wretchedness oozing from him in little waves. His brow furrowed, he moved restlessly, then he spoke again, more slowly, his voice no longer strong. “I suppose we ought to really come clean, and this is the perfect spot to do it, considering as how that little nail down there was what started a whole series of lies.” He pointed to the fateful nail.
Geneva’s stomach dropped to her knees, but immediately afterward she suddenly felt wronged by the turn of events. Anger welled up. Rachel had betrayed her! But when? Geneva sifted through the sequence of events since the night of the copperhead, searching for a moment when her sister might have told John about her encounter with that nail.
John laughed ruefully, “Isn’t it awful how one little incident can snowball into a whole series of lies? I mean, you think you can get by with one little indiscretion. Nothing, really, just one little thing you’d rather everyone didn’t know about, and the next thing you know, you’ve told some whoppers all over the place. Then you can’t get out of them. What a mess.”
Geneva’s skin prickled with the alarming realization that he was being vindictive! How dare he choose this particular time, just when she was pretending to get on her soapbox for truth and honesty to let her know that he knew! Her eyes froze on the nail and she chewed her lip. What would he say to her next? Would he laugh at her, chastise her, call her a hypocrite? The thought made her angry, and the more she thought, the more the anger filled her, tart and hot in her mouth. Her heart pounded with it; the overflow blazed from her eyes. What a malicious soul to trap her like this, to confront her with the evidence in such an oblique way!
But she would not allow him to lord it over her! Sneaking, conniving coward. This beat all! She drew herself up tall, facing him, declaring silently that she would not meekly apologize to him for peeking in his window! She had done no harm, and besides, he should have been home when she came to see him that day! Really! She gave him her haughtiest expression.
“Whoa,” he said, taken aback by her fiery eyes. “There’s no need to get your back up. I really don’t think it was that bad.”
“You don’t?” she asked, softening.
“Well, no. It’s just that I didn’t want to tell anybody I did anything so foolish as fall off my own front porch. Everybody else loved my stories.”
Geneva felt distinctly confused. Something told her she was not quite grasping his meaning. She waited.
He pointed to the nail. “You see that nail?” he asked.
She cleared her throat, cautious. “Yes.”
“I had to replace that piece of siding; carpenter bees had started in on it, and it was muddy down there, so I tried to do it from up here.” He laughed. “You should have seen me hanging off this porch rail, upside down, trying to hammer that thing on. I got the first nail in all right, but I just got that one set, then I slipped and fell off the porch. That’s how I really broke my leg.” He chuckled. “Now don’t you wish you had let me stick to the damsel in distress story? So much more entertaining.”
Relief rushed in to fill the vacuum that the retreating anger had left, and a little breathless, Geneva turned her dazed face away from John toward the green field and the silvery sunlight laughing through the grass. No damsel had ever been more timely rescued than she was at that moment! After a long pause in which she composed herself, she smiled at John, eyes full of forgiveness. “John,” she said, using her silkiest voice. “Would you like to go riding with me tomorrow?”
He could not go tomorrow, but he could go the following week, and so they did, and nearly every day thereafter. Long, exhilarating rides in the evening dusk took them over mountains and through fields, splashing through streams and jumping over crevasses, and Geneva felt full of power and life. Her good arm grew strong, the hand callused from caressing the reins, and the injured arm mended along with her soul as she laughed and galloped and played in the dying sunlight and long shadows. It was a friendly time; John did not kiss her or even act as if he thought about it, but Geneva found a comfortable goodness growing between them. It surprised her how much she enjoyed just being with him. The subject of lies never came up again.
Life at the farm also became serene and idyllic once again. The babies were already growing fat, and Rachel moved about the house with dignified grace, reveling in her ability to bring forth life and nurture it so effortlessly. Geneva was awed, even intimidated by her huge breasts, so abundant with milk that they often, and without warning, erupted like fountains, soaking the front of her blouse.
Geneva renewed her friendship with her relatives and old friends who came to admire the newborns and found herself sliding, at first inch by inch, and then in a mind-numbing rush, toward the feeling of complete security and harmony among her home folk. She was so content that she did not even mind when Evangeline turned up after a long absence with nine kittens trotting after her. She just laughed and gave them away to whichever cousin happened to be visiting.
The weeks evaporated, and August rained gold sunshine upon them, making them all feel like children again, happy in the knowledge that joy is the purpose of life. The city twin went into deep hibernation while the country twin grew strong and sassy and became increasingly interested in John, although his interest in her still did not seem to grow. He was friendly and funny, and he always seemed to be around, but he never looked into her eyes, nor did he gaze with longing whenever he thought she was not looking, although Geneva gave him plenty of opportunity to do so. It was the only flaw in this idyllic time, for it made her anxious. He was the first man she had ever found attractive who seemed to have no attraction to her. At first she found this merely annoying, but soon she began to be obsessed with the idea of making him want her. She found herself reliving those first kisses they had shared and watching his every move as he reined in Redneck, the fine, red gelding, or rode him hell for leather across the watercolor meadow.
The thought of Howard Graves slept dreamlessly beside the city twin; in fact, Geneva never thought of him anymore. Instead, without realizing it, she resurrected her restructured Master Plan, the idle indulgence that had landed her behind John’s holly bushes. After allowing it to ferment, mulling and churning it in her mind, she began to find the idea of marrying John and taking the job that Dianne had offered more and more satisfying. At last, she made up her mind that was what she wanted, and so set about seriously working out the practical matters, such as would they have time to get married, have the honeymoon, and get back by February so she could begin the season? And there was the trickier chore of making John fall in love with her and getting him to propose (and in a hurry) without making him feel like it was her idea.
She finally came to the reluctant decision that there would not be time to do the wedding right and still start work in February. She wanted to enjoy a longish engagement to give everyone enough time to be properly jealous, and then at least a month in… Paris? Not in winter… Barbados? Skiing in Vancouver? Maybe they could hire a yacht and sail around the Greek Islands…
Then there was the matter of John’s house. The bathroom was too small, so they would have to add on, and she really wanted to redecorate. She would keep her apartment in DC as an investment…
She planned. She worried through each consideration carefully. She prioritized her goals the way she had been taught in the self-actualization course she had taken the year before, and at last, late one night, tossing in her cool bed, she determined that the first task she must complete would be to become engaged. Of course, the event would have to be planned carefully so that it would be beautiful and exciting enough to satisfy her need for romance. One doesn’t become engaged very often, and the memory should be enough to raise the goose flesh for the rest of her life.
Howard’s proposal, she remembered, had been so disappointing she was barely able to reconstruct it in her mind. There was something to do with a silly argument over who loved whom the most, then some tears on her part. The actual moment of “Will you?” (or was it, “Oh, all right!”) and “Yes,” was rather anti-climactic.
She decided that the best and quickest way to achieve her goals would be to seduce John in a perfectly perfect setting. And it had to be now. If she waited too long, it would be too cold to loll naked in the sunshine, and that’s where the romance was. Waiting for long winter evenings and firelight would be okay, perhaps, but summer somehow seemed sexier to her. He should pick her up and carry her into the dappled shade by a murmuring brook. And the sun would rain down gold, and they would breathe the honeysuckle and hear the wind and the sounds of the wilderness around them.
She gave a happy little sigh thinking about how she would yield to him gently, tenderly. Or would it be passionately? They would thunder on the horses on top of a high mountain, and he would sweep her into his arms, and fire would leap up between them—she remembered the electric fence—and they would cling desperately to each other, yearning, panting… She gave another happy sigh and shivered and began another possible scenario.
Actually, Geneva had very little experience in accomplishing a seduction. Both Jerry and Howard had taken the initiative, though Jerry had certainly had an easier time—actually, effortless time. He had merely handed her a joint and after two tokes she had ripped his clothes off. Poor old Howard had to beg for months and was finally forced to come up with a nice little emerald and diamond engagement ring before she finally yielded. As she remembered each incident, she realized that both men had fallen short in her ideas of what a good seduction should entail. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the aphrodisiacal qualities of marijuana, her affair with Jerry would have been a total disappointment, and Howard had always seemed to be awfully businesslike or in a hurry somehow, perhaps because he always played Vivaldi when they made love. But his satin sheets had been nice, and afterward, they always went out to dinner at the Watergate or watched classic movies. Oh, well, she knew enough to show John how to do it right. She lay very still beneath the white sheet and visualized it. Maybe get him up to Jacob’s Mountain and lie in the long, silken grass and watch the blue sky deepen both above and below them? The image made her head swim, but she rolled over into the arms of sleep, knowing he didn’t stand a chance.
Saturday, she was ready for him. Today, she would begin. The actual event would not happen today. No, she would just make him very aware of how desirable she was, make him wonder what it might be like to taste her sweet, young flesh. Today would be for awakening his desires. She would make him wait another… oh… six weeks? before it got too cold up on the mountain. Besides, she had more practical details to work out, like who would be responsible for protection. If she made him think he was seducing her, he would have to bear that responsibility, and it would make her seem the innocent party. Yes. Make him think he is the one orchestrating the affair.
She bathed and perfumed and dusted and stroked herself into a picture of sleek desirability. She even put on makeup, which she rarely did these days; it seemed so silly here among the horses and rocky trails. But she wanted to be stunning, so she stroked on mascara, then packed a picnic into her saddlebags, tucking in a bottle of wine with a giddy little pat. It would not be Jacob’s Mountain at this point, unless he mentioned it. She knew that he knew that she knew the power of the place, but he did not know that she knew that he knew, so she had the advantage there. The only problem was that where he thought he could suggest it “innocently,” or guide them there without suspicion, she knew she could not. But there was no need to worry about that at this point. He would surely suggest it in time.
They took a high trail, one that John suggested and Geneva remembered from her childhood. She had loved it then, and today it welcomed her like a child again, teasing her through hardwood forests, cool and deep with shade, opening now and then to sunshine and laurel thickets. At one point, the trail narrowed around a rocky outcropping, then widened again into a glen thick with ferns. Ahead of Geneva, John pulled Redneck up without warning.
Fairhope had to sidestep to miss him, and Geneva’s foot brushed against Redneck’s haunch. The horses danced and sidestepped until they both stopped side by side. Twenty feet ahead of them stood a strange, shining figure, dressed in rags, barefoot, but proud and solid. His head and chest were entirely engulfed by a cloud of the white, fluffy hair of his head and beard. He was short and small-boned with the face of an elf or a gnome. Ruddy, blue-eyed, he wore a constant, genetically formed smile upon his gladsome countenance.
“Holy Miracle,” Geneva breathed.
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said John under his breath. “An apparition, maybe.”
“No, it’s Holy Miracle Jones. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s grown older,” she said, thinking of long summers past.
The figure, which had not moved, spoke, or rather shouted at Geneva and John with a rusty, high-pitched, nasal brogue, “HAVE YE GOT ANY TERBACCY?”
Geneva gathered her wits quickly. “No. But we’ve got food. Cheese and bread, and some fruit. And some wine. Do you want wine?”
“NO,” hollered the little man. “NO WINE TO POLLUTE THE TEMPLE. KEEP AWAY FROM STRONG DRINK, THE LORD SAYS. I’LL SAVE THE WINE FER THE NEXT COMIN’.” He pointed to a boulder off the trail. “LEAVE IT THERE. THEM HICK’RY NUTS IS YOURN, AND THE HONEY.”
John did not move but looked curiously from the man to Geneva while she dismounted and emptied her saddlebags of the food. “Give me your shirt,” she said in a low voice.
“What?”
“Your shirt. Take it off. I’ll buy you another one. Just take it off and give it to me.”
Without speaking, John peeled off his shirt and handed it to Geneva. Quickly, she rolled it up and placed it and the food on the boulder. She picked up a burlap sack lying there, and without looking in it, she called out, “Thank you, Holy Miracle. I will share these with Rachel. She just had two more little babies.”
“I’M GLAD TO KNOW IT. GOD BLESS THE GIRL AND THE LITTLE ONES, BACH. AND GOD BLESS YE, TOO, GIRLIE. I SEE YE NEED HIS BLESSING, YE GOT A THISTLE IN YER SOUL.”
“I’m sorry. What?” returned Geneva.
“A THISTLE!” came the shouted reply. “A THISTLE, IN YER SOUL. AH, IT HURTS, BUT IT’S SUCH A PRETTY HURT, SO YE ALMOST LOVE IT. BETTER WATCH OUT, BOY!” he shouted to John, “THEM PRETTY HURTS IS SLOW TO HEAL, AND THEM THISTLES CAN PRICK YE, TOO. I THANK YE FER THE VITTLES. GOD MEND YER SOUL AND GIVE YE BOTH YER HEART’S DESIRE.” He stepped off the trail and disappeared.
“What on earth…” began John.
“Don’t say anything, just go on,” interrupted Geneva in a low voice. “I’ll tell you about him on up the trail. Go on,” she urged again.
They rode perhaps a half-mile in silence before John pulled in the reins and dropped back beside Geneva. She was lost in her memory, so he did not press until she was ready to speak.
“Sorry about your shirt,” said Geneva. “I will buy you another one. It just looked like he needed it. His rags looked as thin as air.”
“Forget it,” replied John. “I was glad to give it to him. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it. Who is he?”
“Holy Miracle Jones,” she said slowly, feeling very small and far away. “He lives here in the woods. We used to see him quite often when we were children. His father, too. They were both very special, like the pride of these mountains, and we’ve always felt responsible for taking care of them.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Forever. I think one of my earliest memories may be of him and his father. They are… were…” she searched for the right word, “mystics, I guess. I used to think of them as fairies or elves but that was just a childhood fantasy. There is a kind of holiness, or mystery about them, though, and everybody who ever met them thinks so, too. I always associated them with flowers and good, pure things. They had the ability to heal sick animals. Whenever Rachel or I would find a baby bird or a sick squirrel—anything, we’d come up the trail to Jacob’s Mountain and yell for him. That’s where they lived, and most of the time, either he or his father would just appear out of nowhere. Both of them were very shy, and they would stay twenty or thirty feet away, and yell at us, like he did today. We’d put the animal down, and usually some food or clothes, then we’d leave. If we came back later, the animal and the food would be gone, and then, a few days or weeks later, we’d find it on our back porch—the animal, that is—in a beautiful basket made of willow or honeysuckle vine, with the honeysuckle blossoms still fresh on it. It would be all well again, usually sleeping soundly. When it woke up, we’d let it go.”
“Why do you suppose he’d bring it back to you?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Geneva. “I think just to give us the pleasure of seeing it scamper or fly away. And it always did give us such pleasure.” She felt dreamy, remembering those bright moments when she could feel the beating heart of a meadowlark in her hands and the way her own heart lifted with the wings of the creature as it took flight.
“I never got close enough to get a really good look at them,” she said, regretfully, “but once when we were out, up on the ridge near Jacob’s Mountain, Rachel fell off a cliff. She slid and dropped probably a total of thirty or forty feet and was knocked out cold. I couldn’t get to her, so I ran all the way home. When I got there, Mama and Daddy decided to get ropes and a litter before they went after her. You know, they didn’t want to waste time running back and forth unprepared. It took us maybe twenty or thirty minutes to call people and prepare for the rescue, and then, when we stepped out in the back yard, there was Rachel, lying peacefully in the rope hammock, a crown of daisies on her head, and more flowers in her hands, and her arm tied up close to her chest. It was broken, but she said it hardly hurt at all while we were getting her to the hospital.
“Did she know who had brought her home?”
“She said she remembered being lifted up and delicious smells, like violets, but nothing else until we woke her there in the hammock. We’re all pretty sure it was Holy Miracle and his dad.
“What a good story. Who are they? Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know the whole tale, nor how true it is, but years ago my grandfather told me that Holy Miracle’s father was Welsh, his mother English, and their families were bitter enemies. Apparently, his father’s father had been instrumental in a rebellion against the English and had killed someone close to the throne. At any rate, he was caught and executed, and his family, most of them involved in the rebellion, too, either went to prison or escaped the country. Holy Miracle Jones’ father—his name was Pwyll. I’m not sure I’m pronouncing that right—was just a child when he came here with his family, but his parents and his older brothers harbored a hatred for the English because they had grown up in this family that had been always at war with them. They were like the last of the true Celts that had chafed under English rule.
“Anyway, the story goes that Pwyll grew up and fell in love with a girl from an English family. And she was related to a family who had been responsible for some supposed wrongs to the Joneses. Pwyll’s father and brothers all hated her from the get-go, accused her of being an English witch and stealing the youngest son for some vile purpose, and they vowed that Pwyll would never marry her.
“And then, of course, her family got all mad about it, too, and vowed that she would never marry him. But they did marry, in spite of all the animosity. They eloped and came to live on top of a mountain near here, Jacob’s Mountain, and people say that their love was so powerful that when the families came up, all prepared to do battle, they took one look at them and forgot their anger. They gave them their blessings and left in peace.”
Geneva fell silent as she let the memory of this remarkable and almost forgotten family warm her like a live ember. It had been so long since she had seen that joyful face, and there was something stirring deep within her that caused her to yearn very much for those magical summers when she saw broken wings mended and soaring.
“So what happened then?” John interrupted.
“I don’t know how long they lived together, but Holy Miracle was their only child, as far as I know. The mother was injured somehow and delivered the baby prematurely, just before she died. They say that with her last breath, she named the baby Holy Miracle, because he was the result of their miraculous love. And then, they say, Pwyll went kind of crazy. Before, he had been a regular social kind of fellow, but after his wife died, he became very reclusive and wouldn’t allow anyone to see his baby, even though his family and hers came and begged him to bring him in to live with them. They lived in their cabin for a few years, until Holy Miracle was around nine or ten, and then one day, they burned the cabin to the ground and lived in the woods from then on. I don’t know how they survived the winters, but they always seemed pretty hale whenever we saw them. My guess is they found a good cave with a hot spring in it. Did you notice how clean he looked? He’s like that every time we see him, dressed in rags but shining clean.” She smiled at the picture of Holy Miracle standing in a shaft of sunlight on the trail. It had been so good to see him again. She went on. “It’s pretty much certain that Pwyll is dead. I haven’t seen him since Rachel’s accident, and, goodness, Holy Miracle looks ancient, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve heard of Jacob’s Mountain,” mused John. “They say it has magical powers.”
Geneva hesitated. She had no choice but to get it out in the open. “Yes. Legend has it that the spirit of Love lives there and that it will inhabit anyone who goes there. Enemies have been known to make peace, and virtual strangers have fallen in love at first sight. That’s where Rachel and Wayne first decided they cared for each other.”
“I heard that story,” replied John. “I think it’s a beautiful legend. Do you believe it?”
She sighed. No, when she really thought about it, she did not believe it, although she wanted to with all her heart. It would be wonderful if Love were a living thing, could really be pure and simple, would heal all hurts and make the tattered soul whole again. “I don’t suppose I really do,” she said sadly. “The mountain heart loves legends and romance. It would be easy to keep a story like that alive.”
“What did he say to you? That you had a thistle in your soul? What did he mean by that?”
“I have no idea,” returned Geneva. “He often says cryptic things like that. I don’t know what he thinks he sees.” But her heart felt profoundly sad that Holy Miracle had seen something amiss with her. His words brought home her long unhappiness and her futile searching for—What? She only wished she knew. Could the old mystic really see her soul? Could he help her heal it? She shook off the thought. Old mountain hermits could not possibly know the longings of her heart.
They traveled in silence until the forest gave way to grass and sunshine. Before the sun had a chance to crest, Geneva and John found themselves gliding across the grassy bald, opulent with the scent of summer jasmine. Softly, the wind blew away Geneva’s sorrow; she felt her heart lift and brighten, and in response to the new joy overtaking her, she spurred Fairhope to a dead run through the long, soft grass, challenging John with one short whoop. He was right behind her, a war cry in his throat. She beat him to the crest of the mountain, then dismounted while Fairhope was still in motion, feeling drunk with power and purpose. She flung her arms out and spun around in the merciful light, then ran and, laughing, leaped into John’s bare arms the moment he had dismounted. It was a perfect day to begin his seduction. She hoped he would do it right.
They had no food except the hickory nuts, which they dipped in honey and ate with their fingers, and they drank Geneva’s wine and talked about how they felt like gods up here above the world, feasting on wine and honey. When the bottle was emptied, Geneva lay back into the grass, feeling languid and full of warm sunlight. He was beautiful, sitting there in long, waving grass, lightly tanned, the light hair on his bare chest glinting gold in the thin, pure light. He was powerfully built, wedge-shaped, made to work with large animals. But his hands were sensitive looking, long fingered and tapered, though callused and work-rough. His hair, curly, longish, and ruffled by the wind, looked very touchable. She remembered it as being soft and smooth in her fingers. She yearned to touch him, but decided to tread very carefully. She would not make the first move. Giving him her best, come-hither smile, she teased, “John, do you work all the time? Don’t you ever go on vacations?” She willed him to say that he had always dreamed of sailing to the Greek islands.
“Oh, sure. The last time I went abroad I went to Serbia. I guess I stayed there for a couple of months.”
“Serbia?”
“In Yugoslavia. You remember back when they had the big earthquake?”
“Why did you go to Serbia of all places?”
“To help the victims. You know the Red Cross needed volunteers, so I went. There are a lot of farming communities that were devastated, and the livestock was in pretty bad shape.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause while Geneva considered a way to redirect the conversation. “You like to travel, don’t you?”
“Sure. I’ve been to all the great places. Honduras, Somalia, Kenya. Fascinating people. It’s amazing how much spirit people have. Grinding poverty, and yet they’re happy and industrious. Sometimes they don’t even have the bare necessities, but they feel lucky and grateful if they have enough to eat. I’ve seen people eat bugs for heaven’s sake, and drink putrid water, and yet they’d kill their last chicken to give us a feast just because we’d helped them in an extremely small way.”
“How interesting.” Geneva shuddered at the thought of being so far from civilization. She wanted Paris. “I’d like to do some traveling,” she said after a pause.
“Oh, yes, you’d love it,” John smiled earnestly. “I wish you could see how fine most of the people I’ve met are. Really genuine, good people. Very different on the surface, but once you make the effort to understand and adapt to them and their customs, and if you respect them, there’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you.” He paused for a moment, and his voice softened.
“Someday, I’d like to go back, you know, spend some time really making a difference.” He warmed to his topic. “Geneva, wouldn’t you just love to go to a place like that and do something that would improve the quality of people’s lives a thousand percent?”
The Absolutely not, leaped into Geneva’s mouth, but she managed to swallow it before it made its way to her lips.
“I bet you’d be wonderful there,” he continued, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. “You’re so strong and vital. You’ve got so much to give. You’d be amazed at what you could do.” His eyes brimmed with passion.
“As a matter of fact, I wish you’d go with me next week. I’m going to New Orleans. But then that wouldn’t be the same. Not much you could do there.”
Her ears pricked up. “New Orleans?” Of course! There was plenty she could do there! There was this darling little jewelry store on Royal Street that had the most exquisite estate jewelry. “Why are you going to New Orleans?”
“There’s a conference there on world hunger, and I’m serving on a panel. Ways to increase the productivity of milk cows in drought stricken areas. That sort of thing.” He leaned back, hands laced behind his head. “I’m working with a breeding program; we’ve done some experiments and have been able to increase milk production by as much as half a percent by breeding cows that can use all the available moisture in what most people would consider dry grass. That may not sound like much, but when you multiply that over hundreds of thousands of cattle that’s pretty significant.”
This conversation had degraded substantially since she had initiated it, and Geneva wondered when, or if, she could turn it back toward, say… Switzerland and luxury ski resorts where they might loll around naked on bearskin rugs in front of a marble fireplace. The idea of honeymoons seemed far from John’s mind, but in spite of her disappointment, she found herself admiring his altruism and his enthusiasm.
“You’re a pretty special guy yourself,” she said softly, and in her mind she added, I wish you would kiss me. His mouth seemed so ripe for kissing, she thought as she looked at his lips hungrily. After a very still moment, he took the hint. Leaning over carefully, his body inches from her, he kissed her softly, then let it linger. Okay, he had made the first move. My turn. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in close, feeling his hesitation, then his surrender. Warmth spread through her, and as with their first kiss so many weeks ago, she felt herself floating in a dizzy spiral. She was falling into the sun, warm, melting. She let the palm of her hand wander softly over his chest and tasted his mouth. Yes, she hadn’t imagined it earlier. He was delicious. And he was hers.
She felt his sigh, deep, and painful-sounding as he drew his face far enough away to look at her. There it was, that look of longing. It made her want to kiss his eyes and tell him that she would give him all the love he ever needed. But, sighing again, he averted his face, and when he returned his eyes to hers, they were altered, gentled in a way she had not seen before, and yet troubled.
Her heart was pounding. She was surprised at the intensity of her feeling for him, at how much she wanted him, at her powerful desire to yield herself completely to him, and the words were out of her mouth before she realized their meaning. “Would you like to make love with me?”
Damn! Not now, you dummy she silently cried to herself. You weren’t supposed to say that! That’s for next month! But she was shaking inside, and she wanted very much for him to say “yes.” She flushed and lowered her eyes.
He looked up and exhaled quickly with a little chuckle that sounded like a sob. Geneva waited, hurting in the knowledge that everything was at stake. Taking her face in his hands, he looked deep into her eyes, and once again, the longing was there. It made her feel like a puddle of warm, gold liquid, as if she had just drunk a stiff shot of scotch. She felt shy, but nevertheless willed herself to return his gaze steadily. At last he spoke with quiet intensity.
“Yes. I would like to make love with you. I would love to make love with you. I could bury myself in you and stay there forever, and I want to make you love me.” He kissed each of her eyes, the palm of her hand, the hollow in her throat. “I want to make you quiver.” he said, his voice low and husky, resonant with desire. He lifted his hands and looked at them intently. “With these hands I want to cherish you. With these arms, I want to hold you and protect you.” His eyes burned into hers. He seemed to be transported into a different sphere. I want to give you pleasure like you’ve never known or dreamed of.” He rolled on top of her, gathering her close in his arms beneath him, and kissed her eyes again, her lips, her throat, and he murmured, “With this body I want to worship you.”
Geneva had never heard such pretty talk before, and it did things to her insides that felt unbearably sweet, a sweetness mingled with yearning, like the heartbreaking scent of jasmine. And with the words that washed over her like stunning white water, she felt the strength in his arms, the essential maleness traversing the length of his body. Just in time, she caught herself drooling. Already she was quivering, her breath coming in quick gasps, and then she felt herself spiraling downward again, as she had at their first kiss, as she felt the fabric of her shirt and flimsy bra somehow melt away, and John’s warm hand was on her breast. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth for his next kiss.
It did not come. Dimly, she perceived that his warmth had detached itself from her. She tried to nuzzle closer, but her grasp fell to empty air. Not until she opened her eyes did she discover that he had moved several inches away, and was leaning on his elbow, smiling at her. His face was unreadable.
“What is it?” she asked, dizzy and disoriented. “What’s the matter?”
John’s smile remained, but his eyes looked sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to seduce you. I had promised myself I would behave.” His eyes dropped to her bare breasts, lingered, then looked away. “It isn’t exactly the honorable thing to do, get you up here and ply you with wine on an empty stomach. I guess I drank a little too much, too.”
Geneva felt even more confused. How could he possibly think he was misbehaving when he was doing exactly what she wanted? Okay, so things were happening a little fast. But she could deal with that. What a time for him to suddenly decide to be a gentleman! Damn it all! This man was not playing fair!
“It’s okay, John,” she said softly, wishing he would kiss her eyes again, wishing he would tear off her clothes and bury his face in her willing flesh.
“No,” he shook his head. “Geneva, I’ve told you I want something permanent. I don’t want anything to do with casual love. I want marriage and children, and real…” he groped for the word, “terminal love.” He looked at her pleadingly for a long moment, then pulled his eyes away from hers. Very carefully, he said, “I’m hoping you’ll love me like that, but I’m not going to rush you or do anything that might make you resent me.” He spoke softly to the bumblebees droning lazily among the myrtle. “I know you may find it hard to trust me, considering what’s happened between us, and I understand that you don’t really know me well enough to accept me like I want you to. But you will. I hope you will. I certainly intend to do whatever it takes to win you.” He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Geneva. I lost sight of how vulnerable you are.” Laughing ruefully, he pulled his eyes back to hers. “I guess I thought you’d slap my face. I promise to behave myself from now on.”
Geneva felt as though she was the one who had been slapped. This was not going at all the way she wanted. Yet, somewhere inside her, a small part of herself was pleased, although most of her was miserably disappointed at the rejection. Honor had its place, but at the moment it didn’t warm her insides and ease the yearning she felt. Besides, if he was telling her he loved her, then why the hell didn’t he get down on his knees and ask her to marry him? Damn! She looked up at him, her forehead furrowed with confusion and frustration, and suddenly she was embarrassed at her dishevelment.
She had thrown herself at him! She had begged him to love her and not only had he rejected her, but, in his way, had chastised her for her forwardness. Did he really think she should have slapped him? She hooked her bra together and buttoned her shirt with trembling hands.
He became cool, almost a stranger. “Come on,” he said, standing up, offering her his hand. “It’s starting to cloud up, and I don’t think I should keep you out if it’s going to rain.” Stung, Geneva did not care if it rained torrents, and she resented more than a little his macho, protective attitude. She stood in a huff, running her hand through her hair, and ignoring John’s offer of help, clambered up on Fairhope, determined to show him that she was not a dandified toy, something to “win” as he had so ungenerously put it.
The tension between them grew and thickened until they had reached the meadow by Raven Creek. Geneva had managed to keep slightly ahead of him on the mountain trail, but as the woodland fell away and the land opened up onto the pasture, John drew up beside her, pulled at Fairhope’s reins, and forced her to a stop. She turned to him, but her eyes hugged the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know how to do this, and I know I’ve behaved like a fool.” He reached across to her face and, taking her chin in his hand, said, “Geneva, look at me.” He said it softly but with authority. Geneva looked at him, face burning. “You’re a beautiful, very desirable woman, Geneva. I love everything about you, the gold in your skin and hair, I love the way your eyes light up when you see something beautiful. I love the way you look at my mouth and the way you glow when I touch you. I love your eyes, your lips, your graceful neck. I even love your teeth! And the way you hold the reins, and the way you seem to be in love with everything you see. You don’t know how many times I have dreamed about making love to you, but I want to be very careful.” He smiled. “I don’t know whether to kick myself around the block for missing a golden opportunity or congratulate myself on my superhuman restraint. It all depends on how you feel about it.”
Despite her lingering embarrassment, Geneva had to smile, lifting her eyes and letting the good words burn into her very center. This was working out all right after all, Let him woo me, she decided. This could turn out to be very nice, even nicer, perhaps, than she had expected.
Fighting the urge to leap off Fairhope and into John’s arms, she kicked her mare and tore off through the meadow toward the house. She could hear the thunder of Redneck’s hooves behind her, and she knew and hoped that John would soon catch her. But for the moment she was content to let the wind whip her face and hair and to let his words resound in her heart. She felt beautiful, and so full of vitality, so ready to embrace whatever life would hand her that she almost forgot her plans. Still, she had not forgotten Paris.
They crossed the pasture at a dead run, neck and neck, but checked their horses’ speed simultaneously so they could approach the barn at an easy canter. Then, because they had run the horses so hard for the last mile, they slowed to a cooling walk. As they neared the house, Geneva noticed two vehicles that did not belong to the family. One she recognized as Howard Knight’s beat-up old pickup truck; the other was a brand new blue Jaguar convertible she had never seen before. Curious, she pulled Fairhope up and draped the reins loosely around the gatepost.
She dreaded seeing Howard Knight again, remembering her drug-induced behavior, but she trusted him not to make an issue of it. He had called her twice since the night of the accident to report on the status of her car repair and to inform her that he was waiting for parts to arrive, and had never once mentioned her foolish behavior or had said anything to indicate that he even remembered it. So she straightened her back and strode to the house. Turning the corner, her strong legs suddenly faltered, and she would have staggered, except that her momentum had already carried her to the steps where she was able to grasp the porch railing. There, sitting in rocking chairs arranged at perfectly spaced intervals, sat Wayne, Howard Knight, and Howard Whittaker Graves, III, the lover who had callously rejected her.
“Howard!” she gasped. Both Howards turned their faces toward her and smiled. Howard Knight stood slowly, but Howard Graves leaped out of his chair and bounded down the steps, grabbing her up into a hug that took her breath away. When he let her go, she was trembling so violently she had to sit down.
“Howard, what are you doing here?” she asked weakly. Glancing off to her left, she saw John standing quietly, his face closed and inscrutable. Howard Knight smiled down at her, and even at the distance of eight feet she could see the sympathy in Wayne’s eyes. She felt trapped and helpless.
“Geneva, I’ve come to get you, to—” began Howard Graves. But Wayne suddenly broke in.
“Well, Geneva, thanks to you, we’ve got plenty of company today. John, good to see you. Have you met these fellows? That there’s Howard Graves.” He indicated the smooth-looking man who stood with his arm around Geneva’s waist.
John stepped forward politely, but he seemed to have grown taller and broader in the past few seconds.
“Hello,” he said, offering his hand to Howard, who gave him one suspicious glance, his eyes narrowing at John’s bare chest. “Hello,” he said smoothly, “I’m Howard Graves, Geneva’s fiancée.”
Geneva felt as well as heard his arrogance, but even more evident was the general growing level of tension and piqued male competitiveness. Testosterone seemed to be suddenly manufactured by the bucketful by every man there. Geneva swallowed hard, correcting him with an unsteady voice, “Ex-fiancée.”
John’s voice was smooth, too, but Geneva heard the mockery in it as he broke in. “Glad to meet you, Howard. I’m John Smith, Geneva’s ardent admirer.” He gave Howard a handshake that must have been uncomfortably firm. She saw the veins standing out in each of their necks as they gripped hands and glared at each other.
Wayne broke in again. “And this is Howard Knight, the fellow who saved Rachel and Geneva up on the mountain.”
Howard Knight stepped lightly down the stairs. “Hi. Howard Knight.” He said it perfectly, articulating carefully, if self-consciously, then he glanced sideways at Geneva with a little smile and continued, “Geneva’s other ardent admirer.” He grinned at John.
“Well, I’m just her brother-in-law, but I like her a lot, too,” drawled Wayne. “And now that we have so much in common, why don’t we all sit down and have a beer?”
Howard Graves remained cool and aloof, apparently confident of his control. Very calmly, he turned to Wayne and said politely, “I’d like to, Wayne, but I’ve driven a long way to see Geneva, and we have a few things to discuss, if you don’t mind.” He smiled intimately at Geneva. “Geneva, we have a lot of catching up to do. Would you like to go for a ride?”
Geneva wanted to scream or to laugh, but she wasn’t sure which, she felt so dazed by the intensely masculine rivalry around her. She stood alone in the uncomfortable spotlight for a long time, aware that eight eyes were fixed upon her every move, waiting to judge her actions. The testosterone was bubbling up and swirling around her ankles by now; she felt that she must do something fast or soon she might be drowning in it.
At last she sighed and turned to the men on the porch. “Please excuse me, but I do think I should talk to Howard here.” She dared to look at John briefly, pleadingly. She hoped he would forgive her for this.
There was a moment when the tension grew to dizzying heights, and then John Smith leaned against the porch rail, and with an exaggerated drawl, said, “Waaaal, Hard, looks lak we been give the old heave-ho. Reckon the only thang we kin do now is go git drunk and shoot us out a buncha road signs. I got a case of Buds over at the house, and while we’re adrankin ‘em, we kin listen to all my Wiley Bob and the Bobcats records.”
Howard Knight stepped in nimbly, “Yew got Wiley Bob and the Bobcats records?”
“Ever one of ‘em,” John assured him.
“Well, hell, we’ll have us a good time. I got a jug a shine under the mattress in the truck, and a couple twenty-twos there in the gun rack. I reckon we’ll jist haveta git blind drunk and crazy now that this here woman has throwed us over fer a city slicker.”
John’s face lit up with pleasure. He was warming up. “A twenty-two?” he snorted. “Hell, that’s a sissy gun. I got me a forty-four down by the hog barn.”
Howard Graves smiled tightly, and Geneva could sense the anger rising as Howard and John tried to top one another sounding like hillbillies. “Come on, baby,” he said loudly, not to be outdone. “How do you like the little present I brought you?” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and handed them to her, then gestured to the Jaguar glistening in the drive. “Get your driver’s license, sweetheart, and you can see if you like her.”
The men on the porch did not seem to hear him. Howard Knight was saying, “Naw. A forty-four? Now at’s a gun, by gawd. I had me a sixty-six oncet, but the dang thang blowed up on me. I useta hunt buffalo with it.”
Geneva raced into the house to collect her purse, but on her way out, she hesitated, then stopped to look at John full in the face, trying to read his thoughts. “Will you take care of the horses?” she asked, her eyes begging him to forgive her. She remembered his recent kisses and blushed. But she felt the odd sensation that Howard Graves had some sort of claim on her and that she owed him at least one conversation now that he had driven all this way…
“At yer service, little lady,” John said grandly. “Anythang yer sweet li’l heart wants is all yorn.”
Wayne was boasting, “That’s nothin’. I got a eighty-eight, but Rachel made me put it away after we got married. You know these women. They say they like a man with a big gun, but once they get ahold of you, they never let you show it off to anybody.”
“Yep. There’s no figurin’ women,” nodded Howard Knight sagely. “And then, no matter how big yer gun is, they allus run after the men with the sissy car.”
Fighting the urge to laugh, Geneva slipped into the Jag and inserted the key into the ignition. But she made the mistake of glancing once more at the three men on the porch and nearly hooted at the sight. They had draped their arms around each other’s shoulders and stood silently, a picture of cultural solidarity, looking at her with mock mournfulness. It was all she could do to keep from blowing them a kiss. But she turned her attention to the man who sat beside her, then started the quiet, powerful engine and drove away.
Her initial shock at seeing Howard had ebbed, and now she was angry with herself for becoming weak-kneed at the sight of him. In turn, her anger directed toward him. She drove in stony silence, waiting for him to speak.
“God, what a couple of rubes,” he said, eyeing Geneva carefully. “So that’s who you’ve been hanging out with while you’ve been here.”
Geneva had no patience with him. “What are you doing here, Howard?” she asked sharply.
“I told you. I’ve come to take you back home. Geneva, you can’t imagine how miserable I’ve been without you. And I’m sorry about all that I did and said.” He laid his hand on her shoulder, but she pushed it off. Her anger was genuine, but she was not inclined to stop his words, for despite her disgust, she rather enjoyed hearing him apologize so prettily.
“I know you’re mad as hell, Geneva, and I don’t blame you, but really, I never intended for us to break up. I just wanted to back off for a little while, so we could be sure. You know, marriage is a big step, and I was feeling a little closed in. I just wanted some space for awhile, to see if what we had was real.”
“Oh, right,” groaned Geneva. “And that’s why you wanted to date other people, and why you left and haven’t called me for six months. That’s an awful lot of space, Howard.”
“Geneva, if you remember, you threw me out of your apartment and told me that if I ever darkened your door again you’d yank my teeth right out of my head. I believe those were your exact words.” He flashed a flirtatious little smile at her. “Now, sweetheart, as much as I love you, I don’t cherish losing my teeth, not after suffering through three years of braces.”
Geneva remembered the words she had uttered, but she found it hard to believe that Howard had actually been intimidated by them. She did not soften. “So what made you change your mind? Did you suddenly decide you could fight me off if I attacked you?”
“Oh, I guess you could say I got over being too proud to come crawling back. Geneva, I really am sorry. Come back. Marry me. I love you.” He looked out the window. “Okay, maybe it took me six months to get myself sorted out and to realize that I really do need you. This isn’t easy for me, you know.”
They had been driving on the high ridge that she and John had traveled the night of their theater date in Tucker. Geneva found a wide place and pulled over to the shoulder. She stopped the car and glared at Howard. For a moment she thought about how happy she had been with him, and how much she had looked forward to their life together: a life sparkling with success and glamor, but before long she found herself examining Howard’s nose and deciding that the nostrils were, indeed, somewhat large. There was a long silence while she studied him.
“What are you looking at?” asked Howard.
“Oh, nothing,” replied Geneva, blushing. “I was just thinking about how happy we could have been…” and suddenly, she began to cry, remembering the hurt that Howard had caused and how much she had loved him. And more than that, she grieved over the realization that the hurt he had caused her also meant that the joy they might have had together was forever and irretrievably lost. It was too sad to comprehend, all that love just tossed away, left in the gutter to languish and die.
At first her tears were pretty little shimmering drops sitting in her eyes, causing them to sparkle, but then they ran down her face in earnest torrents, and her nose began to run so that she had to cry into her hands and hope Howard would give her a handkerchief.
He did not have one, and seemed as distressed by that fact as she. She hated to cry like this in front of somebody. It made her face all red and puffy, and besides, she was sure the mascara was running. She couldn’t face Howard like this, all running and smeared. At last she wiped her nose on her sleeve, and sniffling, waving away Howard’s attempts to embrace her, dug deep into her purse for a tissue.
It was one of those bottomless purses that held so much that it was unnecessary to ever clean it out. Things simply collected in there and sank to the bottom if they were infrequently used. Geneva knew she had some Kleenex in there somewhere, but in her distracted and blinded state, she failed to find any even after several moments of rummaging.
Still sobbing, eyes and nose running, Geneva finally turned the purse upside down and dumped its contents in her lap. Yes, there was one—a little tattered and lipstick smeared, but serviceable. She blew her nose on it then used a remaining dry corner to wipe off the mascara that had run down her cheeks. Then, after checking the mirror to make sure she looked all right, she faced Howard again.
“I don’t know, Howard,” she began, after drawing a long, shuddering breath. “I really think it’s too late for us.”
“Don’t say that, darling, please. You’re hurt and angry. I’ve thought a lot about this, and I know we can make things right between us again. Don’t say anything now, but just give it some time.” He looked so forlorn and miserable that Geneva felt herself softening a little. She remembered again how much she had loved him, and for the sake of that, she wanted to give him a chance, but she felt confused, and somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice said, Do you really want this man to be the father of your children? They might all have noses just like his.
She began filling her purse, shaking her head and repeating, “Oh, Howard, I don’t know. I’ve been pretty happy here, and I think that maybe I don’t want to go back to DC.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to go back? Don’t you miss everyone? Don’t you miss your job? What can you possibly find here to keep you occupied? There’s absolutely nothing here! Just look at it!” He gestured at the empty air before him, and Geneva followed his instructions and looked.
The rain clouds that had threatened her and John on the mountain a few hours earlier had rolled away, and now the sky was a clear, perfect, dazzling blue, the color of the sky in storybooks, and the sun, which had begun to think about setting, had turned the air around them into a hazy, golden gauze, gentling around them and gilding the wings of a whole flock of monarch butterflies that bedecked a crop of purple thistles. In this light they looked like jeweled brooches. Far below them a hawk wafted lazily over a warm air current, circling in a long, slow, effortless glide, and off to her left, a groundhog sat perfectly still on a fallen tree and gazed at her. Somewhere in the trees below a mockingbird went through his entire repertoire, and then flew away, leaving her with the silence and the gentle wind, spiced with honeysuckle and wild sage. With shaking breaths she gulped great draughts of it, feeding her senses with its sweetness.
Howard did not speak for a time, then, when he seemed to be sure Geneva had been alone with her thoughts long enough he tossed off his final salvo. “I bet all this silence has been driving you mad.”
He did lisp! No, it was not an actual lisp. More of a sibilant “s,” but not quite. She turned to him resolutely. “How long are you staying, Howard?” she asked flatly.
He hesitated. “I should go back on Tuesday.”
She nodded. Fine. She would give him until Tuesday to win her back. She owed that much to the love that she had felt for him. But already she knew his was a lost cause.