| |
Brad sat down on the swing and hurriedly wrapped the quilt around Jemima’s shoulders, and then around his own.
“Brrr! It is cold!”
Jemima leaned down and opened up the picnic basket. “I have hot coffee,” she told him, and opened the thermos. The scent of fresh-brewed roast curled up into the air.
“You’re an angel,” Brad told her gratefully, taking the hot cup between his hands. “Mmmm. Is that cake? I didn’t have time for dinner, and I’m starving.”
“Here, here,” Jemima told him, and piled treats onto his plate: coffee cake, apple slices, cheese, dried apricots, a wedge of homemade fudge and a beef sandwich. She handed them to him, and he devoured them like a starving man.
Jemima sipped her coffee and watched him, smiling.
“This sure beats TV dinners,” he told her, taking a big bite of the sandwich.
Jemima frowned. “Is that what you eat – TV dinners?” she cried. It wrung her heart to think of Brad sitting in his apartment alone, eating skimpy, tasteless portions off a cardboard plate.
He seemed oblivious to her dismay. “Mostly, unless I’m eating out. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Oh!” Jemima leaned down and quickly made another plate, twice as big as the first. She handed it to Brad.
He took it, but asked: “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“Oh, I had dinner long ago,” she assured him. “Eat, eat! I hate to think of you driving for hours hungry!”
“I have to admit, this sure hits the spot,” he replied, and made the coffee cake disappear, and all the other things, one by one. Then he leaned back into the swing, and closed his eyes and sighed deeply.
“There’s more,” Jemima told him, but he shook his head. He tilted his head, turned and stared at her without saying anything. He just sat there with an odd expression on his face, looking at her until she asked:
“What?”
For answer he reached out, and took two thick strands of her hair in his hands, and gently stretched them out, like shining ribbons. He wrapped his hands in them and brushed them across his cheek.
Jemima watched him in puzzlement. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
He smiled at her in the darkness. “I didn’t know your hair was so long,” he murmured, looking down at it. “It’s beautiful. Soft as silk. I wish it was daylight, so I could see it better.”
“If it were daylight, my hair would be pinned up, under my cap,” she told him primly. “And we wouldn’t be here.”
He sighed heavily. “True enough. How do you—” He broke off abruptly.
Jemima tilted her head. “How do I what?” she asked gently.
“Nothing,” he replied, but she persisted.
“How do I bear it, you mean? All the strict rules? Wearing the same thing every day, putting my hair up under a cap?”
“Look, I—”
“It’s all right,” she told him. “You’re not the first person who’s asked me that question. People don’t understand. It’s natural to be...curious.”
“No, I’m sorry, Duchess. You have a perfect right to believe whatever you want. I’m a moron. I admit it.” He leaned over, and kissed her apologetically.
Jemima received his apology willingly. His lips tasted of chocolate and apricots, and his arms were as warm as a woolen sweater. She smiled and touched her fingertip to his lip.
“You’re not...what you said. You’re smart, and you’re kind. And I’m not angry.”
He sighed, and rested his head lightly on her shoulder. “If I was smart or kind I wouldn’t be here,” he said, half to himself. “I’d leave you alone, Duchess. I’d let you find a husband who understands.”
Jemima’s eyes spangled with sudden tears. “Is that – is that what you want?” she cried. “Do you want me to marry Mark, or Sam—”
“Of course not!” He grabbed her suddenly, looked down at her with that crazy look in his eyes, and kissed her again so savagely that Jemima felt as if she were melting from every place that she touched him.
He buried his face in her neck. “I hate the thought of it!” he told her fiercely. “I can’t stand to think of you with somebody else!”
Jemima laughed suddenly, and twined her arms around his neck. “Then I don’t care,” she told him. “That’s all that matters. That you love me. And I don’t want to talk about anything unhappy, not now. This is our time. Tell me – tell me about where you live.”
“What?”
“Yes – tell me about where you live, and what furniture you have, and what pictures are on the wall. And what you read, and, and what you like to eat. All those things. And when you’re gone, I’ll imagine them in my mind, to help me pass the time until you come back.”
He looked down at her, and sighed tenderly: “Oh, Duchess.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed again. “All right. I live in a studio apartment – oh, that means small – in the city. It is not as picturesque a neighborhood as yours. I think there’s one tree in the parking lot, and it looks as if it’s about to croak.”
Jemima giggled into his chest, and he looked down at her, smiling. “Is that funny? Yeah, I guess it is. So, there’s the croaking tree, and the complex is next door to a fast food place on one side and a pipe shop on the other.”
Jemima looked up at him innocently. “What’s a pipe shop?”
Brad ran a hand through his hair. “Ah – it’s a place where – where people buy –pipes.”
“Oh.”
“I’m on the second floor,” he hastened to add, “and my unit’s at the end of the row, which is good, because I only share one wall with a neighbor.”
“Who is your neighbor?” Jemima asked, looking up at him.
“A guy from Guatemala. He’s pretty laid back, but we don’t talk much, because I usually come in la— I mean, I don’t – don’t see much of him.”
“Oh.”
“My furniture is mostly stuff I bought in a box and assembled. Though I did score a World War I office desk at a yard sale last year. I have a bookshelf crammed with sci-fi and history. I also have a good bit of biography – Disraeli, Lincoln, Eleanor Roosevelt, Einstein, Tesla. I like reading about real people.”
Jemima nodded earnestly.
“And as for what’s on my walls – I have some posters, mostly groups – I’m into roots music, blues, bluegrass – so mostly obscure stuff. And I don’t cook much of anything. I do takeout when I’m tired, and stuff I can microwave when I’m not.”
Jemima reached out and caressed his cheek sympathetically. “You don’t eat well, I can see it,” she murmured sympathetically. “I’ll pack some things for you to take home for tomorrow.”
Brad cracked a grin. “Worried about me, are you, Duchess?”
She ran her fingers lightly over his bruised chin. “You know I—”
But she was cut off with shocking suddenness. The screen door flew open, and they both jumped to their feet in alarm, but it was Deborah’s face that peeked out from behind the door.
“Hide, quick! Daed is coming downstairs!” she hissed, and darted back inside.
Jemima grabbed up the picnic basket and blanket, and took Brad’s hand. They fled down the porch steps and stopped just at the corner of the house, listening.
A light bloomed in the window overhead and gave off a faint yellow glow.
Jacob’s voice grumbled: “Deborah – what are you doing down here so early?”
Deborah piped, “Oh, I was hungry, I wanted a snack.”
“Is that why I smell coffee?”
Jemima put a hand to her mouth and looked up at Brad in dismay.
Deborah’s voice sounded uncertain, but she answered: “Umm...yes. I got some leftover coffee from dinner.”
The floorboards groaned under Jacob’s massive footsteps. “How did you heat it without lighting the stove?”
“Ah – it’s the grounds you smell. I opened the can, but I changed my mind and drank the cold leftovers.” There was a quick, rummaging sound. “Do you want me to light the stove now?”
“No, no. There are still hours to sunrise. Eat and go back to bed.”
“Why are you up so early, Daed?” Deborah queried.
The floorboards groaned again under the sound of heavy footsteps, and to Jemima’s dismay, the screen door creaked open.
“I heard a noise and thought I’d check. If I catch one more verruckt Englischer sneaking around this house, I’ll send him to the blessed God, no matter what your mother says.”
Jemima pressed Brad’s hand, and looked up at him, but his face was in shadow.
“Oh, now, Daed!” Deborah laughed unconvincingly. “It was only me, coming down to the kitchen. Want a piece of pie?”
The screen door closed again. “Just a little piece, and then back to bed, for both of us.”
A few more minutes passed, and Jemima held Brad’s hand tight. Then the light faded out, and heavy footsteps rang out again, then faded.
When it was silent and dark again, Jemima went limp against Brad’s chest, and then lifted her face.
“You should go. He might come back.”
He leaned down, found her lips and kissed her. “When can I see you again?”
“Sunday night, next time. I’ll meet you at the same place, and the same time.” She pressed the basket into his hands. “Take this home with you.”
“I can’t take this whole....”
“Yes, yes.” She leaned into him, kissed him, pressed her hand over his, and she could feel him relent.
“All right then, Duchess. I’ll bring it back next time, only it’ll be my treat then. Deal?”
“Just so long as you come back,” Jemima breathed, twined her hands around the back of his neck, and pulled him to her lips. She poured all her love into that goodbye kiss, all her longing, and was gratified to hear him gasp when their lips parted.
“You shouldn’t kiss me like that if you want me to go,” he warned.
Jemima instantly replied: “I don’t want you to go!”
Brad dropped the basket and gave her a lengthy and very communicative kiss in reply. Then he turned away, turned back to give her one more for good measure, and disappeared into the general darkness.
Jemima stared after him for a long time before the pinching cold finally made her give up, and turn to seek her own bed.
