Gus finished the rest of his deliveries in Whiterock a little after one. Although helping Sally Carruthers had put him behind schedule by a couple of hours, he decided to stop for lunch anyway.
The same crowd was in the same seats at the Bite-A-Wee Cafe, as if they hadn't moved since early morning a week ago. His seat, at the apex of the counter's arc, was empty, waiting for him.
"Missed ya this mornin'," Georgina said, setting a cup of battery acid before him. "The special's short ribs." She was gone before he could ask if he could get a sandwich to go.
"Blazers lost." The Old Duffer handed him the sports page.
Gus took it, feeling he had no choice. He picked up the menu.
"Don't bother with that," Stocky Man told him. "Georgina's short ribs'll make you think you died and went to heaven."
Gus buried his face in the paper, trying to pretend a fascination with the Portland Trail Blazers' loss to Phoenix last night.
The door behind him opened, sending a damp draft down his neck, reminding him that his jacket still held residual moisture from this morning's misadventure. As the newcomer passed behind him, the hair at his nape stood on end. He didn't need to turn around to see the reason, because nearly every voice in the café was raised in greeting.
"Hey, Sally, how's your pa?"
"You're late today, Miz Carruthers."
"Hi, Sal!"
"I decided to treat myself to lunch, since I never had time for breakfast," she explained to all and sundry, sounding almost guilty. "My father's sleeping now. Sedated."
Gus kept his face buried in the paper. From the comments around him, he gathered she hadn't done anything so daring as going out for lunch for a long time.
"This rain oughta green up the park good for the May Fest," someone said, about the time Georgina slapped Gus's salad before him.
"The May Fest?" Sally's voice sounded as if she'd forgotten there was such a thing.
"Only six weeks to go." Another voice, this one a deep baritone. "Maybe you can get out to it this year."
Gus stole a look to the side. She was in the last booth, her back to him, sitting with a big fellow in some kind of uniform. A cop? He looked like it.
"But I thought..."
"My Rhoda's Queen of the May this year," a middle-aged woman in a polyester pantsuit said with pride.
"Better keep an eye on her, what with Ben Kemp being her Consort," someone warned.
"I don't remember..." Her uncertain voice was drowned out in the general laughter.
Nearly everyone in the café had something to say about Ben Kemp, who seemed to be the town's bad boy, but a favorite one.
She lifted a slender hand to smooth back her hair. Gus hadn't noticed before how thick and heavy it was, nor how it gleamed with golden highlights.
"I really haven't much time, Georgina," she was saying. "Maybe just a sandwich..." She chewed her bottom lip. "Pop's alone..."
The cop reached across the table and laid a hand on hers.
"I'll be going out that way anyhow, Sal. I can look in, and if there's a problem, I'll call you."
"Short ribs today," Georgina said.
"How can I resist?"
She smiled up at Georgina, and Gus revised his estimate of her age downward by ten years. Not that it mattered, but he wished she'd smile more often, because it made her both young and lovely.
His short ribs appeared before him just then. He picked up his fork and began one of the best meals he'd ever eaten. As he ate, he eavesdropped.
Most was local gossip. Ms. Carruthers occasionally asked questions that showed she knew all the people but was out of touch with what they were doing. How long had she been immured in that big old house with her father, anyhow?
A middle-aged woman—Rhoda's mother?—departed, holding the door while she visited with a newcomer.
"Hey, Bernie," the Old Duffer called out as the door swung shut once again, "what's this I hear about Leo Plum goin' back to Reno?"
A skinny old fellow dressed in grease-stained overalls took a seat at the counter just beyond the Old Duffer. His billed cap read Cowles Implement. Gus thought he remembered him from the garage, which was also a gas station, a tractor sales-and-service agency, an auto parts store—a typical small town business.
"Shit, yes." Bernie sipped the coffee Georgina set before him. "His old lady decided she has to stay down there with her ma, so Leo gave his notice today."
"Whatcha gonna do for a pump jockey?"
"How's Pete Gomez workin' out?"
"Pete's doin' fine, but he can't run the shop and the gas pumps." Bernie looked glum. "Guess I'll have to put an ad in the paper."
Gus's plate was empty. Although full, he could have kept eating, just for the sensual pleasure of tasting the rich brown gravy, of gnawing the tender meat from the bones. Even the occasional lumps in the real, hand-mashed potatoes had appealed to him, and the steamed carrots had been worthy of a gourmet restaurant anywhere in the country.
Georgina snatched his plate away with one hand, refilled his cup with the other. "Pie? We got peanut butter cream, blackberry, pecan and lemon meringue."
"The pecan's to die for." The soft, familiar voice came from behind him.
Again the hairs at his nape stirred, and he barely stopped himself from spinning around on his stool.
Georgina looked back at the rear booth. "You didn't clean up your plate, Sally."
"I did the best I could." Laughter hovered at the edge of her words. "Honest, I did. And I've really got to go. I've already been gone too long."
She slipped out the door, and Gus felt the room's warmth go with her. When Georgina repeated her question about the pie, he gave her a curt "No, thanks," and dug into his wallet.
"See ya next week," Georgina called, as he followed Sally out the door.
Maybe. Maybe not.
He stood on the sidewalk and tried to decide which way Sally Carruthers had gone. How had she disappeared so quickly?
What was this strong pull he felt toward her, anyhow? It felt like more than lust. A lot more. Whenever she was near, the world looked brighter, more vital. She made him feel alive in a way he hadn't for more than three years. Yet she didn't flirt, didn't even smile much. It was more her—well, if he was into touchy-feely, he'd call it an aura. But he wasn't, so he didn't have a word for the way he always knew when she was anywhere nearby.
He'd work the week out, no more. This time next week, he would be far, far away from Whiterock, Oregon.
* * * *
For the first time in more than five years, Sally felt glad to be back in Whiterock. Pop's escape this morning had been the worst episode yet. Without the kind of emotional support she'd gotten today at the café, she didn't think she could have faced returning to the house.
Oh, God, if only I didn't feel so damn guilty! Today's quick lunch with Lyle had been her first true escape for nearly a year.
It wouldn't be neglecting Pop to get Milly Kemp to care for him one afternoon a week. She knew she'd be justified; but knowing it, and believing it deep down, where the guilt lived, were two very different things. As long as she devoted her every waking hour—well, except for the time it took her to go to the Post Office—to Pop, she could forgive herself for sometimes wishing him dead.
No, that was wrong. She couldn't forgive herself, but she could live with herself.
She took her time going home, for all she'd given Wilma the impression she was in a hurry to get there. Any more discussion of her appearance, her state of mind, or the May Fest—the last thing I need is a party!—and she'd scream. What she really needed was a day off. A week would be better. A little time to remember that she'd had a life once upon a time, and a career.
The sedative she'd given Pop was usually good for four hours, and it had been less than two since he'd finally drifted off to sleep. With luck, she had another hour of freedom.
What she should do was go home, do last night's dishes and get a start on the new mending Gus had brought her.
Gus.
It had been a long time since she'd felt such an attraction to a man. Since the early days with Jeff, before they'd discovered that all they had was physical attraction. But there had to be more between a man and a woman than lust. Surely a strong love like her parents' was based on mutual interests, mutual goals, mutual respect.
Not just sex.
Perhaps that was why she didn't trust her feelings about the dark, brooding, short-tempered deliveryman. All she felt for Gus Loring was lust. Hot, steamy, mouth-watering lust.
Instead of turning south on Fifth, she turned north. It had been a long time since she'd walked through the park, and today she needed solitude and the silence.
I wonder who cleaned the elk. For as long as she could remember, white bird droppings had frosted its bronze back. Too bad the antlers had been lost to vandalism, back when she was a child. Now it looked like a hermaphroditic deer with a weight problem.
The path wound between weeping willows, still bare of leaves, but bright yellow-green with buds and full of twittering birds. Not the usual starlings, she noted, but some less common, less obnoxious birds, with flashes of white tail feathers as they flitted from branch to branch. Juncos? She didn't know, but they weren't the nuisancy house sparrows who devoured the seeds she occasionally tossed onto the driveway.
Why didn't she remember last year's May Fest? Or any of them, for years? Mom or Pop must have written about the town's annual spring party at least once while she was away at college and, later, when she'd worked in Seattle. She'd subscribed to the Whiterock Banner all the time she'd been away but had seldom read it, any more than she did now—there was a pile of them on the back porch, waiting to be taken to the recycling center in Vale.
The paper was much smaller than it had been back when Sally was in high school—two, sometimes three sheets, where it used to be twice that, and chock full of news and ads. Although it would last as long as Phyllia Everingham was alive and able to edit it, the Banner didn't attract many advertisers anymore.
Was she suffering from the same dread mental deterioration as Pop? Her stomach clenched at the thought, but cool reason quickly told her that if the May Fest was all she couldn't remember, she was guilty of inattention, not suffering from early senile dementia.
The old arched bridge across Little Hackberry Creek needed paint, but it didn't seem as dilapidated as she remembered. The last time she'd walked in the park she had hesitated to cross it. Now the floorboards seemed solid and strong, the wooden railings firm and protective. Someone must have taken it on himself to fix it up. She knew there was no money in the city budget anymore for park maintenance. Even the mowing was done by volunteers.
She checked her watch. A few more minutes and she would have to start home. But she wanted to follow the creek, half-full of water now, after three days of rain, and see if there was watercress in the spring-fed pond behind the bandshell. Last fall, the pond had been almost dry, as had the creek, but if the creek was flowing, maybe the spring was, too.
When she was a child, she'd often gathered the watercress for sandwiches, a favorite of her mother's. Would they still taste as good as they had then?
Following the creek bank, she came to the marshy area just below the pond. Cattails had invaded and spread, until the short path was almost blocked. When she pushed through, she saw that only a green scum covered the rocks lining the pond. The spring had disappeared. She almost wept.
Why did everything have to change, to die?
She cut across the weedy lawn in front of the bandshell. One more instance of death and decay, she thought, keeping her head lowered. The last thing she wanted to see was how the old structure, its stucco coating falling away, its rough timber beams exposed to the elements, was deteriorating. She hadn't been here since the afternoon of her mother's funeral, when she'd walked this way to escape the smothering sympathy of her friends and neighbors. That day she'd seen how the bandshell had fallen into disuse, and had wept for a fading town as much as for her own loss.
Sally wished she could have seen Whiterock in the '50s, before so many of its young people had gone away to war—and afterward found new lives elsewhere. Pop had told her of the Whiterock of his childhood, and it had sounded like something out of a Judy Garland movie. Now it was a sad little, tired little town slowly eroding away as its elderly died and its young departed.
As she would go, the first chance she got.
After Pop died.
* * * *
Gus unloaded his last few deliveries in Juntura and found a flat parcel with Sally Carruthers's name on it.
"Damn!" He checked his watch. Four o'clock, and he had a seventy-mile drive ahead of him, even without a detour into Whiterock. For a moment, he was tempted to leave it where it was—he could deliver it next Wednesday.
Or his replacement could.
On the other hand, what did he have to do this evening? Watch TV and guzzle beer. And he'd done too bloody much of both already.
Knowing there was no cell service in Juntura, he went to the pay phone on the outside wall of the general store, dropped a quarter into the slot. When Frank answered, he said, "This is Gus. I'm running a little late, so I'll call you when I get to town."
He didn't have a key—didn't want one—so Frank had to be there to let him in. That, or let him hold on to his money and charge slips overnight.
"Don't bother. I'll see you in the morning."
Gus agreed and hung up. He couldn't decide whether Frank trusted him because of Roger's recommendation, or because there wasn't enough cash on this route to worry about.
All the way back to Whiterock, he wondered why he was being so damn obliging. He couldn't imagine mending or dry cleaning important enough that it couldn't wait a week.
She didn't answer the front door, even when he rang a second, and then a third time. He pounded on it, and this time, he heard, faintly, "Hold your horses. I'm coming!" It seemed to come from overhead, rather than from inside.
He waited a good two minutes before he saw her through the narrow side windows. She was scampering down the wide stairs, wearing something long, flowing and pale.
The door flew open.
"Lyle, what are you—you're not Lyle!"
He held out the forgotten parcel.
"Nope. Thought you might need this before next week."
"Oh." She drew the monosyllable out into a breathy sigh. "It's you."
Patiently, he lifted the parcel a little higher, raised his eyebrows in matching inquiry.
"Oh. Yes. Just let me..." She unhooked the screen, pushed it open.
Pushed it farther, until it was wide enough for him to enter.
"Come in," she said. "You're just in time for supper."
Gus looked into her eyes, wide and blue and plaintive. She needed him.
He didn't want to be needed.
Being needed carried a price he wasn't willing to pay.
He drew a deep breath full of the hurtful words he would batter her with...
And smelled lemon oil polish and rose sachet, honeysuckle perfume and warm, freshly bathed woman.
He couldn't help himself. He stepped over the threshold. With one hesitant hand, he reached out and touched her cheek. It was warm, slightly damp, soft as milkweed silk.
Her head turned, just a fraction, but enough to let him touch her lips.
The jolt of sensual electricity was so strong this time that it destroyed his thoughts. All he knew was that he had to have more of her, had to taste her, hold her, fill his hands and his mouth and his soul with her.
He pulled her to him, feeling pliant woman, yielding woman, scented, earthy woman along the hard length of his body. His mouth found hers and devoured it. His tongue found the hard ivory of her teeth, the rich, humid surface of her underlip, the seeking strength of her tongue. He swallowed her moans, and gave her his to consume. He drew her tongue into his mouth and played with it, exchanging his for it with thrusts telling her what he wanted. His hands found her bottom, covered only by the silky fabric of her drifting robe and grasped, kneaded, cupped. Lifted.
Sally swayed with the wind of his passion, with an intensity of her own. Her breasts crushed against his powerful chest, her pelvis cradling his erection, her feet dangling inches above the floor, she was conscious of nothing but the taste and feel and scent of him. Yet, she was aware of every sound, every smell, every sight in her surroundings.
She was terrified.
She was exhilarated.
She wanted him. She wanted to lead him down the wide hall to her lonely bedroom and ravish his body until he begged for mercy, until he died from sexual exhaustion. His calluses were hard and rough on her breast, even through the light tricot of her robe, the fragile fabric of her nightgown. He touched her gently, cupping and supporting, one finger drifting gently across the tight, beaded nipple until she wanted to cry out with the exquisite pain of it.
Slowly, he let her slide down, against his belly and thighs, letting her feel his rigid tumescence. As her feet found the floor, he bent over her, clasped her in both arms and held her, gently, yet with unbreakable bonds, against his chest.
Her heart pounded in her ears...or was it his? His broad frame trembled, or were the vibrations hers? His lips nipped at the lobe of her ear and she shivered—and felt an answering shiver in him.
He lifted his head against her clinging hands. She didn't want to let him go, didn't want this incredible interlude to end.
"What's happening?" His voice was hoarse, breathless. "How did we..."
"I...I don't know." She pushed him away. Her knees wobbled.
"I want you, damn it!" He shook her slightly, hands tight on her upper arms. "And I don't want to!"
Sally looked into his face, saw raw anger fighting with desperate hunger. The one frightened her, the other ignited her blood.
"Wait," she said, pushing him away. "We've got to talk about this. To understand..."
He released her and took a step back, mouth twisting into a cynical half-smile.
"What's to talk about?"
"Why are you so angry?" Sally retreated until she felt the edge of the bottom step pressing against her ankle. "I didn't—"
He cut her off with a sharp gesture. She grabbed his arm as he turned to the door.
"Damn it, you will listen to me!" she yelled, and jerked him back to face her. "You started this, I didn't." Still holding on to his arm, she pulled him closer, until they were nose to nose. "I was just being neighborly—"
"Crap! You were coming on to me."
"I was... Why, you conceited ass!" Sally caught at the frayed edges of her temper, held on tight. "Look, Gus, you helped me this morning when I really needed it. So, when you showed up...went out of your way to come back... I was just trying to show my gratitude."
He stopped trying to pull free. The flat green of his gaze seemed to bore right into her. She lowered her lashes, hiding eyes that never had been able to keep a secret.
Carefully arranging a friendly smile on her lips and in her eyes, she looked up at him and said, "I've made potato soup. Would you like some?"
For an instant, she thought she saw a hunger she recognized—for companionship, for shared laughter, for comfortable silences. The stone in the lines and angles of his face softened ever so slightly.
"Got any oyster crackers?"
She let her eyes close in relief. He wasn't going to storm out, wasn't going to go away mad. And forever.
"Is there any other way to eat potato soup?"