Bayou My Love: A Novel (29 page)

“I
think this means you missed me too,” he said, his lips moving against my ear.

“You
have no idea.” I dragged my fingers down his back. He squeezed my shoulders as
he kissed me, hard, and I cried out as his cheek slid down my neck to my
breasts.

I
loved the roughness of his chin, the hard edges of his teeth, and I gripped him
tighter as my own touch became rougher. The friction of his body moving against
mine made me dizzy. In one swift move, he rolled onto his back, pulling me on
top of him so my knees were on either side of his chest. The way he moved so
fast and with such force only made my heart pound louder in my chest.

I’d
never been with a man as passionate as Jack, a man who seemed intent on making
me feel so much pleasure. He took control of me in the best way, guiding my
hands over his body, pressing them into his skin as if hoping to leave traces
he’d see the next day. I squeezed his hips, and his eyes darkened in the most
delicious way. I leaned in to kiss his chest, moving down as slowly as he had
with me, but as I reached his hips, he rolled me onto my back again and held me
fast in his grip. My breath quickened. I wanted him to take me roughly, to make
me feel his strength, and when I stared at him, I knew he could see it in my
eyes.

He
moved his fingers in small strokes, teasing me with kisses that stole my
breath. I thought my lips would surely bruise, but I needed to feel this desire
that seemed to grow within him with each passing moment. A groan came from deep
within my throat, and I wound my fingers in his hair, surprised by the thoughts
that crept into my mind. I wanted him to take me every way he could, over and
over, until I was too tired to breathe. When I could stand his teasing no more,
I tightened my legs around him and said, “Jack, I can’t wait another second.”

“Oh,
yes you can,” he said, half-smiling.

“You’re
making me crazy.”

“That’s
the idea.”

I
dug my fingers into his shoulders as I pressed my mouth against his neck to
muffle my cries. When I looked back at him, he smiled in that devilish way of
his that said he knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of
stopping. Turning his attention back to my breasts, his chin barely touched my
skin as he traced small circles with his tongue.

“You
taste so sweet,” he said.

I
leaned back into the pillows, closing my eyes. The room was spinning like I was
drunk. Jack’s breaths came hard and fast; when he pressed himself against me, I
could feel the thumping of his heart against my chest. My skin tingled where it
touched his, like static electricity, and still I wanted more.

“You
drive me wild looking at me like that,” he said.

I
grabbed his hair and pulled his face close to mine. I felt like some other,
freer version of myself. “Come here, you’re too far away.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” he said. His smile said he was about to give me everything I wanted and
more, and as he moved inside me, I cried out, unable to control myself.

“Enza,”
he said, his voice going hoarse. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“An
inkling,” I said, my breath catching in my throat.

He
laughed, his teeth pinching my neck as he kissed me. He lifted my hips, taking
me by surprise so that I cried out again, helpless under his spell.

“Do
you like it this way,” he whispered, moving hard and fast, and my voice cracked
when I spoke.

“Don’t
stop,” I breathed. “Don’t ever stop.”

Digging
my fingers into his back, I whispered things I never thought I’d say aloud, and
his movements became bolder, a staccato rhythm. He could sense exactly what I
wanted, and as my voice deepened, so did his thrusts.

“I
knew you were a rough and tumble gal, cher,” he said, nearly out of breath.

I
locked my knees around his hips, drawing him in farther, until he cried out
himself, as if touched by a firebrand.

“Enza,”
he said, calling my name again and again. No one had ever called my name like
that, but then Jack wasn’t like other men I’d known.

His
hands roamed over my skin, and as he watched me respond to his own pulsing
rhythm, he moved harder, faster, until we were as close as two lovers could be.
When he kissed me again, he shifted his weight in a slow, deliberate move that
sent us both reeling.

“Jack,”
I said at last, my heart pounding. My body seemed to move all on its own, as
unpredictable as jazz. When his own movements slowed, he slid over to lie next
to me. His breath tickled my ear as he nuzzled my shoulder, sliding his fingers
along my skin, as if drawing a map that would lead him back to this moment that
he would dare me to forget.

I
reached over and ran my fingers through his hair. It was so tangled and wild I
couldn’t help myself. My eyes were heavy, but I wanted to sear that image of
him into my memory.

After
a while, he said, “You’ll put me to sleep doing that.”

“You
must be exhausted.”

He
tightened his arm around me and whispered, “In the best way.”

“That
was a little inconsiderate, mauling you right as you came through the door.”

He
mumbled, half-asleep, “Yes, that was terrible of you. Please don’t ever do that
again. Especially in a few days when I come home from my next shift.”

I
slid my hand along his chest, and he turned, locking his arms around me. He
kissed my cheek, his eyes closed, and muttered, “I don’t want you to go, cher.”

“Why,
because your life will go back to normal?”

He
mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.

“What?”
I whispered, nearly asleep.

“Because
I love you,” he said.

“You
what?” I said, thinking I’d surely misheard him, but he was quiet.

“Jack?”
I whispered.

He
snored softly, and I lay my head against his shoulder.

I
love you too,
I wanted to say, but even though I knew he couldn’t hear me, the words wouldn’t
come out.

Chapter
23

When
I opened my eyes in the morning, I was alone. I lay in bed for a while,
thinking Jack might come back. It was already bright out. It baffled me that he
could get up early after working so late, but he always woke around the same
time, regardless of what he did the day before. I admired that kind of resolve.
When it became evident he wasn’t coming back, I went to look for him.

The
kitchen was empty, but the French press was half full. I poured myself a cup of
warm coffee and walked through the house, but there was no sign of Jack. It was
already hot, the air heavy with humidity. And it was just past ten. I dreaded
the thought of working on the house in the heat. Even though I wasn’t defending
my timeline to my father any more, I still wanted to finish as soon as
possible. I opened the door and cringed, feeling the wall of heat that was late
June in Louisiana.

When
I stepped onto the porch, I saw the dog bound across the lawn, a little brown
blur in a field of green. A whistle cut the air, and I followed the sound. Jack
was down near the water, Bella rushing toward him with a stick in her mouth.
She dropped it at his feet, and he tossed it into the yard again in a graceful
arc.

The
dog thundered through the grass, the tall weeds rippling in her wake. Jack waved
at me as he tossed the stick again and grinned in the way that made my toes
curl. Even from a distance, he could set my mind reeling with all sorts of
naughty ideas.

When
the dog didn’t come back, he whistled again, calling her name. She was down by
the water, nose to the ground, ignoring him completely. He finally walked
toward her, still whistling and clapping his hands. He leaned over and tried to
wrestle something away from her, and I shivered, thinking it was no doubt some
disgusting dead thing.

Fantasy
ruined.

After
a tug-of-war style scuffle, Bella won out, and Jack fell backwards into the
grass. He stood, and the dog took off again like a bolt of lightning. I
laughed, taking great delight in watching him saunter toward the house.

He
smiled as he reached the porch. “Taking it easy, are we?” he said.

“Just
admiring the view.”

“Hmm.”
He kissed me, catching my lip.

“Keep
that up, and I’ll want to go right back to bed.”

“That
could be arranged.” He sat in the porch swing and pulled me down with him. “I
think I fell asleep on you last night.”

The
egrets had taken their usual places in the cypress trees, calling to each other
across the water. They made it seem like life was so easy around here—it almost
made me forget about things like arson.

“You
did. Mid-sentence. But I forgive you.”

“I’m
sure I can think of a suitable way to make it up to you.”

I
grinned, ruffling his hair. “I don’t doubt that.”

Part
of me wanted to laze the morning away, but I knew I should get to work on my
outside tasks. With two weeks left, I couldn’t afford to slow down.

“Hey,”
I said, “when do you think Buck might be able to start on the living room?”

Jack
looked surprised. “I don’t know. Next week, maybe?”

“Any
chance he could start sooner? I was hoping I might still get the house on the
market right by the middle of July.”

“Oh,”
he said. “That fast?”

“It’ll
probably take him a week to ten days for the repairs. Then I’ll need a few days
to paint and spiffy up. I might still make my deadline.”

“I
thought you weren’t worried about that any more.”

“Well,
I’ve still got to sell the house as soon as possible. I want to be done with my
father, and that can’t happen until I’ve paid him back the money he used for
all this.”

“Oh.”
He stood then, walking to the other side of the porch.

“Could
you ask him?”

“Yeah,”
he said, the word clipped. “Fine.” He slid his fingers along the banister rail,
staring off into the yard.

“What’s
the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing.”
He turned and whistled for the dog.

“Clearly
it’s something. Just tell me. Do you think Buck won’t want to do it? Should I
not ask him?”

“No,
Enza. He’ll do it.”

I
waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He went inside and let the screen door
slam behind him.

~~~~

I
found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee.
He didn’t look up.

“Jack,”
I said. “Talk to me.”

He
shrugged. “I just thought you were going to slow down. Take your time finishing
now.”

“The
sooner I finish, the sooner I can pay my father back. And then I can move on.”

He
turned to me, his eyes sad. “Move on where?”

“I
don’t know. But I can’t do anything until I’m square with him. He won’t wait
long for me to pay him back. He’d take me to court just to make a damn point.”

“I
don’t want you to hurry up and finish. I’ve been trying to stop counting days,
to stop picturing you driving out of here. I feel terrible about it, but I’m
not entirely unhappy when something else goes wrong in this place so you have
to stay a while longer.”

“I’m
sorry.”

“I
hate the idea of you leaving.”

I
walked over to him and placed my hand on his arm. “I know. But I have to
finish. I owe him a lot of money. More than I have.”

He
sighed, sliding his hand around my waist. “But I’m crazy about you, cher. I
want you to stay.”

“I
know you do.”

“You
can’t tell me you don’t feel something here.”

I
bit my lip. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“Of
course it does. Stay with me.”

“I
can’t, Jack. And the more you ask me, the harder it’s going to be.”

He
looked at me like I’d slapped him. It sounded easy, the way he said it.
Stay
.
As if I could forget about my house in North Carolina, forget about my debts,
forget about my father. I thought I loved Jack, but what if this was just
something that felt like love? What if I left everything behind, stayed here,
and it turned out to be a disaster? People didn’t relocate after month-long
flings. Did they?

“I’m
sorry,” I said again, sliding my fingers along his cheek.

He
turned his head and said, “So much for simple and uncomplicated, I guess.”

“We
both knew this wasn’t simple. But I still don’t regret it.”

He
scoffed, brushing past me as he walked outside onto the porch and into the
yard.

I
felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I’d never met a guy like Jack,
never felt this way about anyone before. It was easy when I kept relationships
casual. If I didn’t let men get too close, then it didn’t hurt so bad when they
left. And they always left. Sometimes I wanted them to. But with Jack, it had
been easy to let him in close, and being close meant I let myself feel things
for him I had never felt before. But being close meant being vulnerable. As
long as I thought of us as casual, then I’d be able to walk away when I was
finished.

But
it was getting harder to convince myself that was true. Unlike the men before
him, I didn’t want to fix him and send him on his way.

~~~~

For
the rest of the day, I tried to keep myself busy so I thought less about this
battle between my brain and my heart. There was no longer any need to leave the
living room in its decrepit state, so I started filling trash bags with
anything that was damaged beyond repair: remains of the curtains, lamps with
stained glass shades, books with blackened pages. We’d had the sofa, chairs and
coffee table hauled away to the dump after the fire, but we’d left everything
else in place. Some of Vergie’s things had been on the bookshelves in this
room, but most of their contents had been Jack’s. I put anything that looked
like it was his in a cardboard box and set it aside.

Jack
came back inside just long enough to get a bucket of paint from the sitting
room and to change his shirt. It was scorching outside, but he’d said he wanted
to replace a few of the bad shingles on the front of the house. Probably
because it meant he could put a few walls between us and not have to talk to me.
I knew I’d hurt his feelings earlier, but I didn’t know what to say to him now.
So I focused on cleaning out the burned room and let him concentrate on the
outside of the house. The wood shingles were pale blue, shaped like the scales
of a fish. It was a pain to replace them, but Jack had removed one himself to
use as a pattern. He’d cut them out with a jigsaw, getting the curve just
right, and painted them to match the house. When I’d peeked out the window
earlier, he’d been sanding them a little, so they wouldn’t look brand new next
to the old ones.

Jack
went back outside without saying a word.

I
hesitated, then poured a glass of water and joined him. Jack stood on a step
ladder, nailing the shingles back into place. He pulled one from the pouch tied
around his waist, took a nail that he held in his teeth, and hammered it into
place with three solid hits.

“Hey,”
I said. “Looking good.”

He’d
replaced a dozen or more already, in two separate areas by the windows. He
pulled another nail from his teeth and drove it in with three strokes, heavier
this time.

“I
thought you might be thirsty,” I continued.

He
glanced at me, pulling another shingle from the pouch. “Thanks. Just leave it
by the sawhorse.”

“I
wish you’d talk to me. Let me explain something.”

Another
shingle. Another nail. Three hits with the hammer.

“Can
you come down for a minute?” I asked.

“I
think you made yourself clear already.”

“It’s
complicated,” I said. “I could explain it better.”

“I’m
a little busy right now,” he said, driving another nail in.

I
waited a short while, but when he placed another shingle and plucked another
nail from his apron, I gave up. “OK, I’ll be inside.”

~~~~

Vergie’s
room was the only one left to paint. I was saving it for last. I opened the
trunk at the foot of the bed and took out the hat box Jack had given me. I’d
left all of the letters and journals inside like he found it. I’d only peeked
at a couple of the letters from my mother, addressed to Vergie.

They
felt heavy in my hands. I might never learn everything I wanted to know about
my mother. Maybe it was better that way. I didn’t need to know everything, but
I needed to know
something
about why she had left me. At last I untied
the ribbon holding the letters I’d been too afraid to read a few days before.
Each envelope had the same oddly slanted handwriting, and most were dated the
year my mother left us. I shuffled them into order and pulled the top letter
from the stack. My pulse quickened as I opened it.

There
were fourteen letters in all. I read them in order but still only had a glimpse
of whatever had driven my mother away. She talked a lot about me, which was
surprising. She told Vergie about the games we played, about how she was
teaching me to cook, how she’d tried to sew a patchwork quilt for me and failed.
She’d been so frustrated over not finishing that she made it into a pillow just
so she had something to show for her efforts. She mentioned a vacation we took
to the beach, playing in the ocean. She talked about being homesick for
Louisiana. The only thing she mentioned about my father was that they
“continued to grow apart.” I read the letters twice, trying to decipher
something that lay between the lines, something that might indicate an affair,
or fighting, or some other event that would have made her want to leave. But
there was no mention of any single incident. She often talked of feeling
trapped, like she was in a life she was not meant to live, but she didn’t
elaborate. I could tell she was unhappy, even as she wrote about the daughter
she loved. She often asked Vergie,
What should I do?
And I imagined her
alone, frustrated and scared—pretending to be happy in a life she didn’t like.

In
the last letter, she said she’d come to a decision and knew what she had to do
to live the life she wanted. She wrote that she would see Vergie soon and that
she looked forward to coming back.

Had
she come here all those years ago? Had she come back to live with Vergie in
this very house? Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of my mother, here, in
this room and in all the others, feeling the same way I felt about this house,
this land. Feeling like it was a sanctuary, the place that would let her be the
person she so longed to be.

Why
hadn’t she brought me with her?

I
loved my father, despite his flaws, and I couldn’t imagine how different my
life would have been without him. But I also couldn’t imagine why my mother
chose to leave me behind. With her gone, and now Vergie gone, I might never
know.