Born Innocent (7 page)

He stepped back a little and looked at her, his eyes heavy and hot. “God,” he breathed. “So beautiful. So soft.” He touched her breast, just a brush of a touch, with the tip of a finger. Then he snared her hand. “Come on.”

He led her down a dim hall to a bedroom sparsely furnished with an old, brass-framed double bed, a scarred dresser and a wooden rocking chair. From a hall closet, he produced clean sheets and they made the bed up fresh.

Then he took her to the bathroom, where he showered— carefully—as he’d said he would, and she sat waiting outside the tub with a towel to dry him off when he emerged. She did some looking herself, then, and found him as long and lean and tough as the wolf he sometimes made her think of.

She dried him—carefully—counting the scars on his hard body, kissing them, wondering how he’d acquired them, but not daring to ask.

At the back of a drawer in that same bathroom, he found two condoms. The packaging was wrinkled and marred, and Joe allowed that they’d probably been in the drawer for a couple of years.

“
Even though my mother made her living on her back,” he remarked dryly, “I guess I’m no Casanova.”

She’d known about his mother, of course. Everyone in Pine Bluff knew. Still, she ached a little for him, hearing him say that hard truth out loud. At the same time, she felt gladness that he was “no Casanova.”

He went on, “And I’m not so sure that these are still good.”

She took one of the packages and studied it, without opening it. “I think it’ll be okay. And I don’t think I can get pregnant now, anyway.”

They looked at each other, naked and unashamed in the harsh bathroom light. They both smiled and said in unison, “It’ll be fine....”

She laughed, and he laughed back. And then they were reaching for each other, touching each other, eager as children for forbidden sweets.

He put his arms around her and waltzed her out of the bathroom and across the bedroom to the newly made bed. They fell across it.

He said, suddenly gruff, “I don’t want to wait.” He pressed himself against her. “I want to be inside you.”

They had fallen facing each other. In answer, she rolled, guiding him over her, opening herself. He rose up between her knees, fumbling with the condom. She reached out, gentle and sure, to help him slide it on.

That accomplished, she lay back, looking at him, memorizing him above her—hard beauty and danger, cruel sweetness. Her love. He said something crude and poignant, something needful and real.

And he came down upon her, burying himself in her with one hard, certain thrust. She cried his name. He devoured the single word with a kiss, pushing himself so far up into her that the burning pleasure bordered on pain.

Then, having totally claimed her, he braced himself on his lean, strong arms and looked down at her, grimacing a little at the strain his own weight was putting on his bad shoulder. She reached up, to try to pull him down into her softness. But he shook his head and kept his elbows locked.

He looked at her—at her face, her soft breasts, and even lower—to the place where they were joined.

He pulled back. She whimpered. He pushed into her once more.

He muttered, “Claire. I wanted...to do this. To see this...you and me....”

And she moved, accepting and welcoming under him, taking the pain of his barren life, the horror of Mexico, all of it, any and everything that had ever hurt him and hardened him, into herself, holding it there, and finally giving it back as pure pleasure—as love.

Love unspoken. Because she didn’t say the words. He didn’t want the words. She would be his forever—but they would only share this one night.

She held him, moving with him, and this time they climbed to the stars together, hovered there, and cried out in unison as they careered back to earth.

They rested. Later, they made love once more, slowly and so sweetly, and she fell asleep with her head cradled in the crook of his unhurt shoulder.

She woke alone at dawn. She sat up in bed and looked around, and knew without having to search the rundown house that he had gone.

She didn’t cry. She understood. They had an agreement. It was easier this way.

Now, six weeks later, seated on a rock by the river in the darkness, Claire laid her head on her gathered-up knees and allowed herself to cry.

She cried for her foolishness, for her irresponsibility on that starkly beautiful night. It was clear now that those condoms
had
been too old. She cried for her own desire, which had led her to this place and then left her to work out her fate on her own. She cried for the tiny baby growing within her. And she cried for her hopeless, unfulfilled love for Joe Tally.

Finally, no closer to a plan of action, but somewhat soothed by the release that tears bring, she wiped them away and stood up. She took in a long, deep breath.

The crying was over. Soon, she’d have to decide what to do. But not tonight. Tonight she’d be using all the energy she had left just to find her way back to her cottage and drop into bed.

Fighting growing exhaustion, she staggered back along the dark trail, sighing with relief when she at last came to the end of it and her sneakers touched paved road. When she reached Snow’s Inn, most of the rooms were dark. As she slid around the side of her cottage, she spotted her casserole dish, waiting where she’d left it on the corner of the front porch what seemed like a lifetime ago. She scooped it up and carried it with her to the back door.

Once she attained the sanctuary of her cottage, she discovered it was later than she’d thought: almost one. She put her pajamas back on, and fell across her bed and slept deeply and without dreams until dawn.

Claire moved through the next morning by rote, forcing herself to eat breakfast, to take care of the check-in desk. Soon enough it was eleven, and Amelia Gennero, her relief housekeeper, arrived for work.

Claire left Amelia to take care of the desk, stepped out onto the porch—and heard the music coming from the other side of the river.

Lord, with all her own troubles, she’d forgotten that today was a holiday.

She walked across the bridge and found Main Street packed with tourists. The street was lined with makeshift booths, while the town loudspeaker system blared patriotic songs. Claire sent a grateful little prayer to heaven that this year Verna would be handling the Snow’s Inn float for the parade at noon. Otherwise, Claire would be up in the schoolyard right now, taking instructions from her mother. For as long as Claire could remember, Ella Snow had orchestrated the Fourth of July parade.

Just as Claire reached the door to Mandy’s Cafe, five “poppers”—tiny white firecrackers that were actually legal in Pine Bluff—exploded in quick succession at Claire’s feet. A little girl laughed and shot off on swift bare feet, jostling tourists out of her way. Thinking that she’d be lucky to get through this day without murdering some firecracker-crazy kid, Claire went into the cafe and discovered she would have to wait to even get a seat at the counter.

Once she found a space, she ate her lunch with patient determination, forcing herself to smile and wave greetings whenever she saw someone she knew. Claire was just
polishing off the last of her bacon-and-tomato sandwich when Sheriff Dan Brawley slid his ample bulk onto the stool next to hers.

“
Hey, Short Stuff. Where’s my smile?” The sheriff had always called her Short Stuff. He and her father had been close friends. When Claire was a child, Sheriff Dan and his wife, Ardette, often came over for Sunday dinner at the Snows’ house. “Hey, Short Stuff!” Sheriff Dan would shout, and then he’d pick Claire up and toss her, giggling, toward the ceiling. Since then, Claire had grown to an above-average height, but Dan Brawley had never relinquished his pet name for her.

Claire pasted on a smile for him. “Hi, Sheriff Dan.” She looked into his crinkly blue eyes. He’d been the sheriff for as long as Claire could remember. He was levelheaded and kind, and yet everyone in town knew that he could be tough when he had to be. Every four years, they voted him back in like clockwork.

Seeing him made her think of last night, when Alan Henson had attacked her and she’d considered calling her old family friend in his professional capacity.

“
Claire?” the sheriff was asking, “are you okay?”

She nodded. “Fine.” She realized she must have looked very strange right then, or Sheriff Brawley would never have called her by her real name. Claire shrugged, thinking it was no wonder if she looked strange. The past twenty-four hours had been nothing short of grueling, as far as she was concerned. “Just having...one of those days, that’s all,” she told him feebly. She glanced at the big clock on the wall.

It was three minutes to twelve. She’d told Henson to be out by noon—and then forgotten all about him once she’d seen the results of the pregnancy test. She should get back. If he hadn’t checked out by now, she was going to have to deal with him.

She put her money on the counter and signaled to Mandy, who gave her a nod. “Gotta go,” she told the sheriff. “See ya.”

“
Take care, Short Stuff.”

“
You bet.”

Back at the motel, Claire took over from Amelia and asked if Alan Henson had checked out during the past hour.

Amelia, eighteen years old and under strict instructions not to chew bubble gum while working the desk, now unwrapped a piece. “Uh-uh.” She stuck the gum in her mouth. “Was he supposed to?”

“
Yes.” Claire picked up the desk phone and punched Henson’s extension. It began to ring. Amelia was already turning for the door, on her way to begin cleaning the rooms. “Amelia?”

Chomping Bazooka, Amelia looked back. “Yeah?”

Claire put the mouthpiece below her chin and asked, “Could you wait? Just a minute?”

“
Sure.” Amelia sat down in a straight chair by the door and stared at Claire, her jaw working industriously at the pink wad of gum.

Alan Henson’s phone went on ringing.

Finally, Claire gave up. She put the phone down. “Amelia, would you come with me to Mr. Henson’s bungalow, please?”

Amelia cracked her gum and looked at Claire with wide eyes. “What’s going on?”

Claire explained carefully, “It’s nothing terrible, really. Mr. Henson and I had a
...
disagreement last night. I asked him to be out by noon today. Since he’s not, I’ll have to talk to him again. And since he doesn’t seem to be answering the phone, I’m going to have to do it face-to-face. I’d just feel better if someone went with me. However, if you feel uncomfortable about it...”

Amelia didn’t need to hear more. She sucked the bubble she’d been blowing back into her mouth and stood up. “Nah, I don’t mind. Let’s go.”

Claire left the lobby open, and they went out the back way, through her apartment and across the thick lawn that was still damp from its morning watering. Amelia walked slightly behind, cracking her gum all the way.

“
Hey, look at that,” Amelia said when they reached the short steps that led up to the bungalow’s miniature porch. “The door’s open a crack. You think maybe he’s gone?”

Claire shook her head. “His car’s still there.” She pointed at the silver Mercedes parked on Pine Court, the street that ran behind the bungalow.

Claire mounted the steps. “Alan? Mr. Henson?”

Henson gave no answer. So Claire squared her shoulders and marched up to the door. She knocked, an awkward knock, since she was trying not to push the door open at the same time.

And then she realized that all this hesitancy was getting her nowhere. If he was in there, he was hiding, and if he was hiding she was going to have to do more than tap politely and wait until he felt like answering.

She laid her palm on the door and gave it a push. It slid open on silent hinges.

“
Mr. Henson!” she called.

But then she realized that calling would do no good, because Alan Henson couldn’t hear her. He was lying on his side on the floor over by the credenza. He was utterly still. And the dark stain that had ruined the braided rug beneath him looked very much like drying blood.

Amelia started shrieking. “Omigod! Oh, gross! He’s dead!”

Claire tuned her out. Slowly, pressing back the eerie feeling of unreality that seemed to have settled over the whole world like a shroud, Claire stepped through the open door.

“
Claire! Don’t go in there! Oh, God. Somebody killed him!”

Ignoring Amelia’s babbled pleas, Claire approached the still figure. She bent, and laid two fingers on his neck. The skin was cool but not cold. Against the pads of her fingers, she felt the faintest fluttering.

She looked up through the doorway at Amelia, who’d stopped squawking and was now simply staring, making little whimpering noises, her mouth half open, the pink wad of gum forgotten on her tongue.

“
I think he’s still alive,” Claire said.

But this was all too much for Amelia, who only stared uncomprehending, shaking her head.

Claire stood up again. “Come on, we have to get the ambulance.” She started to reach for the phone, and then realized there was no one at the desk to channel the call. So she rushed out, around the still-staring Amelia, and flew down the steps and across the grass.