Gathering String (19 page)

He found her standing in the kitchen, at the front door watching the rolling thunderheads. “There you are.” When he spoke, she jumped.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” She caught her breath. He was wearing a painfully white t-shirt with fresh jeans, and she noticed for the first time a small tattoo on the bulge of his right bicep, the twisted funnel that was the Iowa Cyclones’ symbol. He was already a little bit tan, and his thick hair, toweled dry, looked darker in the dim light.

“We’re not going to beat the storm back to town.” He put the empty Gatorade bottle on the counter, and opened the fridge. “Want another?” She shook her head. Opening a beer for himself, he took a sip, coming toward her, squinting to see down the porch line and the sky beyond. “It looks like we might want to wait this out. It’s going to really rain.”

She nodded. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a clear view of an approaching storm. This house sits up higher than anything else around. I’ve been watching the lightning.” As if on cue, a jagged bolt crackled through the dark sky, forking to the ground. A few seconds later a hollow boom rolled over them. “I’ve never seen the sky do things like this. It’s just …”

“Beautiful,” he finished for her. “Yeah, the view’s great from here.” He saw her camera on the table, and touched her damp hair, the curls drawn tight. “You were out in the rain?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Just as it started. I saw a shot in your orchard I wanted.” She jutted her chin toward the camera, indicating he should take a look.

He put the beer down, and hit the review button, drawing a sharp breath at what he saw in the screen. It was a picture of a red wheelbarrow, the color rich in the odd light of the approaching storm, leaning against a tree, filled with overblown cherry blossoms. Some blooms littered the ground, and others stuck to the barrow, which was shiny with rain.

“My God, that’s …” he hesitated on a word he rarely used, “ … lovely. I had no idea - I’ve walked past that thing for a month and never saw …”

She smiled, pleased with his reaction. “I know. Sometimes it just takes another pair of eyes. It made me think of that Neruda poem …”

He shook his head, “No, it’s William Carlos Williams,” and quoted,

“
so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens”

He came to stand behind her as a flash whipped through the oddly peaked high clouds. He smelled of some light, crisp soap and wheaty beer. She looked up at him, noticing the small mouse under his eye, puffy and discolored. Reaching up, she barely touched with the tip of her little finger. “Hurt?” He shook his head, his eyes closing.

She settled back against him, his arms coming around her, and in silence they watched the lightning light up the clouds and jab at the ground, almost continuously, the thunder washing over them again and again.

She felt the hard line of his jaw graze the top of her head, and then what must have been his lips brush through her hair. He pulled her back against him a little tighter, his right hand moving to her side where her blouse ended just at the top of her jeans. His fingers were cold from the beer bottle, and they pressed into the smooth skin, then dipped a bit to rest at the top of her hip. She could feel his heartbeat through the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

“OK, farm boy,” her own voice was husky to her ears. She nodded toward the tortured sky, now roiling into a greenish and black-gray color, the wind beginning to back and rush, first from one direction, then another. “What’s going on out there? Things are moving pretty fast in that sky.”

“Well,” his breath tickled as he leaned down and spoke, softly, his mouth close to her ear. He pointed with his left hand. “You see that bank, higher and lighter in color, coming in from the south? That’s the warm front.” Behind them, Rover began to whine, and crept under the table, his belly on the floor. “Over there,” he pointed lower, “all that dark green mass, that’s hanging down and moving in fast from the west? That’s cold air. So, what we’ve got are the two coming together. At the moment they’re just kind of circling around, struggling to find a way to fit together.” He dropped his arm, his hand closing on her ribs, just below her breast. “They’ll twist and turn, but finally it’ll happen.”

His smooth chin brushed against her cheek, and she smiled, realizing he shaved before he’d come down. His lips touched just under her ear, and moved down, slowly, along the back of her neck. She shivered as she asked, “And when they do?”

He turned her in his arms. “Then a hell of a storm is going to come right down on us.” His mouth came down hard on hers, and she felt herself melt right into him, his powerful arms holding her up, her knees weak.

“Should we take shelter?” She could barely hear her own breathless voice against the wind and the thundering of her heart.

“We already have.” Drawing her with him, he stepped back, closing the door tight against the rising wind. He grasped her hand, pulling her toward the stairs.

Halfway up, just as they reached the landing, a flash of lighting hit nearby with an electric crack, and she flinched, grabbing his arm. The light over the stairs went out, and the stereo stopped, but Jack laughed softly and swung her into his arms, holding her easily. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. “This old house has seen a thousand storms like this.” Even in the dark, he knew the way so well he didn’t so much as pause. Brushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder, he put her down in the center of the huge bed. The lightning seemed to be in the room, illuminating them in bright, blinding flashes, the thunder nearly constant. She came to her knees reaching for him, pushing his shirt up, running her hands up and over the smooth, taut muscles of his chest, again and again, pausing only to press her fingers hard and deep against the broad width of his heavy shoulders.

His fingers moved quickly down the line of tiny buttons on her blouse opening it and tossing it aside. He fingered the long chain she wore underneath and would have lifted it over her head, but she caught his hand, whispering, “Leave it.”

In the flashing light, his face did indeed seem like sculpture, the fine contours of his cheekbones and chin clear and sharp. With an easy snap, he flipped open the front closer of the silky bra she wore. As he lowered his head, she felt the soft growl deep in his throat under her fingertips. He pushed her back, letting his weight pin her to the bed, holding her still while his hands moved over her, pulling away the rest of her clothes. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he murmured over and over.

She stretched herself out, offering every inch, delighting in the feel of his long, smooth, stroking hands, his lips and tongue following where they had gone, warm and moist. This was exactly what she wanted from the first moment she saw him. She wanted to see his broad shoulders rise above her, feel his arms circling her, holding her tight in his grasp.

The thunder was a distant rumble when the phone on the nightstand rang. “Don’t answer it,” she murmured, drowsy against his chest, listening to the slowing drum of his heart.

“I think I’d better.” He reached over her, pulling up the receiver with, “Yeah?”

She could hear a man’s voice, talking excitedly, and Jack replied, “No, Wayne, there’s nothing wrong …” In response to another question, he cleared his throat. “I was almost asleep, that’s all …” She snickered, and under her cheek she felt him catch his breath to keep from laughing. “Of course the yard light’s out. There’s no power … Yeah, I saw the funnel, but it didn’t touch down. No, we’re, uh, everything’s fine. I haven’t been out, but I don’t think there’s any real damage.” She started to giggle again, but stopped abruptly when he replied to something else with, “No, no need to come over. I’m just going to call it an early night for a change.”

The medal she wore glinted in the fading lightning flashes, and he smiled slowly, reaching out to catch the disk that dangled between her breasts. “Well, they might have if I hadn’t picked up. They didn’t see the yard light and just wanted to make sure I hadn’t been blown away.”

Her eyes went wide with amusement. “Are they always so curious about such personal matters?” He laughed. “You’ve got an awful lot of people minding your business, you know that, Westphal?”

He shrugged. “I guess it got to be kind of a habit with folks around here.” Then, squinting, he tried to make out the markings on the medallion, asking, “What is this?”

“That is St. Francis de Sales, and he was a gift from my father when I graduated from Brown. Dad’s a devout Catholic. I, however, am lapsed, but I promised him I would always wear it.”

“Ah, and why St. Francis, who I must say is a very lucky fellow.”

“He’s the patron saint of journalists, and he's there for my protection.”

Gently he raised the medal to his lips and said softly, “Well, I agree with your dad. Keep him right there. You should always be protected.” Tenderly, he pulled her close and kissed her, then said he was hungry, and went to the kitchen in dark. He came back with candles, potato chips and beer that was still cold in spite of the dead fridge. They ate and drank by candlelight in the middle of his king-size bed.

It continued to rain the whole night long and they made love again and again, with all the pent-up need of two people who had been alone too long. He was an ardent, generous lover, a delightful mix of intensity and playfulness, strength and finesse. Somewhere near dawn, they both finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

In spite of their jobs, the long drives between their homes, and getting ready for Dolly Timm’s gallery opening, Jack and Tess spent more and more time together. She loved his house. He encouraged her to explore every room. In one of the upstairs bedrooms, where Jack had set up his weight equipment, she nodded toward the glassed-in half-room, separated from the bedroom by French doors. The windows went floor to ceiling, around three of the four sides. “What’s out there?”

“Just the old sleeping porch. Back before the house had central air and combination windows, they’d put on screens in the summer, and on hot nights folks would sleep out there.”

She sighed. “I’d love to. But I don’t have this great space.” He didn’t smile as she expected he would. “Besides, my job gets in the way.” She looked moodily out at the yard and orchard below the windows and muttered, “Sometimes I feel like just a piece of fucking photographic equipment.” She turned to see his eyes had narrowed at her choice of words and understood how harsh she sounded. “I know. I should be happy. There are so many laid-off photojournalists, not to mention a new flock graduating every year, who would give anything to get a crack job at a good paper for half what I’m paid. I shouldn’t complain.”

The next weekend she spent there, she found the room cleaned out and a new easel in place of his weights. “Where are your things?” she gasped, stunned, delighted.

“In the basement. I don’t need good light to lift.” She would have protested, but he pulled her into his arms. “I just want to give you a good reason to keep coming all the way out here.”

“I already had a good reason.”

His smile deepened. “Then I want to give you two. Bring your paints. I like the idea of this being your studio.” When he leaned down to kiss her, he slipped a key to the front door into her hand.

She immediately went to work on the picture of the wet wheelbarrow covered in cherry blossoms. She wasn’t sure which pleased him more, coming home to find her there, one of his old dress shirts covering to her knees as she worked, or watching the painting come together.

It was a great place to work. The light really was fantastic, and the profound quiet allowed her to focus completely. Even when Jack was home, there was an unspoken understanding that each would pursue their own interests. He had a million things that kept him busy, if not working in his office on
Journal
business or reading other news sites online, then outdoors cutting grass, trimming trees, or keeping up the outbuildings, Rover following dutifully. Later, when both were ready, they’d come together in easy companionship, sometimes to talk about what they’d been doing, sometimes not.

When he was in the house, the music was always on, and his eclectic taste amused her. Sometimes U2, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Bach, Springsteen or Dylan came floating out of the speakers in her workroom. Or, just as likely, Vivaldi, Guns ‘N Roses, Rush or Aretha Franklin. With Jack, you never knew. He had three TVs, but if he turned one on at all, it was to watch a ball game. Otherwise, they went mostly unused.