“Mmmmm,” I hum against his lips. He freezes. It takes me a beat or two to realize I'm the only one kissing. I pull back. “What is it?”
“Give me a second.” He breathes against my forehead. I stand still, holding him. I feel him swallow hard. His body feels made of stone. “When youâ¦hum or moan or cry out, the soundâit contains your song.”
“My song,” I say as if I understand, even when a million new questions pop up, reminding me that he hasn't even answered my first. “Soâ¦only talking.” He nods. “How about coughs, sneezes, burps?” I ask, trying to lessen the tension. His lips quirk upward a little at the corners.
“No spicy food for you.” He brushes my wet hair back from my face. I shudder. “Let's get you out of here.”
“Minus one shoe.” I glance down, but even with the reemerging moon, the hole is too shadowed to allow for search and rescue.
He tries to lift me up, but what I need is leverage. “You'll have to stand on my knees and I'll propel you up.”
“Propel me up? By pushing my ass?”
“Um⦔
“Okay, just be gentle. I think I'm already bruised there.”
I stand on Luke's knees. I brace my butt against his shoulder and he straightens, his hands cupping my backside and thrusting. He lifts and throws me forward. I concentrate on not yelling out as I hit the grass above on my stomach. I roll and stand, smoothing my muddy, wet skirt. Before I can ask how Luke intends to get out he churns up the slope, his knees and thighs beating the pull of gravity and sopping soil. He's up.
“Let's go.” He captures my hand.
We head toward the clubhouse, this time with the moon lighting the way. We walk up to the front door and I stop. “We're not going in there, are we?”
“It's okay. I'm a member.”
“That's not what I mean.” He glances at me under the bright lights of the covered porch. His eyes stall on my chest and I look down.
Oh, God!
I cross my arms over my soaked, tight T-shirt.
“You're cold. We're going in. I'd give you my shirt, but I think it might be worse if I'm half-naked.”
“You think?” I hiss frantically.
“Come on.” He tows me through the door. My bare foot smears mud on the light-blue entry carpet.
“Can I help you?” the hostess, a middle-aged woman, asks and gazes at us with mild annoyance. “You must be a memberâ”
“I'm a member,” Luke interrupts.
She purses her lips as if she doesn't believe him. “Do you have your membership card?”
“My parents are in the dining room.”
Oh, God! Is he bluffing? Please let him be bluffing!
“Oscar Whitmore. We just joined.” The hostess' eyes grow slightly bigger. Luke drags me behind him as he brushes by her, leaving a smudge on her white, starched sleeve. We enter the dining room, which is decorated for some occasion. A door with a sign painted “Women's Locker Room” stands at the far end. About thirty nicely dressed people chat at a long table under three glittering chandeliers.
Luke cuts to the side, making a beeline for the locker room.
“Luke?” a female voice calls from the table. Luke stops mid-stride. It's as if he's trying to decide whether we should make a run for the locker room or turn.
“Luke, get over here,” a gruff voice calls from the table. “Your mom was just talking about you.”
Slowly Luke turns. I try to yank my hand from his, but his fingers are little locks around mine. “Let go,” I whisper.
“Let's meet the parents,” he whispers back.
I drag my feet as I plaster a fake smile on my face. I keep one arm crossed in front of my frickin' perky chest. Luke leads me to the table, which is now completely silent, all eyes turned toward us. A few women whisper while staring.
“I didn't think you could come, Luke.” Her gaze takes in his clothes and then me. “What happened?” There's real concern in her eyes, and she starts to move around the table, but Luke holds up a hand.
“We fell in a hole on the golf course.”
“Are you all right?” Again she starts to come around the table. This time the man stops her.
“He's fine. Who's your friend, son?”
Luke draws me up beside him and drapes an arm around my shoulders. He casually plucks a leaf off my neck. “This is Julietta Welsh, a neighbor of ours, actually.”
“Uhâ¦you can call me Jule,” I stammer.
“Jule, this is my mom, Carolyn, and my dad, Oscar.” There's a boy sitting next to them with a comical smile. “And that's my baby brother, Jake.”
Jake frowns at the term. “I'm almost fourteen, hardly a baby.”
“You're missing a shoe,” Mrs. Whitmore says. There's a slight rustle of expensive gowns as all eyes move to my bare, mud-caked foot.
“Itâ¦it's lost in the quicksand,” I say.
“There's quicksand on your golf course?” Mr. Whitmore looks down the table at a man in a dark suit. “That's quite the hazard.”
The man laughs. “Not that I'm aware of.”
“The new pond they're building wasn't fenced off. It was dark and we fell in,” Luke says.
The atmosphere is tense. Is this natural for a country-club dinner? I've never been to one.
The man laughs tightly. He raises his eyebrow pointedly at me. “And what were you two young folks doing on the golf course in the dark?”
Luke doesn't skip a beat. He looks at his mom. “I met Jule at the bonfire. I knew you two were here and thought I would introduce you to her. We were walking across when the rain hit.”
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes turn a little glassy and she smiles. “You were bringing Jule to meet us?” She looks close to tears, joyful tears.
“Well, now,” Mr. Whitmore booms, “by all means, bring her over. We can fit in some extra chairs, can't we, Phil?”
“Uh,” I start, “I'm not really, umm, dressed appropriately.”
“And she's cold. I thought she could take a shower in the locker room,” Luke says.
“Yes, go,” Mrs. Whitmore says and ushers us away from the table. She grabs my mud-streaked hand. Hers is warm and strong, her grasp genuine. “I'll get you some fresh clothes from my locker. I know I'm much bigger than you,” she laughs, “but they're dry. Luke, shower and grab one of your father's extra jerseys. He brought some for the guests.”
Luke lets go as his mother pulls me through the locker-room door. “Here now, Jule. These are the showers. There's shampoo and soap. We'll get you warmed up in no time.” Her smile is so authentic as she watches me. She shakes her head slightly, as if she can't believe I'm really here. Maybe she'll pinch me to see if I'll yelp or just evaporate into mist.
Thirty minutes later, I sit in a white tennis outfit and size nine-tennis shoes (my feet are size seven and a half) between Luke and his mom. Luke wears a Blizzards hockey jersey and a pair of too-small shorts from his brother's locker. Apparently, Luke doesn't visit the country club often.
“You clean up nice,” Mr. Whitmore says and passes me some thinly sliced pork tenderloin. “We'll have to bring you out to some of Luke's games.”
“He's really good,” Mrs. Whitmore adds. “Takes after his dad.” She glances at Jake with a smile. “Both my boys do.”
“Keep it up,” a large man down the table calls, “and we'll be signing you as soon as you're out of college.” He winks at Luke's mom.
“And not a second sooner,” she laughs.
Big grin from the man with the slightly crooked nose of a hockey player. “Yes, ma'am.”
Luke's mom turns to me. “It's just so nice to meet you.” Her eyes dart back and forth between Luke and me. It's like I'm the first girl Luke's ever introduced to his family. He shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. Although he doesn't look at me, his leg brushes mine every few minutes under the table. The contact sends hot lightning through me. Does he feel this weird kind of electricity between us? My stomach flops around the delicious food.
Rachel's mother, Olivia Manx, is sitting in her glitz down the table. “Jule, how is your mother?” she asks and my heart drops into my already-churning stomach. Eyes turn to me again. How many here know about my mom? I set my roll back down. I won't be able to swallow it, anyway. I feel Luke's thigh press harder against mine, as if willing some strength into me.
“Oh, is she unwell?” Mrs. Whitmore asks innocently, and I see a mild smile tug at the corners of Mrs. Manx's lips. Like daughter, like mother.
“She had a nervous breakdown two months ago,” I answer bluntly, my eyes locked on Mrs. Whitmore's concerned gaze. “But she's improving, so much so that she should be home soon.”
“She is an amazing opera singer,” Luke offers, his eyes coming up from his food. “World famous.”
Will his mother worry I've inherited an unstable mind? I worry, but she smiles fondly. “When she's home, I'd love to come introduce myself.”
I nod and look back down at my plate. If I move the beans around with the gravy from the pork loin, it will look like I ate more.
“It must be difficult,” Mrs. Manx continues. She shakes her manicured curls. “It's good to see that you're getting at least one good meal in you.”
God, she makes me sound like a street urchin. “We're doing just fine,” I mumble. Should I thank Luke's mom for the meals he dropped off? Does she know who she was making them for? If she knows and I don't thank her, I'll look like an ungrateful brat. I turn to Luke's mom. “Um⦠my dad and I wanted to thank you for the lasagna. That was very nice of you.”
I feel the muscle in Luke's leg stiffen. Mrs. Whitmore's fork freezes in the air. “You're welcome?” Her eyes flash to Luke. “But actually, Luke is a very good cook.”
Luke's little brother laughs like he's watching the funniest thing on earth. Luke shovels more food in his mouth and chews. The guy eats likeâ¦well, like a hockey player, I suppose.
“Let me guess,” Jake says and leans forward to look at me, “you like mushrooms in your lasagna.”
I can only stare and nod numbly as the tumblers click into place. “You made it?” I ask Luke.
“He cooks for us several times a week,” his mom answers for him.
“Does he also bake?” I turn back to her.
“Wonderfully. He'll be a real catch for someone,” she adds and I notice a faint reddish hue to Luke's cheeks. Jake grabs his stomach, he's laughing so hard.
“Knock it off, Jake,” Mr. Whitmore growls.
Dinner continues awkwardly. Luke's father is apparently being honored for his new role as assistant coach. Several players are in attendance, along with the head coach and a few prestigious club members. Eventually the dinner plates are cleared. I glance at the time. It's ten o'clock. Yikes! I left my cell phone in Carly's car. “Is there a phone I could use? I need to call my dad.”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Whitmore says with all the approval one can load into a single word. She hands me hers.
I walk away from the table in the floppy shoes, trying not to trip. “Dad?”
“Julietta! Where are you? Carly called half an hour ago to see if you'd made it home. I thought you were with her. She seemed so unclear. Was she drinking tonight?” Dad fires questions and worry at me like a semi-automatic. “Where are you?”
“Actually Dad, I just finished eating dinner at the Windy Pines Country Club.” Silence on the other end. “Really, Dad. I met up with a friend from school and we got caught in the rain storm, so we took shelter at the country club where his family was eating.”
“Have you been drinking?”
I laugh a little, because his question doesn't sound like a serious one, more like his old joking self. “No!” I say with a roll of my eyes, which I know comes through in my voice. “You know how Oscar Whitmore moved in down the street?”
“Who?”
“The hockey player. Anyway, I'll explain it when I get home. My friend will give me a ride.”
“What's your friend's name?”
I pause, perhaps a little too long to make it sound as casual as I'd like. “Luke, Luke Whitmore. I go to school with him. His parents are very nice.”
There's a long pause. “Okay, Julietta. I'm glad you called. Come on home now.”
“Sure thing, Dad.”
I hit the off button and turn, inhaling quickly, just short of a gasp. Luke stands silently before me. “Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, Dad was just worried when Carly called sounding disoriented and without a clue as to where I was.” I frown. Will I suddenly sound disoriented too? “I told him where I was.”
Luke nods. “Good. I'll take you home.”
I say farewell to the group. Mrs. Whitmore stands and even hugs me. “Stop by sometime, Jule,” she smiles. “And I would love to meet your mother when she returns. Wish her well from her new neighbors.” The smile is authentic, the tone kind but not pitying. I really like Carolyn Whitmore.
“If your dad would like some tickets to the game, just let us know,” Oscar Whitmore calls with a wave and nod.
“Thanks.”
“Luke,” his dad calls, “take her in our car. Jule's risked her life too much tonight to ride home on the back of your bike.” Mr. Whitmore fires keys at Luke from across the room. Luke catches them in his palm as if there's a magnet hidden under his skin. “I'm sure someone here will give us a ride if you're not back in time.” Oscar winks, and I turn before anyone can see my blush.
I feel Luke's presence behind me as we walk through the foyer. I see the hostess. She looks tired. “I'm sorry about the carpet,” I say. The mud has already been scrubbed away.
The woman looks a bit surprised and nods. Her face relaxes into a grin. “No problem.” We walk by. Luke hands her something. A tip? He mumbles a thanks and her grin broadens.
The rain has completely stopped, replaced by a chill. Luke throws one arm around my shoulders, and the heat from his body radiates along my arm and side. The night is silent, peaceful. But not my head. It whirls with unasked questions, questions I hope I'll remember in the morning. I shiver and Luke rubs my bare arms. He looks down at me with a playful grin. When he looks at me like that, I can't imagine a time when he could scare me. It's as if he's a totally different person when his eyes become hard with fury.