“Willard, how can you say such a thing? Why, when you and I were—”
“When you and I were her age it was 1955, and we’d already been married for a couple of years and had a house of our own without your mother telling you or me what to do.”
Theresa could have kissed her father’s flushed cheeks. It was like discovering some hidden person, much like herself, who’d been hiding inside Willard Brubaker all these years. What a revelation to see that person assert himself at last.
“Willard, how in the world can you as much as give permission to your own daughter to go off—”
“That’s enough, Margaret!” He rose to his feet and turned her quite forcefully toward the doorway. “I’ve let you steamroll me for a lot of years, but now I think it’s time we discussed this in the bedroom!”
“Willard, if you ... she can’t—”
He led her, sputtering, down the hall until the sound of his voice drifted back. “I think it’s time you rememb—” Then the closing bedroom door cut off his words.
__________
THERESA DIDN’T KNOW
they were in the kitchen later that night when she roamed restlessly from her room thinking, she’d get something to drink, then maybe she’d be able to fall asleep.
They were standing in the shadows of the sparsely lit room when Theresa came up short in the dark entry, realizing she was intruding. She could see little of her mother, who stood in front of Willard. Their backs were to Theresa, their feet bare, and they wore tired old robes she’d seen around the house for years. But from the movement of her father’s elbows, she suspected his hands were pleasantly occupied. A soft moan came from the throat of the woman who was so glib at issuing orders. “Will ... oh, Will ...” she whispered.
As Theresa unobtrusively dissolved into the shadow of the hall and crept back to her room, she heard the murmur of her father’s very young-sounding chuckle.
__________
IN THE MORNING
the word Fargo didn’t come up, nor did the name Brian Scanlon. Margaret was as mellow as a softly plucked harp, wishing Theresa good morning before humming her way toward the bathroom with a cup of coffee. The sound of Willard’s shaver buzzed louder as the door opened. Then, from far way, she heard laughter.
It was Willard who sought out Theresa in her bedroom at the end of that day and questioned quietly from the doorway, “Are you planning to drive up to Fargo?”
Theresa looked up in surprise. “Yes, I am.”
He scratched his chin contemplatively. “Well, then I’d better take a look at that car of yours, in case anything needs tunin’ up.” He began to turn away.
“Daddy?”
He stopped and turned. Her arms opened as she came across the soft pink carpet on bare feet. “Oh, daddy, I love you,” she said against his less-than-firm jowl as his arms tightened around her. A hand came up to pet her head with heavy, loving strokes. Rough, then gentling a bit. “But I think I love him, too.”
“I know, pet. I know.”
And so it was, from Willard, the quiet one, the unassertive one, Theresa learned a lesson about the power of love.
Chapter Ten
THE FIVE-HOUR DRIVE
from Minneapolis to Fargo was the longest Theresa had ever made alone. She’d worried about getting drowsy while driving but found her mind too active to get sleepy behind the wheel. Pictures of Brian, memories of last Christmas and anticipation of the next three days filled her thoughts. At times she’d find herself smiling widely, realizing a rich appreciation for the rolling farmland through which she drove, as if her newly expanded emotions had opened her senses to things she’d never noticed before: how truly beautiful tilled black soil can be, how vibrant the green of new grass. She passed a pasture where newborn calves suckled their mothers, and for a moment her thoughts turned dour, but she wouldn’t allow herself to think of anything except the thrill of seeing Brian again.
The sapphire lakes of the Alexandria area gave way to the undulating farmland of Fergus Falls, then the earth gradually flattened as the vast deltaland of the Red River of the North spread as far as the eye could see: wheat and potato fields stretching endlessly on either side of the highway. Moorhead, Minnesota, appeared on the horizon, and as Theresa crossed the Red River that divided it from its sister city, Fargo, on the Dakota side, her hands were clammy, clutching the wheel.
She pulled the car into the parking space before the
Doublewood Inn, then sat staring at the place for a full minute. It was the first time in her life that Theresa was checking in to a motel by herself.
You’re only having last-minute jitters, Theresa. Just because the sign says Motel doesn’t mean you’re doing anything prurient by checking in to the place.
The lobby was beautiful, carpeted in deep, rich green, decorated with Scandinavian furniture of butcher-block coloring and a plethora of live green plants that seemed to bring the golden spring day inside.
“Good morning,” greeted the desk clerk.
“Good morning. I have a reservation.” She felt conspicuous and suddenly wished the clerk were a woman instead of a man—a woman would sense her honorable intentions, she thought irrationally. “My name is Theresa Brubaker.”
“Brubaker,” he repeated checking his records, handing her a card to sign. In no time at all she had a key in her hand, and to her surprise the clerk told her brightly, “Oh, Miss Brubaker, your other party has already arrived. Mr. Scanlon is in Room 108, right next to yours.” She glanced at her key: 106. Suddenly it was all real. She felt her face coloring and thanked the clerk, then turned away before he could see her discomposure.
She drove around to the back of the motel, wondering if their rooms faced this side, if Brian was watching her from one of the windows above. She found herself unable to glance up and peruse the spaces on which the draperies were drawn back. If he was watching her, she didn’t want to know it. Inside, she stopped before room 108. Staring at the number on his door, her heart thudded. The suitcases grew heavy and threatened to slip from her sweating palms.
He’s in there. I’m standing no more than twenty feet from him right now.
It was odd, but now that she was here she was suddenly reluctant to face him. What if either of them had changed in some way since Christmas? What if the attraction had somehow faded?
What will I say to him? What if it’s awkward? What if ... what if ....
Her own door was only one foot away from his. She opened it and stepped into a room carpeted in tarnished gold with a queen-size bed, a dresser, console, mirror and television. Nothing extraordinary, but to Theresa, experiencing independence for the first time, the room seemed sumptuous. She set her luggage down, sat on the end of the bed, bounced once, walked into the tiled bathroom, turned on the light, switched it off, crossed the long main room to open the draperies, switched
on
the
TV,
then switched it off again at the first hint of sound and color, unzipped her suitcase, hung up some garments near the door, then looked around uncertainly.
You’re only delaying the inevitable, Theresa Brubaker.
She stared at the wall, wondering what he was doing on the other side of it.
Just a minute more and my nerves will calm. I’d better check my makeup.
The mirror revealed everything fresh and unsmudged except her lips, which needed color. She dug out her lipstick and applied it with a shaking hand. It tasted faintly peachy and contained flecks of gold that glistened beneath the light when she moved.
You don’t put on fresh lipstick when you want a man to kiss you, Brubaker, you dolt.
She jerked a white tissue from the dispenser on the wall and swiped it swiftly across her lips, removing all but a faint smudge of remaining color. The tissues was rough and left her lips looking faintly red and chapped around the edge. Nervously she uncapped the silver tube and reapplied the peachy gloss. She met her own eyes in the mirror. They were wide and bright with anticipation. But they were not smiling. She glanced at her breasts beneath the baby blue blouse she’d bought new for this occasion. She wore no sweater today, but felt naked without it, though the tiny blue heart-shaped buttons went from the waist of her white skirt up to the tight mandarin collar that was edged with a blue ruffle. The short gathered sleeves of the blouse had a matching miniature ruffle around their cuffs. Suddenly the puffy sleeves seemed to accentuate the size of her breasts but she forced herself to look instead at her very tiny waistband into which the blouse was securely tucked.
All it takes is a knock on his door, and this uncertainty will be over.
A minute later she rapped on 108 twice, but at the third flick of her wrist her knuckles struck air, for the door was already being flung open.
He stood motionless for a long moment, one hand on the doorknob. She, with her knuckles in the air, stared at him wordlessly. Theresa saw nothing but Brian’s face, the searching green eyes with their dark spiky lashes, the lips open slightly, the familiar nose, short hair, cheeks shaven so recently they still shone. Then she became aware of how accentuated his breathing was. The form-fitting baby blue knit shirt fit his chest like liquid, hiding no trace of the swiftly rising and falling muscle beneath it.
Her body felt warm, thrumming, yet uncertain. She wanted to smile but stood immobile, staring at the face before her as if he were an apparition.
“Theresa,” was all he said, then he reached out a hand and caught hers, drawing her into the room with firm certainty. And still he didn’t smile, but only found her free hand, gripping both palms with viselike tenacity while gazing unwaveringly into her eyes. He swung her around, then turned his back to the door and closed it with his hips. “You’re really here,” he said hoarsely.
“I’m really here.” What had happened to all the charming greetings she’d rehearsed for days? What had happened to the smooth entrance with all its urbane chic, meant to put them both on a strictly friendly basis from the first moment? Why wouldn’t her lips smile? Her voice work? Her knees stop trembling?
Suddenly she was catapulted into his arms as he thrust forward, hugging her body full against his and taking her mouth with a slanting, wide, possessive kiss. Nothing gentle. Nothing hinting at easing into old familiarities, but the familiarity arising magically between them with all its stomach-lifting force. She found her arms around his trunk, hands pressed against his warm back. And, wonder of wonders, his heart was slamming against her so vibrantly she could feel the very difference between its beats. Her own heart seemed to lift each cell of her skin, sealing off her throat with its solid hammering. His hands at first forced her close, as if he couldn’t get close enough, but then as their tongues joined in sleek reunion, Brian’s palms roved in wide circles on her back, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he drew them up both her sides simultaneously, pressing her breasts, reaching inward with two long thumbs to seek her nipples briefly. His left arm returned to her back and he angled away from her slightly, cupping one breast fully, then exploring it through her blouse and brassiere while his tongue gentled within her mouth. Shudders climbed her vertebrae and raised the hairs along the back of her thighs while the pressure on her nipples continued in faint, sensuous, circular movements. It was so natural. So right. Theresa had no thoughts of stopping his explorations. They seemed as much a valid part of this reunion as the looks of reaffirmation they’d exchanged when she first stood before him.
The kiss went on unbrokenly as his hands clasped her narrow hipbones and pulled her pelvis securely against his. He rocked against her, undulating, weaving from side to side, pressing his most masculine muscles against her acquiescent stomach. Without realizing it, she found herself meeting each stroke of his hips, pressing against him, lifting up on tiptoe because he was so much taller and she yearned to feel his hardness closer to her point of desire.
Still clasping her hips, Brian ended the kiss. His warm palms pushed downward until her heels again touched the floor, then he held her firmly, so she couldn’t move. He rested his forehead against hers while their strident breaths mingled, and their moist lips hovered close, swollen and still open.
Her hands were still on his back. She felt the muscles grow taut with resolution as he pressed firmly on her hipbones. It suddenly struck her how easily these things happen, how readily she had lifted against him, how opportune was the hand of Nature in making a body thrust and ebb when the circumstances called for it.
She was chagrined to think that now he might believe she’d come here with sex in mind. She hadn’t, not at all. But how fast her body had dictated its wishes.
“I was so scared to knock on that door,” she admitted. He lifted his forehead from hers, bracketed her cheeks with his palms and studied her at close range.
“Why?”
“Because I thought ....” His eyes were as stunning as she remembered. They wore an expression of ardency that surprised her. “I thought, what if things aren’t the same between us? What if we imagined ... this?”
His thumbs brushed the corners of her mouth. His lips were parted and glittered with fragments of gloss from her lipstick. “Silly girl,” he whispered, before pulling her face upward to meet his descending one. Again she raised on tiptoe, but this time their bodies barely brushed. The peach-flavored kiss was bestowed by his tongue and lips in a testing circle around her mouth, tugging, wetting once again while his hands drew upon her jaws, first lifting her, then letting her recede as if she were drifting in the surf, mastered by its rush and release. “Oh, Theresa,” he murmured while her eyes fell closed, “Nothing’s changed for me. Nothing at all.” He pressed her away only far enough to gaze into her eyes. “Has it for you?”
How incredible that he should ask. He, who emerged so flawless in her loving eyes. When she studied him again, reality seemed to buckle her lungs and knees. The expression in his eyes said he’d been as uncertain as she had. Theresa ran her hands from his elbows along his hard arms to the wrists. “Nothing,” she whispered, allowing her eyelids to close once more while pulling first his left hand from her jaw to kiss its palm, then doing likewise with his right. “Nothing.” She looked into his somber eyes and watched them change, grow light, relieved. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “You have more of my lipstick on than I do.”