Edge of Paradise Page 9

  Rosalie laughed.

  "What's so funny, Mom?" asked Jimmy, coming into the kitchen, stretching and yawning. He was the late bloomer, the late sleeper.

  "All this time I thought I was taking care of the two of you." She got up to give Jimmy a hug. "Now it seems that the two of you are taking care of me."

  "Fine by me. Who do you want killed?" Snarling, he got into a boxing stance, then punched the air three times.

  "I was just telling Mom how grown up we are, but you blew it, Ace."

  "It was temporary childhood regression, that's all." Jimmy scooped up the cereal box, then grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. "Boy, it's good to be home." He sniffed the air. "Just smell all that home cooking. Turkey, dressing, apple pie."

  "Did I hear somebody say apple pie?" Betty breezed into the kitchen without knocking, bearing a basketful of pies, her annual contribution to the Thanksgiving meal.

  Jack and Jimmy left their places at the table to give her big hugs. She pinched their cheeks and squeezed their arms.

  "If you two get any handsomer, I'm going to have to follow you down to school to beat the girls off with a baseball bat."

  "Jack's got one that needs beating off. She covers him like white on rice."

  "Speak for yourself, Ace."

  Rosalie joined the lively banter, but her heart was only half to it. Across the way a single light burned in a lonely kitchen.

  o0o

  David told himself he wasn't going. He even told Rover he wasn't going.

  "No point in getting worked up over Thanksgiving." He opened a can of dog food and poured it in Rover's dish. "The two of us will do just fine, won't we, boy?" Rover thumped his tail in agreement. "Who needs a family? Right, boy?" The dog's tail whacked the floor. "Just because she's sweet and soft and gentle . . . that's no reason to break a long-standing tradition, eh. Rover?"

  Rover, heavily involved in his gourmet meal, ignored the question.

  David wandered over to his window. Rosalie's tall sons were helping her in the kitchen. They moved back and forth with china plates, while Betty stirred something in a big pot on the stove.

  David wondered if it was giblet gravy. He'd had it one Thanksgiving down at the station. He and Hubert Franklin had been on duty, and Hubert's wife had brought dinner down, turkey with all the trimmings, including giblet gravy. Franklin had said it was a dying art, making that gravy.

  David stood at his window, looking into Rosalie's kitchen but seeing inside his soul. Not even one glimmer of light relieved the stark blackness in that yawning void.

  Suddenly, he found himself staring into Rosalie's eyes. She was at her window, the curtain clutched in her hand. His heart slammed against his chest, and sweat gathered on his upper lip in spite of the chill.

  Then Rosalie lowered the curtain and was gone. David walked away from the window, watching his warped floor so he wouldn't trip in the cracks.

  o0o

  Rosalie delayed the meal as long as she could. Finally, it was clear to her that David was not coming.

  "Let's eat." she said.

  "I thought you were never going to say that. Mom," Jimmy said. "I'm starving."

  "You're always starving," Jack told his brother. As he held Rosalie's chair, he leaned down and whispered, "I'm sorry about the neighbor, Mom."

  "Thanks." She patted his hand,

  Jack had already carved the turkey when the knock came at the door. Betty arched her eyebrows; Jack looked at Rosalie, and Jimmy pushed back his chair.

  "I'll get it. Mom," he said.

  "No. Wait." She touched her throat with one hand and felt the pulse beating wildly there. "I will."

  "Is it too late?" David asked when she opened the door.

  "No, David. It's never too late."

  She led him to the table and introduced him to Betty and her sons.

  o0o##

  "Shoot, Jack, did you see the way they looked at each other?"

  "So. What's the crime in looking?"

  Jack and Jimmy were in the back seat of Shine Jenkin's car, heading south toward Baton Rouge and the big post-Thanksgiving football game between their school and LSU.

  "Yeah, but he stayed to wash the dishes."

  "Mom can use the help."

  "I don't think he had washing dishes on his mind, Jack."

  Shine Jenkins grinned at them over his shoulder. "Do you dudes mind if I turn up the radio? All this soap-opera stuff is putting me to sleep."

  "Go ahead and turn it up, Shine," Jimmy said, "but if you keep it on that bluegrass station, I'm going to puke."

  "Regurgitate, man. Haven't you learned a thing at college?" Shine found a country and western station and turned it up loud enough to rattle the windows. Then he yelled over the music, "If it's that big dude I saw at your house when I picked you up that's got you worried, I think you can put it out of your mind."

  "Why is that?" Jimmy asked, leaning over the front seat so Shine could hear.

  "I saw him on that television show, you know that thing with Donna Frensberg? He was being cited for uncommon bravery or some such thing in that big bank holdup over in Red Bay about three years ago." Shine blew a big bubble with his gum, then popped it. "He's not one of those slicked-up television cops. He's a real hero, man."

  o0o

  Rosalie washed and David dried. Standing by his side at her kitchen sink, she passed the dishes to him. Every now and then her soapy hands touched his, and his hip brushed against hers. The room was alive with sexual currents.

  "Your sons are fine young men," David said. "I'm sorry they had to leave so soon after dinner."

  "It's a long drive, and they wanted to be there for all the pre-game parties."

  Rosalie delved into the soapsuds and came up with the last china plate. Soon the dishes would be finished, and David would be going. If she were a clever modern woman, schooled in the art of seduction, she could make him stay. Unfortunately, she was just an ordinary woman, schooled in the art of survival.

  Sighing, she passed him the last plate. His hand covered hers and lingered. Her breath caught high in her throat.

  "You'll get slippery," she said. They looked at each other, then got lost in a long, searching gaze. Rosalie cleared her throat. ". . . from the soap, I mean."

  His eyes were as hot as blue flames, and his face was tight with passion. He took the plate from her slowly and set it aside.

  "I know what you mean, Rosalie."

  She licked her lips. "It was kind of you to stay and help with the dishes. Generous."

  "It was neither generous nor kind. It was selfish. I wanted to be with you." Taking up the dishcloth, he moved apart so that they were no longer touching.

  Rosalie wanted to scream. Instead, she made conversation.

  "Betty usually does this. I think she invented that chore she had to hurry home and do." She reached for the ribbon in her hair. The sleeves she had rolled to do dishes slid back, exposing her upper arms.

  David stared at that fine lacing of pale blue veins pulsing just underneath her fair skin. "I’ve run out of things to invent, Rosalie, reasons to stay away."

  "Then don't . . . don't stay away."

  "The turkey was delicious, the giblet gravy wonderful .. . but I think I came here today to see this." He traced the path of veins on her upper arm with his index finger.

  She wondered how long she could live holding her breath. His hand was hot on her arm, hot and tender and sexy. She thought she might faint if he didn't take his hand away, and she knew she would die if he did.

  "You are so soft," David said, lingering over the touch. "So fair." He leaned down and trailed his lips along her upper arm.

  Desire exploded through her so fast and hard, she trembled.

  "Yes," she whispered, reaching for him. "Oh, yes."

  David caught her against his chest and held her close, his heart thundering against hers, his body heat searing her. He was tight and hard with tension as he sought to hold back. A groan escaped his lips.

&n
bsp; They were both beyond control, and they both knew it.

  "I want you, David . . . here . . . now. . . ."

  "Rosalie . . ."

  "Nothing else matters. Nothing but this."

  They came together in a fury of passion. His kisses were hard and demanding, hers wild and wanton. His hand slid up her skirt, and she wrapped one leg around him. They rocked together, mouths tightly melded.

  Years of denial made them desperate. The depth of their passion made them bold.

  "Please . . . David . . . please. . . "

  He answered her plea. The small wisp of silk separating them was pushed aside. He lifted her up and braced her against the kitchen sink; then, in one powerful thrust, he entered her.

  There was nothing kind or sweet or sentimental about their lovemaking. The waiting had been too long, the wanting too desperate. She dug her hands into his shoulders, leaving marks on his skin through his shirt; and he gripped her hips and drove at her without mercy.

  With David buried deep in her, Rosalie cast her last shred of civilized behavior aside. In language she might later think about and consider shocking, she told him what she liked, what she wanted, what she had to have.

  And he joyfully obliged. He plundered her mouth until it felt puffy and bruised, suckled her breasts until they felt ready to burst. He moved his hands over her, stroking, exploring, igniting.

  All the years of keeping her sexual self hidden fell by the wayside, and Rosalie went up in flames. She gave herself more fully, more completely, to David than she had to any other man. What she had with him there at her kitchen sink with the soapy water sloshing over her hips and running down her legs was a mature love, a totally adult experience.

  They rode the thundering horse of passion until they reached their destination, that high, bright place on the edge of the world where everything seemed unreal and at the same time so magnificently defined that it hurt to look.

  She leaned her head against David's shoulder, and he wove his hands into her damp hair. Gently, she kissed the skin exposed at the neck of his shirt. A tremor ran through him.

  It was such a small thing. A tremor. And yet it told Rosalie more than a million words. David was moved by her, moved to the point that one tender touch racked his whole body. If that wasn't love, it was enough to suffice.

  "Rosalie?"

  She didn't lift her head, didn't move, couldn't move.

  "It was beautiful, David. Let's not spoil it with words."

  He held on to her, clung to her as if he were drifting at sea and she were the only lifeline in sight. What he had done was unconscionable. He had taken her like an animal, without thought of her future. She was not the kind of woman a man could use and then discard. She was not a modem-day woman accustomed to casual one-night stands.

  Rosalie deserved more. She deserved a man who would pledge vows at an altar and then move heaven and earth to keep those vows . . . and he could never be that man.

  He held on to her so tightly, his arms trembled, and he was ashamed.

  She brushed her lips lightly over his neck once more, and he groaned in agony. Walking away this time was going to be worse than death: It was going to an act that would torture him the rest of his life.

  Tenderly, he released her, silently praying that she would understand, that she wouldn't be hurt, desperately hoping that he was doing the right thing, the noble thing.

  When they were standing slightly apart with the soapy water puddling at their feet, he adjusted their clothes, then traced her lips with his index finger.

  "I hope you can forgive me, Rosalie, for I can never forgive myself."

  He left quickly, unable to endure the light of her eyes. Without turning back, he went through her kitchen door, closing it carefully behind him.

  o0o#

  Rosalie stared at the closed door, wishing she were the kind of woman who could kick furniture and scream. Was it possible to be gloriously, blissfully happy, and painfully, horribly sad at the same time?

  Her cheeks and her body still burned with the heat of passion. She felt released, rescued, saved. And yet her heart was breaking into a million pieces.

  She kept staring at the door, hoping it would open, hoping David would walk back inside and say, "I've changed my mind, Rosalie. I can't experience what we had and just walk away."

  The door stayed shut. She clenched her hands into fists, willing it to open, daring it to open.

  Still it remained closed.

  "David, David," she whispered.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, whimpering like a whipped kitten. Scenes from her past flashed before her eyes, and she saw herself, an actress upon the stage of life, getting trapped in one circumstance after another.

  The old clock on the wall marked time with a loud ticking; and when Rosalie finally became aware of her surroundings, she was surprised to discover how late it was, how long she had been standing in the kitchen.

  She leaned toward her window and stared across the way. A light was burning in David's bedroom. Was he sprawled on top of the covers, fast asleep, worn out and sated from their lovemaking?

  No, that wasn't fair. He had been in great pain when he'd left. She'd seen it in his eyes, felt it to the way he touched her face.

  She stared at his bedroom window while the clock on the wall recorded the marching of time. Rosalie was not a young woman anymore—and David would soon be gone.

  She hurried to her bathroom, shedding clothes as she went and leaving them in a messy trail on the floor. Tomorrow she would be neat; tonight she was going to be bold.

  After her bath, she dressed in fresh jeans and T-shirt, then grabbed a sweater and went into the night. It was very late, but the light in David's bedroom still burned.

  She went through his backyard and climbed the back-porch steps. David hadn't even locked his door. Somehow that gave her hope, that he had been so upset, he had forgotten to lock his door.

  She eased through and found her way to his bedroom in the dark. He was tying on top of his covers, still wearing his jeans and tennis shoes, his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

  She leaned against the doorway, hungry with the need to observe him, desperate with the desire to touch him. His broad chest rose and fell with his harsh breathing. The lines of his body were tight and hard with tension.

  She knew he was in turmoil; otherwise she would never have gained his bedroom door without his knowledge. He was a cop. Experience and training would have made him alert under ordinary circumstances.

  She was hopeful that these were not ordinary circumstances.

  She held on to the doorframe until her knuckles were white. She didn't move, barely breathed.

  David's naked chest was magnificent, beautiful. His muscles were sculpted, finely defined. He was hard and tanned and smooth. His chest hairs were dark and mysterious, swirling in an enticing pattern toward the top of his jeans.

  Rosalie longed. She dreamed. She wanted.

  Was she a female Peeping Tom, standing in his bedroom doorway uninvited and unannounced? She was just getting ready to make herself known when David moved.

  Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes were still dark with passion. He didn't move, didn't speak.

  She clung to the door.

  When it seemed that she was going to fall off the razor edge of time and be sliced in half, David spoke.

  "Why did you come?"

  "Because I want you."

  He got off the bed and moved to the window. She saw the long, angry scar that slashed his back. She wasn't aware of making a sound, but David whirled around, his eyes blazing.

  "My soul is just as ugly, Rosalie. I'm marked, scarred. You deserve better."

  "No!" She wanted to run to him, to gather him in her arms and hold him. Instinct kept her standing in the door. "You are good, David, good and kind and noble."

  He balled his hands into fists and rammed them in his pockets. "Don't you think I want you, Rosalie? Don't you know that I'd
give my soul to be free, to have the right to come to you boldly, to court you, to take you places you deserve to be, fancy places with snooty waiters and expensive wine and cloth napkins?"

  She made a step toward him, but he held up his hand.

  "Please. If you touch me, I can't promise to resist."

  "Then don't."

  "Rosalie . . ."

  She came to him then, bold and certain. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she leaned her head on his bare chest.

  "I'm not asking for a commitment, David. I know you're leaving."

  "Yes. I am." Though his body was still stiff with resistance, his hands settled lightly on her shoulders.

  She took hope. "All I'm asking for is a brief and lovely interlude, something we can remember when you go back to Alabama and I go back to the business of getting my sons through school."

  His mind might be resisting, but his body was betraying him. Rosalie moved closer, moved into that great, thundering passion that was rising in him.

  "Don't you see, David? All my life I've let myself get carried by whatever current came along. This time I'm breaking the pattern, doing something for myself, merely because I want to." She tipped her head back so she could see his face. "You don't have to be in love with me. You don't have to want me as much as I want you. . . ."

  "I do, Rosalie. More." He wove his hands into her hair. "I've wanted you from the first day I saw you, from the moment you lifted your arms and I saw that tiny network of blue veins on your soft skin." He pressed a tender kiss on her forehead. "I've stood at my window dreaming how it would be with you in my arms, in my bed."

  Smiling, she turned her head toward his bed.

  "There it is, David. . . . And here I am."

  He tightened his hold and burled his face in her hair. "I wish I could make promises, Rosalie. . . ."

  "I don't need them."

  Silently, they swayed together, her heart clamoring against his and his breath mingling with hers.

  "I have to be the luckiest man alive," he said as he lifted her with exquisite care.

  o0o

  The bed loomed before them, cracked and chipped and old, with the faded covers bleached pure and white in the moonlight. They were in a magical place. Both of them felt it.