One More Knight

Chapter 11

November 3, 1977

Dear Diary,

Well, I did it. Today after school I broke up with Richie. News sure does travel fast, because a little while later Kelly Grace called and wanted to know what happened and why I did it, and all. She’s mad at me that I didn’t tell her first, and because now she and Bobby can’t double date with us anymore. I didn’t tell her the real reason why I did it. I just said Richie and I weren’t getting along, which is true. He kept on saying if I loved him I’d let him go all the way, and I guess he’s probably right about that. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I don’t love Richie. I don’t want to marry him, that’s for sure! If I did that, I’d have to stay in this town forever, and I have bigger plans than that. First I’m going to California, and then I’m going to college, and after that…who knows?

Then a little while ago Colin came over. He’d heard about Richie and me already and wanted to know what was wrong. He told me he’s been worried about me for a long time because I haven’t been myself. We went for a long walk in the woods. It was a really nice day, sort of cold, but sort of warm, too, the way it is sometimes. And all the leaves are down, and the squirrels were running around all over the place, chasing each other up and down the trees and being real cute. So anyway, I finally told Colin. We both cried, and then we sat and talked for a long time, until it got too cold to stay out and almost dark besides. Neither one of us knows what to do. Colin says I have to tell the judge, though, that’s the first thing. I know I have to, but I don’t even want to think about it. I think maybe I should tell Aunt Dobie first. Maybe she’ll know what to do.

Thought for the Day: Isn’t it funny how one little tiny thing can change your whole life forever?

Even Charly knew it was no contest. How could it be? He was an ex-SEAL, for God’s sake!

She put up more than just a token struggle, though, fighting him partly out of panic and partly because she simply didn’t know-had never known-how to give in gracefully. She called Troy a son of a bitch, with every embellishment she could think of, as well as some she was shocked she even knew.

To her surprise he seemed to approve of that. He kept encouraging her, crooning things like, “Yeah…that’s right…go ahead, get it all out, now,” which only made her madder. She’d been going it alone for more than twenty years, her entire adult life. As far as she was concerned, crying was weakness, to be avoided if at all possible, and if not, then to be indulged in, like other weaknesses, in limited amounts and in strictest privacy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried in someone’s arms.

Oh, yes, she could. And it was that memory-of two frightened teenagers walking in the woods on a lovely November day while the leaves and their worlds fell down around them-that was finally her undoing. Once again, as on that cold November day, she felt as though her world were coming apart, turning upside down. No longer was she Charly the independent and strong-minded career woman, Ms. Phelps the cynical and disciplined attorney. Instead she was back in those Alabama woods again, and she was Charlene Elizabeth, sixteen and in trouble, sobbing out her fear and desperation in her best friend’s arms.

“I…left him,” she sobbed. “He was…so little. He was…my baby.”

“I know,” Troy crooned. “I know…shh…it’s all right.”

“They let me hold him…just for a minute. He had such tiny little fingers…oh, God, he was so beautiful. And then he-he started to fuss, so I gave him my finger to suck on. And I got this feeling…all through me…like shivers, only warmer. Sharp, like pain, only…it wasn’t. It was wonderful…the most wonderful thing in the world. And then they-they took him away. They took him right out of my arms. And it hurt so much…oh, God…”

“I know,” Troy whispered, “shh…I know.” His arms tightened even more securely around her, his hand cradled the back of her head and his cheek rested on its top as he bowed his body, making of it a sanctuary, just for her. And she burrowed into his encompassing warmth like a wounded animal into its den.

“It hurt so much…I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get away from there. I had to go. I had to. I didn’t know…oh, God-I didn’t know…”

“Shh, it’s okay. What didn’t you know?”

“He…the judge…my father. He took my baby home. I don’t know-I think maybe he adopted him-but…he was there all the time. He was right there, and I didn’t know. I thought…all this time I thought he was gone. I thought my baby was lost to me forever, and all the time he was here. And I didn’t know…I didn’t know…”

“Of course you didn’t know. How could you?”

“They thought…they thought I’d come back,” Charly whispered brokenly. “But I didn’t. I never came back. Oh, God…” The pain overwhelmed her. This was worse than anything she’d ever known before, worse than Colin’s death, worse even than having her baby taken from her. Because this was her own doing… her own fault. Her own failure. And it could never be undone. How could she ever live with this?

Troy was stroking her hair. His hands were warm and steady, but his voice sounded strange, as if he had a bad cold. “What do you mean, you never came back? You’re here now, aren’t you?”

She shook her head rapidly, brushing her face against his front. “It’s too late…too late. He hates me.”

“Ah, now, it’s never too late.”

“Yes, it is.” She sat up, pulling reluctantly against the gentle restraint of his arms. God, she felt awful. Her sinuses ached, her head felt like a balloon that had been blown up too tight and her nose was running a stream.

She was looking fruitlessly around her for something to stern the tide when Troy matter-of-factly reached into the console between them and pulled out a small, travel-sized box of tissues.

“There y’go,” he muttered as he passed her a good-sized wad.

She took them without a word, blew and reached for more. Troy plucked a bunch and handed them over. She mopped her eyes, pressed them to her nose and muttered, “Boy Scout,” glaring at him over the balled-up tissues.

Troy gave a chuckle that was partly a sigh and eased himself back in his own seat, moving as if his body hurt. “Naw,” he said gruffly, “I guess you’d have to blame that on ol’ Bubba. You travel around with a pup, you better have a load a’ clean-ups handy.” As if on cue, they both craned around to look at the dog, who was sitting erect in the middle of the seat, gazing at them in complete and utter perplexity. They both said, at exactly the same moment, “Hey, ol’ Bubba,” then looked at each other and laughed softly. Together. A gentle and comradely silence washed over them like a healing balm.

Troy cleared his throat. “About your son-it’s not too late.”

Charly blew her nose, then shook her head and said in a stuffy but firm voice, “Yeah, it is. He hates me. And I don’t blame him.”

“He doesn’t hate you. Hell, he’s just young, is all. This was bound to be a shock to him, too, you know-you showin’ up out of the blue. He’s probably as upset and confused as you are. You need to give him some time. He’s gonna come around.”

“Oh, God.” Charly suddenly groaned and leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. Just for a moment. Then she opened them again and stared avidly at the ceiling, wishing she could find the answers she needed written up there. If she only looked hard enough… “I wish…I knew what to say to him,” she whispered. “How will I ever get through to him? I don’t…know how.”

“Hell,” said Troy roughly, “just talk to him. Look, I know it won’t be easy. It’s not somethin’ that comes naturally to you, talking about your feelings-”

“You’re damn right,” Charly cried, as she felt the pain well up in her all over again. “It hurts too damn much!”

“-but you gotta do it anyway. You need to tell him what you just told me, about what happened, how you felt. Give him some time to think about it, and he’s gonna come around. Believe me.”

She swiveled her head toward him, compelled by something in his voice, something she’d been too caught up in her own pain to notice until that moment. The cracking, breaking sounds of a strong man’s emotion. As she stared at him, at his recruiting-poster face, his beautiful, compassionate eyes, a new and formless panic began to creep over her, jangled and raw as she already was. Who in the world is this man? she wondered. How was it she was sitting here telling him things she’d told no one else in twenty years? How could she feel so safe with him, when he was everything she’d been running away from her entire adult life? What was happening to her?

And another, even more frightening thought-could it be, that this was what Mirabella had felt like, that long dark night with Jimmy Joe in his truck?

No! something in her protested desperately. No, no, no.

“How the hell do you know?” she demanded in self-defensive anger. “You don’t know anything about it!”

He scrubbed a hand across his face, making a faint scritching sound, then turned his head slowly toward her. And she noticed with another pang of panic, and an indefinable sorrow, that his normally clean-cut face was all shadows-shadows of whiskers on his cheeks and jaws, shadows of fatigue around his eyes. He’d had as little sleep as she had, she realized. And it wasn’t even his trouble.

The ever lurking tears welled up again in the back of her throat. To contain them, she drew a breath and held it the way a stubborn child does, containing at the same time a powerful urge to reach out and touch his face, to smooth away the shadows with her fingertips.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said softly. “But I do know this-I know what’s important. And I know how to fight And I know that if something’s important enough to you, you fight for it even if it hurts.”

She couldn’t answer him. He held her eyes for a long moment, then turned abruptly and reached for the ignition key, started up the Cherokee’s engine and threw it in reverse.

“Where are we going?” Charly demanded with a gasp, letting go of the breath she’d been holding. Her voice thickened with suppressed sobs. “Aren’t we going in?”

“Uh-uh,” Troy muttered as they bumped out onto the highway, “I’m gonna feed you first. And don’t tell me you’re not hungry, either,” he added as she was opening her mouth to do just that. “It’s been a long time since that b-u-r-g-e-r this afternoon. You’re gonna feel a whole lot better once you get somethin’ in your stomach.”

Somewhat to her surprise, the mention of hamburgers made the ache in her throat ease a little. Her mouth even started to water as she conceded grudgingly, “Well, okay, I guess we can go to the drive-through.”

“Uh-uh. No way. No drive-throughs. For a change you’re gonna eat some real food.”

“I’m not going in any place! Not looking like this!”

“Fine. You can wait in the car.”

She sulked in silence for a minute or two, then turned to glare at the implacable profile of the man who had somehow taken charge of her life. Why, she wondered, didn’t it anger her, worry her, frighten her more than it did?

And again the thought crept around the edges of her consciousness like an unwelcome pest-like a mouse in the kitchen: Mirabella, was it like this for you? Is this how it happens?

“What are you,” she said in a surly tone, “the food police? What do you care what I put in my stomach?”

He lifted one shoulder in an easygoing shrug that made her want to yell like a shrew and punch him. “Hey-you are what you eat. Hell, it’s no wonder you’re havin’ a hard time coping with everything. When was the last time you put a vegetable in your mouth?”

“This afternoon,” she said promptly.

He snorted. “French fries don’t count.”

“I was referring,” she replied in a haughty tone, “to the ketchup.”

There was soft laughter from him then, and a subtle easing, like the wafting of fresh breezes through the air between them. Charly felt her face muscles relaxing as she leaned back against the headrest, perhaps even wanting to smile. She felt battered, drained, exhausted, but-and when she tried to come up with a word for it, the best she could do was…safe. She thought it must be something like spending a long, terrifying night in a storm-tossed sea, all alone in a leaky rowboat, bailing like mad for her very life, and the Coast Guard had just shown up and hauled her on board. The storm might still be raging, but she knew she was safe now, and in good hands.

And even though she had always taken pride in her aloneness, coming so close to foundering, she realized, had been somewhat of a chastening experience for her. She was far too relieved to have been rescued to mind that she wasn’t alone anymore.

Troy managed to find his way to the supermarket he’d noticed yesterday on his way into town without asking Charly for directions. He was glad of that, since she finally seemed to be relaxing a little, and he hadn’t wanted to rile her if he could avoid it. She sat up when he pulled off into the parking lot, though, roused and suspicious.

“What’s this?” she demanded to know, in her edgy, camouflage tone.

“Like I said-real food.” He rolled the windows down and pocketed the keys. “Sit tight-keep Bubba company. Be right back.”

“I swear, if you bring back yogurt,” she said darkly, glaring at him through the window, “you’d better be prepared to wear it. Or anything green!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a mock salute and went off smiling to himself.

It took him longer in the store than he expected. When he came out, when he first walked up to the Cherokee, his heart did a hard flip-flop, because he couldn’t see either Charly or Bubba inside. But when he got closer, he could see that what she’d done was recline her seat all the way down, and it looked like she and Bubba were pretty much sharing it. She had her arm around the pup’s neck, and he had his big ol’ head tucked in underneath her chin and both of ’em were snoring away like babies.

Troy stood there for a minute just looking at the two of them, the woman he’d only known for a day, and his very own dog. His heart was still doing flip-flops, and there was a wicked little pulse going like a hammer in his belly.

Oh, Lord, he thought. Oh, dear Lord. What am I gonna do about this?

Charly and Bubba both woke up when he opened the door, jumping apart like a couple of kids caught kissing in the closet. The dog, who had the better sense of smell, started whining and drooling, while Charly righted her seat and raked her fingers through her hair and generally tried to look as if she hadn’t really been napping, just resting her eyes for a minute.

Troy plunked the sackful of groceries on her lap and climbed in behind the wheel while she was poking through it, looking for something she could object to.

“What’s this?” she asked, holding up the first thing she came to, which was a foil sack, warm to the touch and fragrant enough to drive poor ol’ Bubba half-crazy.

Troy gave her a smile. “Rotisserie chicken. Lemon pepper.”

She sniffed. “Barbecue’s better.” And a moment later, “Whole-grain bread? Didn’t they have any sourdough?” And finally, “Milk? You must be kidding.”

“That’s right,” said Troy placidly. “Low fat.”

She did some of that swearing under her breath he hadn’t heard for quite a while, then said in a suspicious tone, “Okay, where are the vegetables?”

“They’re in there.”

“Where? What kind? I don’t see any-hey,” she exclaimed as he made a left at the main road instead of turning right, “where are we going? The motel’s back that way.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know.” And then he took a breath and let it out slowly while he thought about how he was going to explain to this beautiful, sexy, incredibly desirable woman why he didn’t care to be alone with her in a motel room.

As galling as it was to have to admit it, the truth was, he just couldn’t trust himself with the woman in a situation that afforded him both the means and the opportunity to take her to bed. He’d always considered himself a man of fairly good character where women were concerned. and with strong enough willpower to keep himself within the boundaries he’d set for himself. But for some reason, with this woman, all bets were off. God help him, every time he got close to her, he found himself doing things he had no business doing, and wanting to do things he had no business even thinking about. Not with somebody he’d known for less than twenty-four hours. Not with somebody in the state she was in, and based on what had happened last time they’d been alone together, maybe not exactly capable of making her own best decisions, either.

But he didn’t want to explain all that to Charly, partly because he wasn’t comfortable letting her know just how vulnerable to her he was, and partly because he was pretty sure she wouldn’t see anything particularly wrong with it. Not that he thought it was usual for her to go jumping into the sack with a guy within hours of making his acquaintance, or that she’d somehow been overwhelmed by his own personal charms. Hell, no. He didn’t have any illusions about that. She’d been emotionally vulnerable and he’d been available, that was all. End of story. And as far as he could see, those circumstances hadn’t changed a whole lot.

Well, okay, except in a couple of ways. For one, they’d already made love one night. And a memorable, most enjoyable time it had been. Which would make it a whole lot harder to avoid doing again.

And for two…well, to put it bluntly, now he cared about her. Which made it a whole different story.

“It’s a nice evening,” he finally managed to say through the truckload of gravel in his throat, keeping his eyes focused steadfastly through the windshield as he tried to tiptoe his way around a lie. “Nice and warm…doesn’t look like it’s gonna rain. Thought we’d have us a picnic. You know of any place around here we can go and park?”

There was an odd little silence before she said, “Yeah, actually. I do.” He could tell by the sound of her voice that she was looking straight at him, and knew that he was taking a risk, meeting her eyes, even for a moment. He chanced it anyway, but she’d already turned her head away. “It’s not too far from here,” she said softly. “Bear right at the fork.”

Beyond the place where the main highway out of town branched off, the road got curvier and began to climb. A little farther on she told him to turn right where a sign said, Mourning Spring Park-No Camping-Closed at Dusk.

“Ignore that,” she said. “Everyone does.”

“Ah,” said Troy dryly, “let me guess-the local lovers’ lane?” Lord, he hoped not

She didn’t reply. The narrow paved road wound down and down. Troy was conscious of trees he couldn’t see, and lush vegetation closing in around them, shutting out the stars. At Charly’s direction, he pulled into a wide graveled clearing, parked and turned off the engine. In the Cherokee’s headlights he could see picnic tables and trash cans and the trunks of large trees. A car parked down at the far end of the clearing started up its engine and pulled slowly past them, lights off.

“Sorry, kids,” Troy muttered. He rolled his window down and he sat for a moment, listening to the music of the night…the ticking of the cooling engine, the rhythmic singing of frogs, the screech of cicadas in far-off trees, the rush and tinkle of running water, the rustling of leaves. And closer by, the breathing sounds of the dog in the back seat, and of the woman next to him. The air felt cool and moist on his skin and smelled of ferns and moss and rotting leaves and rich, dark earth. Eden must have smelled like this, he thought.

He left the car’s headlights on while Charly carried the sack of groceries to one of the picnic tables and he got Bubba’s leash on him and secured it to a nearby trash can. Then he hauled out the blankets he’d started keeping in back to protect his new upholstery when he’d first got the pup, and gave them a good shaking. He got the battery-powered emergency lantern out from under the front seat, set it on the picnic table and spread the blankets out on the ground. When he came back from turning the car lights off, Charly was already carrying the grocery bag over to the blankets.

“You don’t know what’s been on those tables,” she said with a shudder. “And you don’t even want to.”

They settled themselves on the blankets, out of reach of Bubba, whose leash allowed him as far as a corner and no farther. One by one, not looking at each other, they laid out the things Troy had bought, placing them on the blanket between them-save one, wrapped and cushioned in plastic, which he set carefully aside. From a tree nearby an owl hooted his hopeful question, and Troy thought again of Eden. He was beginning to have doubts about whether this picnic had been such a good idea after all.

He got out his pocket knife and began whittling at the loaf of bread, cutting off huge slabs while Charly laughed at him and muttered, “Boy Scout.”

“Nope,” he said placidly, slathering the slabs with spicy-sweet honey mustard, “SEALs.”

He then turned his attention to the chicken. The first piece, covered with greasy, well-seasoned skin, he meant to offer to Bubba, since the poor guy was whimpering and slobbering all over himself and just about to pee himself in his excitement and anticipation. But when Charly saw what he was doing, she snaked out her arm and snatched the chicken out of his hand just in the nick of time, exclaiming indignantly, “What are you doing? That’s the best part!” And poor ol’ Bubba gave a woof of disappointment as he watched her pop his morsel into her own mouth.

Troy just shook his head in resignation and went back to slicing, while Charly defiantly cooed and licked her fingers with exaggerated smacking sounds. In the lantern light he could see the sheen of grease on her lips and fingers, along with a wicked gleam in the look she slanted his way. He knew she was teasing him, taunting him, tryin’ her best to get his goat. He just couldn’t quite be sure whether it was the food she was giving him a hard time about, or something else entirely.

“Here you go, guy,” Charly was crooning to the dog, “you can have this instead.”

Well, that got Troy’s attention off of Charly’s lips and the busy pink tongue she was cleaning them with barely in time for him to rescue a drumstick from Bubba’s slavering jaws. Which was just about more than the poor dog could handle; he gave a brokenhearted yip and sat back on his haunches, quivering all over, until Troy got the meat pulled off the bone for him. Then it disappeared in one gulp, before Charly’d even had a chance to utter a squawk of indignation.

“Never give a dog a chicken bone,” Troy explained to her. “They splinter-might get caught in their throats.”

She made a vaguely acquiescent sound deep in hers and slowly licked her lips. Then, keeping her eyes fastened on Troy’s mouth, she tore off a piece of the chicken and held it out to him, dripping skin and juices. “This is so-o good,” she murmured. “You’ve got to taste it.”

Before he could even recall why he shouldn’t, much less tell himself not to, he’d opened his mouth and let her place the fat, juicy scrap of meat on his tongue. “Mmm,” she crooned. “See?”

It probably was delicious, but you couldn’t have proved it by him. All of a sudden his mouth had gone bone-dry, and his tongue wanted to stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed with an audible gulp as she wiped her thumb across his lower lip.

She pulled off another piece and put it in her own mouth, then licked her fingers, sticking them in her mouth one by one and slowly drawing them out again.

Troy wanted to grab her and shake her and demand to know what the hell she was trying to do to him, but he was afraid if he moved, if he so much as opened his mouth, he’d find himself kissing her instead. He felt light-headed and bottom heavy, as if all his blood had suddenly surged into his lower body. Which it probably had. Lord, but the woman was dangerous.

Bubba was whining again, figuring his turn was way overdue. Charly told him sweetly to mind his manners, then fed him the part of the back with the tail on it. The poor dog was so grateful it was almost pitiful to watch him. Troy knew just how he felt.

“You ever have a dog?” he asked her, his voice an unrecognizable croak.

She shook her head. “I always wanted one when I was a kid. Most of my friends had them.” She cocked her head to one side, and her voice took on a dreamy tone. “I wanted a great big woolly bear of a dog, you know? Something lazy, like a St. Bernard, so I could cuddle up with it on the rug and read a book, or something. Stupid, huh?” She broke off another piece of chicken and studied it for a moment before absentmindedly letting Bubba steal it.

“So why didn’t you get one?”

She shrugged and went for the chicken again. “When I was…oh, about eight, I guess, my father got me this little mouse thing-a gerbil. Maybe a hamster. Anyway, it died-I don’t remember why, I must have done something wrong-and my father said I couldn’t have any more pets because I wasn’t responsible enough to take care of them properly.”

Troy cautiously cleared his throat, finding it necessary once again to tiptoe around his own emotions. “Don’t know very many eight-year-olds that are,” he muttered.

Then he figured he’d better rescue the chicken before she fed the whole thing to the dog, so he took it from her, pulled off a nice big piece of skinless breast meat and held it out to her. She leaned over and took it into her mouth, and he felt a tingle go through his fingertips and all the way up his arm and into his scalp. He thought it was a damn good thing he had his hands full.

“What about later on?” he asked her in an airless mumble. “When you were grown-up and on your own?”

She answered him with her mouth full. “Mmm-I live in an apartment, work long hours-wouldn’t be fair. It’s better this way, actually. No responsibilities, nothing tying me down. I can do what I want to-come and go as I please.”

“Uh-huh,” said Troy. He wanted to ask her if she ever missed having somebody around, somebody to be there and happy to see her when she came home at night, somebody to curl up on the rug with and read a book, somebody to massage her feet for her when she’d been in court wearing those high-heeled shoes all day. Not that a dog could do that for her. He tore off another piece of chicken and held it just out of her reach and said, “Doesn’t that get kinda lonely?”

Her eyes met his above the morsel of chicken, dark as the woods around them, each one holding a tiny glowing lantern in its center. “I’ve been alone since I was sixteen,” she said softly. “Except for a few good friends, like Bella. That’s the way I like it.” Without taking her eyes from his, she leaned over and took the meat from his fingers, making sure her lips caressed his fingers before curving in a smile of seduction and challenge.

Bravado, he reminded himself. Pure bravado.

“How’d you do it?” he asked her in a casual way, focusing on the conversation with all his willpower as he doled out Bubba’s next portion. “Just out of curiosity. I mean. jeez-sixteen years old and just off the bus in California? Lots of kids do it, and I don’t think very many of ’em manage to grow up to be lawyers.”

“I had some money-my college fund. It was mine, so I took it. And I had a fake ID-everybody did, didn’t you? So we could buy booze and things like that? Anyway, that helped. I was able to get a job, and the police didn’t hassle me.”

She told him about it between bites, about how she’d found herself a room at the Y and a job in a fast-food restaurant, not enough to live on, but it made her college money last longer, long enough for her to find a job working as a live-in maid for the family of a Beverly Hills attorney who hadn’t been fussy about her documentation. And how, with the security of a safe place to live and enough food to eat she’d been able to go to school at night and earn her GED, then community college, all the while saving every penny she could toward the day when she would finally enroll in UCLA. And after that, law school, and with the recommendation of her former boss, a part-time job with a law firm.

She gave it all to him, the bare bones, anyway, while they reduced the chicken to the same condition-with the eager assistance of a big old Lab puppy. Troy had meant to make them some nice hefty sandwiches with the whole-grain bread and the mustard he’d brought, but somehow he just never got around to it. Instead they took turns feeding each other-and Bubba-little bits and pieces of that chicken, and talking, and licking the juices and the grease off of each other’s fingers, and they never even noticed that they were getting closer…and closer…and closer to each other, until there was hardly any room between them at all, and licking fingers got to seem like kind of a superfluous thing when there was something better right there handy.

He never did know who started it, or just whose slick and lemon-peppery lips first became too great a temptation for a questing tongue to ignore. Spicy breaths flowed together and became a warming sweetness, like sun-ripe fruit. Lips and tongues slid over and around and slipped between, tangling together with a joyful abandon that was like otters playing in sun-dappled water. Her skin felt warm on his fingers, as if it had just been kissed by the sun. When he spread his fingers across her cheek and pushed them into her hair, the sunlight came inside him, filling him up with heat and nourishment and light.

He brought her to him slowly, pressing her into him with the utmost gentleness, and as he sank into her mouth he felt himself rising, growing larger, becoming stronger, and her with him, as if some benevolent and approving god were lifting them up toward the light. Lifting them into the sun.

And that was when he knew. Exactly how and where and when it had happened, he didn’t know, but somehow, somewhere along the way, she had become his sun.

The realization shook him so that he tore himself away from her, reeling and disoriented, Icarus tumbling to earth.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find that it was still night. “Time for veggies!” he said in an adolescent croak as he groped behind him for the package he’d set aside.

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” Charly mumbled. The words sounded bumpy to him, as if she were shivering.

“I’ll just bet you were. Close your eyes,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“No questions. Just…trust me, now, okay?”

He heard a breathless and miserable “Okay.” Then and only then did he trust himself to look at her. She sat with her legs under her, hands clenched in her lap, shoulders hunched. Her head was high, though, and with her eyes closed her face wore the sad, noble expression of martyred saints. In the lantern light her skin had a cold, bluish look to it, so that what she reminded him of more than anything was a lovely sculpture made of ice. The images of sunshine seemed like a fading memory with no sensory reality to it, like looking at summer-vacation snapshots in the dead of winter.

“Okay,” he said softly, “open up, now-your mouth, not your eyes.”

A moment later she gave a little hiccup of surprise and pleasure. “Strawberries! But that’s not-”

He silenced her with a berry. “Sure they are. Chock-full of vitamins and fiber.”

“What? Well, okay, but how come there’s no hot fudge to dip them in? Or champagne?” But she was laughing when she said it.

“Shut up,” said Troy, laughing too. “Here-have another one-they’re good for you.”

“I will if you’ll share it with me.” Her eyes were shining with laughter and challenge.

What could he do? The laughter was so good to see, and he couldn’t bear for her to lose it. So he leaned across the space he’d put between them and took what she offered…first the fruit, then her mouth. Strawberry wine…

“Not a very original idea, I’m afraid,” she whispered after a while.

“Hard to beat a good cliché,” he replied, half-drunk on the taste of her.

But this time, like the older and wiser Daedalus, he knew better than to fly too near the sun; given a second chance, he managed to stay emotionally far enough away from her to keep them both from falling.

“I’d like to go back to the motel now,” said Charly. “Please.” The strawberries were all gone, and the laughter with them.

Troy was doing his best to gather up their trash while Bubba snored on his feet. His body ached all over from the strain of unconsummated passion. Charly was trembling, he imagined, for the same reason. And he almost-almost-gave in. God knows he wanted to. But in the end he took a deep breath and said gruffly. “Naw…thought we’d stay here a while longer.”

“Someone might come.” She blurted it out breathlessly, then cut herself off as if she regretted the impulse that had made her say it. After a moment she started again in an entirely different tone, lifeless and wooden, trying hard to sound as if she didn’t really care all that much. “That’s why, isn’t it? Why you wanted to do this. You don’t want-”

“Oh, I want, all right,” he said harshly, breaking in because he couldn’t bear the sadness in her voice another second. “I want you so bad I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to stand it.”

“Well, you certainly have me.” Her whisper was slow and tentative. When he didn’t reply right away, she made an impatient sound and looked away. “I don’t know how I could possibly make that more obvious.”

For a minute or two Troy went on fiddling with the blanket, smoothing it out, making it neat, while his thoughts and feelings chased and tumbled around inside his head like squirrels playing in the woods, his heart going a mile a minute and a sweat coming on. How in the hell am I going to explain this? he thought.

He knew a lot of guys who were good talkers-sounded like TV soap operas, some of ’em-when it came to telling a woman the kinds of things they liked to hear. Troy hadn’t ever tried to be one of them. He’d always believed if he couldn’t tell a woman what she wanted to hear and have it be the truth, it was better to keep his mouth shut, and there’d been a few times he knew he’d caused a woman some disappointment and heartache because of that philosophy. In the long run he’d figured it probably saved both the woman and him a whole lot more grief than it caused. This was the first time in his recollection where the truth was both too complicated for words and too important for silence.

“Hey,” he said gruffly, “come on over here.” Not knowing what else to do, he reached for her, put his arms around her and pulled her against him. She came stiffly at first, until he growled, “Pretend I’m a big ol’ St. Bernard dog.” Then she gave a moist, uncertain laugh but snuggled close, and he eased them both down on the blanket so that her head was pillowed on his chest in the nest just below his shoulder. When her hand began to rove across his chest, heading south, he corraled it gently and held it cradled right over his rapidly beating heart.

“Look up there,” he said thickly. “It’s clearing off-look at the stars.”

“Lord,” she said in a wondering tone, “you really are a Boy Scout.”

“No, ma’am,” he growled, “not hardly.”

He kept staring up at the stars, trying to think of a way to explain it to her. For some reason all he could think of was a cartoon movie he’d seen while he was growing up-Peter Pan, it was-and there’d been this crocodile that had bitten off Captain Hook’s hand, along with a clock that for some reason never seemed to run down, and then followed him around the rest of his life trying to get at the rest of him.

“What’s funny?” Charly mumbled.

“Nothin’.” How in the hell was he supposed to tell her that he reminded himself of a crocodile, and she of Captain Hook?

But it was the truth. He knew he didn’t have Charly, no matter what she’d just said. All he had was just a little bitty piece of her. And dammit, he wanted the rest-the whole Charly, every last bit of her. Because the taste of her he’d already had was part of him now, like that ticking clock in the ol’ croc’s belly. She was inside him, part of him, and he wasn’t going to ever be able to get her out of his system or his consciousness again.

“Problem is,” he said after a long, long time, heaving a sigh, “I’m in love with you.”

Save for some soft breathing, there was no reply. Her head felt heavy on his chest. Troy raised his head in order to look, then lay back again, while his heart pounded in his throat. She was sound asleep.