Stand By Your Man

Chapter Eleven

Marshall Weathers was a liar. I figured this as I followed him out of the gas station and away from town on Wendover Avenue. He couldn't live nearby. I didn't figure him for a city boy and we were definitely in urban territory. He'd driven east for approximately three minutes when he abruptly split off onto a narrow road that ran alongside a roller rink. It seemed we'd gone for less than a mile when the paved road ended. We were five minutes from busy Summit Avenue and yet, he had me running down a gravel and dirt lane, out into pure pastureland.

"What is this?" I muttered. "Another cop trick? Drive me out into the country where I can't get away, then interrogate me?" My imagination ran wild. I had to admit the idea of being alone with Marshall Weathers wasn't totally unappealing. In fact, if I recalled the way he kissed me just a few hours before, I could downright anticipate it. However, at the same time, my sweater began to shrink up over my belly button, and my entire body began to itch. It had to be the detergent and hot wax. Human bodies weren't made for the harsh chemicals of a car wash.

We were running alongside a horse farm. Split-rail fences with barbed wire kept a few beautiful bays penned inside a green pasture. Weathers abruptly made a turn into a dirt driveway and slowed to a crawl as we passed two log outbuildings that had to be over two hundred years old. The driveway was lined with cedars that formed a shady tunnel. The trees ended and we drove out into the brilliant sunlight of the clear October afternoon. Marshall's car rolled to a stop in front of a small white farmhouse.

I drew in my breath and slowly exhaled. It was perfect. It was the farmhouse I'd always wanted. Yellow and white gingham curtains fluttered from the kitchen window. Bright yellow chrysanthemums and pumpkins edged their way up the back stoop steps. The roof was red tin, and the woodwork was such a shiny white that I figured he'd painted the place within the past month.

I jumped out of the car and walked toward the front of his house. It sat on the peak of a rise overlooking acres of tobacco fields. It had to be his home place, a farm that had gradually been surrounded by the growing city. I stared at the front porch, lost for a moment in the idea of what it must be to live in this place, to walk outside every morning, coffee cup in hand, and sit, watching the day begin. The air was still and silent, with only a breeze kicking up now and then.

When I remembered to look for Weathers, I found him watching me, leaning back against the hood of his car and smiling to himself.

"Now that's quite a picture," he said slowly. For a second I thought he meant the view from the hilltop, but no, he meant me. I looked down at myself. My jeans were soaked, my sweater was a balled up mass of fiber, and my hair was drying into a solid mass of red tangles. I shivered and he moved.

"Come on," he said. "You're gonna get sick standing out here, and besides that, you might harden up and not be able to move." He reached me and touched my shoulder.

"It's beautiful," I said. "I had no idea this was out here." I turned a little away from him and looked back at the valley. His hand stayed on my shoulder, warm and firm.

"I like it right much," he said. "Now come on inside."

I followed him up the steps, across the wide blue-gray porch and through the thick front door into the house. I squinted, waiting as my eyes adjusted to the inside. We were in a wide foyer. A big mahogany sideboard took up the far wall, holding the day's mail and a worn Braves cap, his cap, I thought. Marshall walked past me, leading me down the center hallway, past the wide staircase with its worn-smooth steps, and into the kitchen. It was a woman's kitchen.

I stood there, taking in the gleaming vintage white appliances, the spotless black and white checkered linoleum floor, and the cast-iron skillets that hung in a neat row along the far wall. A red towel hung from the oven door. The teakettle had a little bird on the spout. African violets bloomed along the windowsill and jars of home-canned vegetables lined the open shelves next to the refrigerator. My heart fell. Here was the kitchen of my dreams and it was most certainly her kitchen.

"Sit down," he said, indicating a chair at the light pine kitchen table. "Want some coffee or tea? It'd warm you up."

He wasn't waiting for me to answer him. He was filling the teakettle with water, his back to me.

"I'm fine. No thank you."

"Suit yourself." He went on bustling about his kitchen, opening the refrigerator, reaching in for milk, then walking across the room to the pantry and pulling out bags that crackled and boxes that opened with a soft popping sound.

I sat there and felt good and sorry for myself. Marshall Weathers probably still carried a torch for his wife. What was I thinking, hoping we could have a relationship? I watched him make the coffee, carefully measuring it into the carafe, pouring steaming water in a thin stream through the filter.

He still loved her. He wasn't ready for anything serious. Hell, he'd told me that. What was I thinking?

Marshall walked toward me, setting a plate of cookies down in front of me. They looked homemade. I figured she brought them over to him, feeling sorry maybe. I decided her name was Wanda. Wanda Weathers. She was a big-haired, big-boned woman who sang in the choir every Sunday. She wore fake eyelashes on New Year's Eve and didn't like to spoil her makeup by fooling around. I figured her for a cross-stitcher, sewing away on cold winter evenings.

"You don't look right," he said, materializing in front of me, a steaming mug in his hand. "Too bad you're not hungry." He sat down across from me and shoved the cookies in my direction. "Sure you won't have any?"

"I don't think so," I said, my voice almost frosted. "I'm watching my figure."

"Uh-huh," he said, his eyes wandering up and down my torso. "Looks fine to me."

"Nope," I said firmly, "no cookies."

Marshall Weathers shook his head ruefully. "Too bad, my Aunt Lou made these. Won the county fair one year with this very recipe."

Aunt Lou? His aunt made the cookies? I snuck another peek and felt my stomach rumble. I hadn't even stopped for lunch after I'd dropped Bonnie back at the salon. Now I'd denied myself cookies.

I scratched at my stomach, then behind my ears. I was about to lose my mind sitting right here in Wanda Weathers's kitchen.

Marshall lowered his mug and frowned, then leaned closer. "Maggie, you're breaking out in a rash."

I looked down at my stomach. Flat red splotches had sprung up everywhere.

"Hold on," he said, jumping up. He was moving across the room, opening cabinets and grabbing at stuff. But he'd opened the Pandora's box to my ailment and I was too busy scratching to pay attention to the particulars.

"Hurry up," I called.

Marshall crossed the room with two pink pills and a glass of water. "Take this," he said. "It's an antihistamine. It'll help the itching."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. As soon as he handed me the pills, I downed them.

"Might make you a tad sleepy," he said, "but that's better than clawin' yourself half to death."

I didn't care. I was in agony. He grabbed my hands, pulled me up, and started back down the hall.

"What you need is to get those clothes off and take a shower. Those chemicals are probably irritating your skin."

He was all business. Not rushing, but not his usual slowed-down self, either. I was up the stairs in no time, headed to the right and into a huge open room anchored by a large antique bed. A family heirloom, I guessed.

"Oh God," I moaned. "I'm going nuts! It's burning!"

"Okay, come on now, calm down." He spoke quietly, all the while leading me forward into a white-tiled bathroom. A claw-footed tub stood against the far wall of the room, surrounded by a white shower curtain. Marshall leaned over, turned on the taps and turned back to me.

"Maggie," he said, "I don't mean a thing by what I'm about to do." And with one fluid movement he leaned toward me, grabbed the bottom of my sweater and pulled it off over my head. He reached for the button on my jeans, popped it efficiently and pushed the wet denim down around my ankles.

He straightened, looked me in the eyes, and reached his hands around behind my back. My bra slid down my arms and onto the floor. My panties followed them, and before I could really put it all together, I was in the shower. Alone.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He was moving around the room and I heard a cabinet door open and close. "I'm getting you something for the itching. Hang on."

The water ran over my skin, quenching some of the fire, but not enough. I moaned and he crossed the room instantly. "Maggie? You all right?"

"No," I said, my voice sinking about as low as my spirits.

"I itch everywhere. I look like Bozo the Clown, and now you've seen me naked and looking like a critter in a freak show." A sob caught in my throat, and my voice trailed off as I indulged in even more self-pity. I would have wallowed in my situation, but the burning seemed suddenly worse and I shrieked.

"Maggie?" his voice was louder, closer to the curtain and filled with concern.

"I'm on fire!" I was losing it. The itching was unbearable. I couldn't stop myself from clawing at my body. "Make it stop!" I yelled. "Help me, Marshall. Do something! Get me something! Oh God, it hurts!"

I could hear him rustle around outside the shower. I heard a clunk as something metallic hit the floor. A few seconds later the curtain opened. Marshall Weathers stepped into the tub behind me, completely naked, holding a box of baking soda in his hand.

"Turn back around and don't move," he whispered. "I'm putting baking soda on you," he said. "Old family remedy." His hands moved softly over my skin, caressing my back, and touching me like a cooling breeze. I sighed as his fingers moved down my arms.

"Feels better right off, doesn't it?" he said, his tone neutral but his voice a thready giveaway. Marshall Weathers wasn't feeling a bit like Harmonica Jack.

He stopped for a second, grabbed the box and poured more baking soda into his hand. When he turned back, he slipped his arms around my waist and began rubbing the powder onto my stomach. The water sluiced down my belly, melting the baking soda into a slippery liquid as his fingers moved across my torso. It was heaven. Wherever his fingers touched, the burning stopped and the pain eased.

I felt him edge closer and closed my eyes. I could see his body, captured in the brief second when he'd opened the curtain. What had looked fine in jeans looked downright magnificent without clothes. I wouldn't look back over my shoulder again. Instead, I stuck my face under the spray and tried to remind myself that this was nakedness for medicinal purposes. I tried to picture Harmonica Jack telling me that "parts were parts," or Marshall saying just a second ago "I don't mean nothing by this." But when he touched me I felt my pulse quicken and my breath catch in my throat. As his hands drifted lightly across my shoulders, I tried to pretend he still wore his clothes, but I was failing miserably. I was itching, but I wasn't brain dead.

"Okay, turn around," he said softly. His hands rested gently on my waist as I turned to face him. The burning fire in my skin was subsiding but another one was just catching, and it was far more dangerous.

He doesn't mean a thing by this, remember. I stood in front of him, completely naked, trying not to let him know how I felt, or what his hands were doing to my self-control.

I couldn't find a safe place to rest my eyes. If I looked at his face, he'd read me, he'd know what I was thinking, and worse, he'd know what I wanted. I looked at his chest, but it was smooth and corded with muscle. Nope, couldn't look there. And when I dropped my eyes, I stopped breathing. Magnificent didn't seem to accurately describe Marshall Weathers.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said, raising my head and looking into his eyes.

He laughed. "Your face is red," he said. "I don't think it's the rash." He reached behind me and pulled a bottle of shampoo out of the metal holder that clung to the shower-head. "Lean back a little," he said, "let's see if we can get some of that goo out of your head."

"I can do it," I said.

Marshall looked at me, his blue eyes darkening. "I know you can," he said, and calmly poured the shampoo into the palm of his hand. "Close your eyes."

I wanted to relax. I wanted to lean into him, but I didn't. His fingers massaged my scalp and I tried once again to convince myself that Marshall Weathers didn't want me. His body wanted me, there was no doubt about that, but the man inside that body didn't want a relationship.

His hands were strong and moved slowly, kneading my scalp. I must've sighed, because he chuckled. "See, that isn't so bad, is it?"

I moaned softly and felt him shiver.

"You're cold, aren't you?" I whispered. "Here I am, under the water, and you're standing out there."

He was rinsing my hair, the last bit of soap running down the drain in a soapy swirl.

"Come here," I said, and pulled him closer. "Warm up."

That was all it took. It was time for the tables to turn and for me to take charge. The way I figured it, Marshall Weathers was at war with himself, and that was his problem, but there were two people in this shower and one of them was absolutely clear about what she wanted.

I reached for the soap and turned back around to grin at him.

When I touched his chest, his eyes closed. I ran my fingers over his skin, discovering. His hands tightened around the small of my back, pulling me into him. His eyes opened and he stared deep into my eyes.

"Maggie," he said, softly, "I do want you."

He pushed away, pulling himself from my grasp and bringing me up tight against him. His lips found mine, then began moving, behind my ear, down the side of my neck, his tongue exploring and sending a spasm of delight and desire throughout my body.

"Not here," he whispered.

He straightened and looked at me, his blue eyes burning into mine. And then he smiled. He reached behind me, turned off the shower and grabbed two towels from the rack outside. He wrapped one towel around me, using the other one to dry my hair. The burning in my skin was gone, the pink spots fading. But I was only aware of the heat that coursed through my body. I wanted more. I wanted it right then. Why was he torturing me?

He took his time drying himself off, watching me, teasing me as the towel reached all the body parts I wanted to feel against my skin. He was enjoying himself. He stepped out of the tub and turned back.

"Come here."

I stepped to the edge of the tub and he took me in his arms, picking me up as easily as a child and carrying me to his quilt-covered bed. He pulled the towel away, his eyes moving across my body, just looking. Then he came toward me, moving onto the bed and lying on his side next to me. He stretched out his hand and ran his index finger in a line down the center of my body, igniting it with his touch.

He held me deep inside his arms, his lips whispering reassurances, until he felt me go limp against him and relax. A wave of pleasure and relaxation washed over me and I felt… well, I started to feel sleepy. I yawned and he laughed softly.

"I wondered when that medicine was gonna start slowing you down," he murmured. "Relax, honey, it's all right. I'm right here."

He pulled the thick quilt up around us and pulled me up onto his chest. My head rested on his shoulder, listening to the strong beat of his heart. I lay there wrapped in his arms, fighting sleep until at last I had to give in. The last thing I remember was the feel of his lips as he softly kissed my hair, and the scent of him, warm and comforting in the early evening.