Sunburst

Chapter 11

It was just past three. Erica could not remember a Wednesday so quiet. Kyle had sent the men home, this time for good. Whatever still had to be finished on the new building they could do themselves. An hour before there had been shouts of congratulations and satisfaction, and then sounds of engines starting as the men left.

Now there was no one but herself, not even a sign of Morgan or Kyle. Erica had grown so accustomed to the sounds made by hammers and saws and power tools that the quiet seemed strange. She’d stood in the doorway for an age watching the men take off in their trucks. They were mostly college students. It wasn’t a town that had an abundance of summer employment for school kids, beyond those whose parents needed them on their own farms. They had been a good group. They had complained loudly that Kyle was a slave driver, and he had complained loudly that they didn’t know a nail from a screwdriver, which they had vigorously and in detail protested when Erica was not supposed to be within hearing range.

She’d offered to make lunch for the entire group more than once, but they’d preferred to cart their girlfriends to the site, eating sandwiches sprawled on the grass, preferably as nearly naked as possible. They worked the same way, though she guessed the heat wave was not so much a factor as their vanity. They wanted to get the darkest tan possible to impress the girls. On the job, though, they had caved under to Kyle, put their all into the work, and what good-natured complaints had been shouted did not take away from the essential respect they had shown him.

He’d earned that. She’d never seen him fail to earn the respect of the people he worked with, but the kids were still something special. They were amateurs, and they made mistakes, but Kyle had developed a sense of pride in them as they learned. It was their building; she knew they felt that way as she walked toward it now. The anticipation and frenetic pace of weeks had finally peaked.

Lord, she was proud of him.

The lemon sun shimmered on the new windowpanes, on the rough grayish siding that blended right into the wooded area beyond. Kyle had known exactly what he wanted and had done it, and the new building was a fine, tasteful structure that still had the scent of newness to it, the stuff of which dreams are made. She opened the door, imagining a customer doing it, imagining a hundred customers doing it. Teak and mahogany, catalpa and pine, oak, of course, even wicker from willows… First, the customer would see finished products, from sculptures to cabinets, each fashioned from the wood that most suited its form and function.

A compact, well-lit office was just beyond. Erica walked through, imagining the finished floor where there were only bare boards now, seeing in her mind’s eye displays on the walls where there was nothing yet, imagining samples of wood, the unique tools of the trade… Her sandals clicked on the floor as she walked through.

Kyle was standing at the very back of the building, staring out the window with his hands on his hips and his head high. He turned when he heard her footstep. There was no smile on his face, but a look of satisfaction was in his eyes. The moment’s triumph and his dreams were emblazoned there. She caught her breath when he so naturally reached out his hand for her.

She covered the last few steps with a radiant smile and took his hand.

“You see my lumberyard, don’t you? That’ll be part of it, in the long run.” He pointed out the window. There was, of course, nothing there. A cleared space where a good-sized truck could back in to unload supplies. The drive was gravel, not asphalt yet. A rather scruffy stand of poplars was beyond that, and then a nice little stand of oak, hickory and maple.

“I see it.”

“It’s so damned big it cuts out my view of the woods,” he complained.

She reached up to hug him, long and hard, and then moved away quickly, not wanting anything that was between them to spoil his moment of dreams.

Both men were in the backyard when she came out with a tray of lemonade at four-thirty. They were both lying back in lounge chairs, half in shade, half in sun, both stripped down to cutoff jeans and bare feet. Both claimed they were moving nowhere for the rest of the day, but they energetically hooted down her lemonade in favor of something alcoholic.

She returned a few minutes later with a second tray, bearing glasses and a full pitcher of celebratory screwdrivers, more vodka than orange juice, and again faced the two stretched-out figures who refused even to open their eyes. “Will this suit?” She pressed an ice-cold glass directly to Kyle’s stomach. He groaned just as Morgan did with similar treatment. “Do you think you can rouse enough energy to drink it? I mean, you’ll actually have to raise your heads,” she said with mock sympathy.

“Sit down and relax, General,” Morgan ordered.

“Actually…” Her eye rested on a monarch butterfly as it flitted gracefully through the yard. Then on Kyle, who had been so relaxed with her today that she felt the delicious urge to pounce on him, liberated hormones like tantrums in her bloodstream. Then she looked at Morgan, whose eyes had slitted open just enough to take in the snug white shorts she wore, and the bright yellow top that showed every curve. Quickly, her eyes skimmed away from Morgan to rosebushes she had been trying to grow. She had planted some delicate white flowers, whose name eluded her for the moment, as well. The scent of the white flowers came out only at night, an overpowering perfume next to the window. Then her glance flickered back to Kyle again, to the way his jeans fit over his thighs, to his smooth forehead with its boyish shock of black hair, to his fine Irish nose and the broad bones in his cheeks, to his dark eyebrows so shaggy that they shaded his eyes in sunlight. As if he knew she was watching him, Kyle suddenly opened his eyes, a startling turquoise next to his tanned skin. To her dying day, those eyes would evoke bedrooms. She glanced deliberately back to the garden. “Actually, I think I’ll do a turn at those weeds in the garden…”

Morgan groaned. “Where did you get her?” he complained to Kyle.

“Where did I get her?” Kyle echoed lazily, and leaned back with his arms behind his head, eyes closed. “I picked her up at a third and seventeen in the fourth quarter of a Cotton Bowl game. Literally. Surrounding her was the cream of the freshman class, the female portion, all dressed to the teeth and demurely chugging their sterling flasks. Not Erica. She was standing on the bench shouting her head off. Do you have any rope?”

Morgan denied it. “There might be some in the shop.”

“Too far to move, unfortunately. We could have tied her to the chair. Erica, just see if you can manage to sit still for a full fifteen minutes. You might even decide it feels good for a change. As I was saying…”

She threw a look of mock disgust at both of them. After a moment, she poured herself a screwdriver and flopped obediently into a lounge chair between them. It was so poignantly reminiscent of other times, when there were no troubled waters, no ships floundering. She would have stood on her head to ensure that nothing marred this day for Kyle, feeling the simplest pleasure at just seeing him being lazy and…easy. Leaning back, she closed her eyes.

“Some drunk was trying to get past her, and Erica didn’t see him. She was too busy shouting down to the coach, telling him how to run his team-”

“Kyle,” she scolded absently. Morgan was already chuckling. God knew why. He had heard the story a thousand times before.

“I was just passing, but I’d stopped at the rail to watch that critical play before I went back to my seat-which, you may remember, Shane, I worked night and day to pay for, and it was still nowhere near the fifty-yard line where Erica and her upper-crust friends were sitting. Anyway, the next thing I know she’s flying off the seat-”

“Gross exaggeration,” Erica murmured.

“There’s no point in interrupting,” Morgan scolded wryly.

“No one else,” Kyle said loudly, “seemed to know what to do with her. I mean, what do you do with a girl who seems to be upside down in the middle of the stadium where the rest of the crowd-even the drunks-are right-side up and screaming… One of the classic pass interceptions in football history, and I missed it. In fact, I missed the entire rest of the game. Someone had to sponge her off. Half the sterling flasks in the crowd had contributed a dribble or two on her way down. She had a bump on her forehead the size of a goose egg-”

“Have you noticed how the size of that bump grows from year to year?” Morgan muttered in an aside to Erica.

“…smelled like a liquor factory, had a run in her stockings and was so hoarse from all her solo cheerleading that she could barely croak for the next two hours. I had to carry her fireman-style to the first-aid station…”

“Why did you have to get him started?” Erica demanded plaintively to Morgan.

She should not have sat down. There had been too many weeks of almost nonstop work; now her limbs felt glued to the lounge. She felt cradled in, cocooned both by simple tiredness and by the memories Kyle was invoking. She could so easily close her eyes and see the Kyle McCrery of nine years ago, wickedly attractive, looking far too old for her at first glance, and very definitely a total stranger. He had not carried her fireman-style, but he might as well have, ignoring her hoarse objections as he hustled her through the crowds, burrowed her into a little room she would never have guessed existed, and brushed the first-aid attendant’s administrations aside in favor of his own. He had made her lie down on the cot and told her to close her eyes. Then he had gently placed a damp cloth on the bump on her forehead, and suddenly he was unbuttoning her beautiful aquamarine suit, and her eyes had opened as wide as saucers.

“The front of your suit was all damp. I was just trying to…” She hadn’t believed him then, and she didn’t now, but he had buttoned the suit up again…for a time. They were both students at the University of South Florida in Tampa, so it was not all that surprising they had found their way to the Cotton Bowl at the same time. What was surprising was how fast it all happened. At the time, in that little first-aid station, she was mortified at being such a mess and exasperated at missing the game…and completely captivated by those Irish blue eyes, so possessive on hers. She knew in every virginal bone exactly what he had in mind…

“She’s asleep,” Morgan said quietly.

“She’s exhausted.”

“She’s lost weight; there are hollows under her eyes, and she’s been trying to work until she drops, McCrery. Naturally, she’s exhausted.”

But she didn’t hear Morgan’s low digs, couldn’t hear the subtle note in his voice that had dug under Kyle’s skin over and over, didn’t see the look on Kyle’s face, the sudden tension. She was replaying that moment in the past, dreaming it over and over again. The suit had been a favorite but too warm for the day; she had worn no blouse, only a silky little camisole beneath it that hugged every womanly curve. Someone had spilled whisky on the lapel; the scent was strong; it was not inconceivable that Kyle had unbuttoned her jacket only to sponge it off. Nor would a little silk camisole have shocked a fast-moving man like Kyle McCrery; she owned bikinis that showed a great deal more of her. But the feeling was there, that instant. The feeling that her innocence was laid bare to him, and Kyle told her with his eyes that he was claiming that innocence. She recalled that delicious sense of fear and anticipation in her mind, remembering the silent little speech she had delivered to herself, that there was no excuse for naiveté in this life, that rockets didn’t really go off…

A shotgun exploded, and then another and another. Erica’s eyes flew open. The other two lounge chairs creaked as Kyle and Morgan launched themselves out of them and took off at a dead run for the new building. There was another volley of gunshots and then a crazy, raucous hooting of horns-car horns, truck horns, hunters’ duck horns, whistles, cat calls-so absurdly grating on the ears that Erica covered hers as she started running, too. She had in mind bombs, robbers, terrorists…

Suddenly, she saw Martha Calhoun coming toward her. Erica could hear Martha’s laughter even above all the other noises. “Come on!” she exhorted with a wild motioning of her hands.

“What on earth is going on?” There were people everywhere suddenly: the boys Kyle had hired and their girlfriends, their parents, Martha’s family, vaguely remembered faces like Mr. Hendriks from the grocery and the mailman, a Mrs. Polanataz who had brought them a cake the day they had moved here, neighbors and customers… Fireworks were being set off in the yard, and the new building was still surrounded by men with guns. None of the people were empty-handed; they were carting everything from packaged potato chips to homemade potato salad. One pickup truck had been backed up to the front door of the new building and clearly held a keg of beer, the bed of the truck dripping with ice blocks to keep it cold. Kyle and Morgan were already there, laughing, their heads thrown back-and a roar of approval went up when they enthusiastically downed the first paper cupful of beer. Kyle caught sight of her and motioned her to his side, but it just wasn’t that easy to get through the people in an instant.

Martha grabbed Erica’s arm and hugged her with excitement, shouting at the top of her lungs for her son to keep away from the beer. “It’s a belling,” she announced. “An old German custom-though, as you know, I haven’t a drop of German blood, but then the Irish were never ones to be prejudiced where a party was concerned. The idea is a surprise welcome to the newcomers in a neighborhood, usually honeymooners. Oh, well, I had to twist the rules a bit in other ways, too. A belling’s supposed to take place after dark, but Leonard has to be back for the milking by seven. And it’s hardly your first day in the neighborhood, but we thought that new building needed a christening and maybe we just all needed an excuse to support you two. Anyway, if you can picture how it’s supposed to be-the husband-to-be with his virgin bride; he’s finally got the lights out and her clothes off, and all of a sudden there’s an explosion of noise, and they’re expected to come down pronto, entertain perhaps fifty people who all bring food and drinks and are prepared to keep the couple from…uh…”

Erica burst out laughing as Martha finally ran out of breath.

“The idea died out around decades ago,” Martha admitted. “God knows why. Everybody jumped to take part when I called. It’s been on my mind for an age. You see, the last one I heard of was organized by Joel McCrery, and he did it up right, on the night my parents were married. I wasn’t, respectfully, born then-but I’ve heard about it for years. I’ve just been itching for an excuse-”

“You sweetheart!” Erica said warmly.

“You probably won’t say that later. Everyone’s supposed to bring their own refreshments, but a blind bat could see they’ve brought more bottles than food. I can just picture the mess a few hours from now!”

Erica could see it with her own eyes, those few hours later. The noise and confusion and hilarity had just died a few minutes ago, and Kyle and Morgan were sprawled next to her with their backs propped up against packing crates. The litter in front of them included an incredible variety of debris-half-eaten cakes, half-empty bottles, enough crackers and cheese to last a year, an empty, dripping keg…and in one corner, an eighteen-year-old boy sleeping peacefully with his head cradled in his hands, snoring.

“I’m going to have to take him home,” Kyle said ruefully, but he made no immediate movement to get up.

“You know where he lives?” Morgan questioned.

“On the other side of town.”

“Naturally.”

There was a definite hierarchy of intoxication in the room. The worst was obviously the boy, then Morgan and Erica, and last, Kyle. Morgan, who by nature livened up a party, was one of few this time who had not been in a celebratory mood. Though he’d drunk every toast to Kyle and the new venture, he’d offered none, and his head was bent down in moodiness now…or perhaps headache.

Erica had joined the hilarity with gusto, quickly separating from Martha to take over as hostess. She’d glowed, showing people through both new building and old. The support and enthusiasm and warmth the people showed to Kyle warmed her inside, filling her with pride in her man for the respect he’d earned, and the way people just seemed naturally to like him made her want to gravitate toward him.

She was not fond of beer, but it was hardly the time to be picky when her husband was being toasted. So she had drunk more than she wanted to, and now there was a slight cast of double vision everywhere she looked…but it was not the beer that had altered her mood three-quarters of the way through the party. Perhaps it was the way Morgan kept looking at her oddly every time she turned around; perhaps it was the moment Kyle’s arms were around her and they were cheered as a couple… Suddenly, as on the downgrade of a roller coaster ride, her heart had stopped for a single beat, and then she had heard the sound of her own laughter, high and joyous.

The whole day had been upbeat, as if nothing were wrong…but of course, that was an illusion. She was bubbling on about Kyle’s plans as if she were a part of them; the whole boisterous welcome to the neighborhood included her…and yet it didn’t. For the past few days, Kyle had been so much the energetic, spirited, dynamic man she married that she had almost forgotten-or tried to forget-that she wasn’t sure how long she was going to be in this cozy small town in Wisconsin. How long did he want her there?

Choices; we can’t go on the way we have been; there’s no love without active choice… Her laughter, so right and easy moments before, was suddenly a sham, and a hollow ache had wrenched inside as she saw herself as hostess to a celebration she had no right to.

Kyle stood up abruptly and viewed the sleeping boy with hands on hips, wry smile on his face. “God knows I should have seen it coming. Johnny never was away from the keg, but I don’t know what I’m going to tell his parents.” He shook his head in rueful exasperation, glancing at Erica.

She lurched up to a standing position, absently touching her fingertips to her temples at the unexpected dizziness, swearing off beer in the afternoon for the rest of her life. Silently. “I’ll help you get him to the truck, and then I’ll go after this mess.”

“Hell-just relax, Erica; it isn’t going anywhere,” Morgan insisted. “I’ll help with the boy,” he said curtly to Kyle.

The two men managed to half carry the boy to Kyle’s truck while Erica started trying to make sense of the chaos. The late afternoon sun faded in dusty shadows on the debris, not the best of mood-breakers. She started carting trash bags out to the back, each cumbersome but none heavy. She was in a hurry suddenly. She wanted the room cleared, back the way it was earlier that afternoon, when the scent of brand-newness had touched her: newness had hope in it.

So had she. Kyle had been so loving the night before… She thought of the intricately carved vase, of the half-finished sunburst; she thought of that crazy moment when he had vaulted her up into the tree at Martha’s.

But nothing was quite that simple. He cared; she had never believed he hated her. They were not enemies. Yet she knew in her heart that his feelings had changed for her since they moved here; he had excluded her from every decision that counted. He didn’t want to speak of his real feelings… It was a little too easy to make a lot out of shared passion on a single night. If the man didn’t love her, she couldn’t stay.

An exasperating tear spilled onto her cheek as she battled with the last of the bags. Her head ached from the beer, and the late afternoon sun seemed curiously harsh, eye-blinkingly bright, showing up the emptiness of the rooms that had been filled with dreams before.

“Oh, Erica…”

Morgan was next to her in long, swift strides. She had completely forgotten him, assuming he had gone with Kyle to help with the boy. The deep, husky sympathy in his voice was the last straw; not to mention being caught in the midst of tears, weariness, the wretched beer hangover. He had his arms around her in seconds, stroking her hair, listening to her cry. “I hate to see you so unhappy. And I hate to see you doing things like this!” He made a motion that encompassed her efforts to pick up after the party, which seemed relevant to absolutely nothing.

“It was the stupid beer,” she tried to say, desperately trying to stop crying.

“It wasn’t the beer. You deserve more than this, Erica. I know the life you were meant for, and it wasn’t this. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to see it…”

She barely heard him as she snatched the handkerchief he offered, mopping at her face and taking great gulping breaths. It worked. The tears stopped, though her control was still shaky. She felt even shakier as she suddenly realized that Morgan’s arm was still possessively around her, and heard something disquieting in the tone of his voice. It occurred to her that Morgan was very, very drunk.

“I need you, Erica. Surely you’ve known that for an age? And no more working yourself ragged, no more living on hamburger, no more being stuck in this little burg…”

Suddenly, he sounded too much like Morgan and not enough like a drunk. Confused, she saw his eyes above hers, fever-bright, aimed like darts, and she felt every nerve ending in her body recoil…

It was just too much. She couldn’t cope with the harshness of sunlight, much less instantly bounce back from the despair she felt as a result of the difficulties between herself and Kyle. The last thing on her mind was old lessons on how to treat a man as villain. And Morgan was no villain; he’d offered comfort so many times as a friend; he’d given Kyle his time and back-breaking work… She simply didn’t know how to begin a wrestling match with him now.

“Morgan-”

She felt a bleak helplessness inside when his lips pressed on hers, when he roughly tried to mold her stiff form closer. Almost detached, she realized what he was doing, noted that his fingers were frenetic in an effort to arouse her sexually. Arrogant hands, so full of confidence… In that single instant, she saw a thousand flashbacks: affection she had innocently invited, sexual innuendos she had unwittingly parried, touching allowed that could be interpreted as her wanting and needing Morgan. She had wanted him-for Kyle. Not for herself. Never in that way.

“Please-”

His mouth tasted like the beer he had had too much of. It was distasteful to her, smothering. Her own guilt almost numbed her…yet not enough. The shorts and top she wore were insufficient covering against the onslaught of his hands, determined on intimacy, claiming her breasts, twisting in her hair, sweeping over her stomach to her hips. Fear warred with a feeling of nausea, of panic. He was far stronger than she was, and his roughness caused her to shake. Her frantic breathing seemed to give him all the wrong messages.

“Morgan!”

“You’re trembling, Erica,” he hissed. “You didn’t think it would be that way only with Kyle, did you? I knew…I knew…”

“Stop it! Let go!” She pushed desperately with her hands, wrenching away from him.

Morgan took a step back, breathing heavily, his eyes black with arousal, running his fingers through his thick mat of blond hair. His shoulders arched back as he stared at her, seeing her arms locked protectively across her chest, her wild mane of hair, her blouse hanging open where a button had popped. Her eyes stared at him disbelievingly, waiting for the apology that didn’t come.

He leaned back against the wall, lazily shifting his feet forward. “I think we can safely take it that you’re not in the mood,” he murmured wryly. His smile suddenly slid across his face like a shutter, masking that predatory look in his eyes, inviting her to be calm and make light of it.

She didn’t smile. “Don’t…touch me again. Ever, Morgan,” she said in a low, menacing tone.

He didn’t like that, and his dark eyes suddenly flickered with steel. He shook his head, still smiling. “Kyle and I go back a long time, Erica,” he said roughly. “But if you’re not with him, I have no obligation to hide my own feelings. The marriage isn’t working anymore-or do you want to try to tell me that everything’s fine between the two of you?” His tone was so heavily sarcastic that she flinched. “It’s obvious that it’s over.”

She could feel the color drain from her face. Was it obvious that her marriage was over? She had thought it a well-guarded secret and still couldn’t believe it herself.

“So you thought that gave you certain rights?” she demanded bitterly. “I don’t love you, Morgan; I could never love you that way.” He took a step forward, and she stiffened. “Just leave me alone. I thought you were Kyle’s friend-”

“Friend! As if Kyle needed one! He’s always gotten every damned thing he went after.” Morgan took a rasping breath. “Don’t be a fool, Erica. You’re shook up, maybe, but you know I really care for you. You know what I can give you-”

“Nothing,” she said tightly. “Ever.” She saw the cold black glint in his eyes again and felt a chill run through her body. “I want you to go home. Leave us alone.” She saw his eyes riveted below her neck and snatched shakily at the torn yellow fabric of her blouse. “Morgan, please. I don’t want to tell Kyle. I don’t want him to know. Please, just go away-”

“Tell Kyle,” he suggested, very softly. “You think he’ll believe you, Erica? You’re so absolutely sure he wouldn’t believe something entirely different happened? That we’d both had our share to drink at the party…”

With a sick sense of horror, Erica started backing away from him, edging toward the door of the shop. What would Kyle believe? Kyle had always trusted Morgan; it was only his wife he’d pushed out of his world lately, as if he could no longer trust her. Behind her, her fingers reached for the doorknob and curled around it, something solid in a very shaky world. “You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t suggest anything like that to Kyle-”

“Are you asking me not to?”

For a price, she thought bitterly. “I’m asking you to leave us both alone.”

“And I will, Erica. I intended to leave in the morning, regardless. You know that. There isn’t any problem, unless you create one.”

He smiled. She felt nauseated. She spun around and wrenched open the door, leaving it ajar as she stumbled out into the yard toward the house. She was halfway there when she heard the engine of Kyle’s truck.

It was like a nightmare. She wanted so desperately to run to him, to throw her arms around him and be sheltered and soothed… Yet she stood stock-still for that instant, too terrified that Morgan would take his revenge, and that Kyle wouldn’t believe her.

In the next instant, she lost that choice. Kyle was a statue, freezing halfway out of the truck when he spotted her. He didn’t so much as move, taking in the torn blouse, her tousled hair and tear-streaked face… She caught the deadly chill in his eyes before he averted his face and turned toward the open door of the new building where Morgan stood.

The truck door slammed. In tears, she ran for the house.