Cupid's Confederates (10 page)

Zach glanced at Bett. “A bomb might get that group moving, but I doubt it,” he whispered.

“We shouldn’t have fed them. They both look ready to go to sleep.” Bett sighed. “Mom would have considered it a compliment if they
did
fall asleep after one of her dinners.”

Zach left to drive the potential beaux home at nine. Shortly after that, Elizabeth declared she was tired, and picked up a book to take to her room. “I think it’s a healthy thing that you two have such a wide variety of friends, Bett.”

“Yes.” Bett climbed the stairs behind her mother and gave her an affectionate hug at the top. “I’m sorry to have landed you with an extra two for dinner.”

“You’re joking. You know I love that. You have as many people over as you want, anytime,” Elizabeth assured her.

Bett took a bath, donned nothing afterward and climbed smooth-skinned under the sheet to wait for Zach. She heard the truck roll in around ten and then listened to the assorted muted sounds from below—Zach getting a drink of water, switching off the lights, swearing softly at Sniper who evidently was sitting in the middle of the stairway.

When he saw that the bedroom light was off, Zach entered very silently, closing the door behind him. Moonlight shone in on the comforter, on the soft mound of Bett’s figure. She was exhausted; he wasn’t surprised. Her mischievous moves under the dinner table were still making him smile; it had made a difference, their talk. Not that she couldn’t exhibit more sass than sense on occasion, but Bett had always been a toucher—a caress, a kiss, a hug, all of which had been missing whenever her mother had been in the same room. He felt a warm tug of love for his lady, who had just needed a little reminder that they stayed together through thick and thin. These days were a little thin with Elizabeth around, but they were coping. He pulled off his jeans and shirt, then the rest of his clothes, and very carefully made his way to the bed in the darkness, not wanting to wake her.

The sheets were cold. Gradually, his body heat began to transfer to the percale. He moved instinctively to his side, one arm reaching to drape around Bett and drag her into the spoon of his chest and bent knee.

She turned at just that instant to face him, sliding her leg between his, arching her small breasts against him, snuggling provocatively. “You’re tired,” she whispered.

The hell he was. An amused smile crossed his face as he reached for her. Those hot little button nipples pressing against his ribs roused about a dozen reactions, none of them exhaustion. Her thighs were smoother than silk, but much, much warmer. “You want to go to sleep, do you?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to talk.”

“I
do
want to talk,” she corrected sleepily, her palm sliding down the muscle of his thigh. “Just not at this exact minute.”

“You’re too tired.”

“We both need sleep,” Bett agreed in a low, throaty whisper.

He really had to do something to control those teasing impulses of hers. She arched back when his lips found the column of her throat. He cradled her closer yet, his palms splayed on her bottom. Her skin was warm and pliant, fragrant like the night, as provocative as the darkness. A sweet little tremor shook her body when his hand smoothed down the length of her.

The light knock on the door made him grit his teeth. “Brittany?” Elizabeth whispered.

Zach clamped a hand on Bett’s mouth. She was too busy swallowing to answer, anyway. “She’s asleep, Liz. Need something?”

“Oh, of course not, Zach. I certainly didn’t mean to disturb you. Brittany and I have rather gotten used to sharing a cup of tea when she can’t sleep,” Elizabeth whispered. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

She hesitated. “You don’t know where she keeps the tea?”

The tea was in the same cupboard it always was. In the kitchen, with all the lights turned on again, Elizabeth beamed at Zach, at the same time sending him apologetic signals with her eyes. “You didn’t have to get up, you know; but I have to admit I rarely have the chance to talk to just you.”

His dark robe belted firmly around him, Zach smothered an irritated yawn. Bett was all through with interrupted nights. And when the moment presented itself, Elizabeth was about to get a very tactful lecture on privacy. He forced a smile as he settled in the kitchen chair across from his mother-in-law.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone for some time, anyway,” Elizabeth admitted shyly. Her color was suddenly high, matching her bright pink robe with the ruffles at the neck. “Zach, I feel I can talk to you. I always have. Most sons-in-law…I just don’t think I would have had that feeling.”

Zach lifted his eyebrows, the first puff of wind knocked out of his sails. “If you have some problem, Liz…”

“Not exactly a problem. It’s just—oh, I just feel Chet should have handled this. You know, you and Bett have been married for some time.”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth dunked her tea bag, then delicately dropped it in the saucer and lifted the cup to her lips. “I don’t know how to say this,” she admitted with a shy little laugh. “My daughter… I love my Brittany so very much, Zach. She’s not…”

Zach waited, not having the least idea how to help her because he didn’t have the least idea what she was talking about.

“In the beginning of a marriage,” Elizabeth said slowly, “a young couple is so very much in love. But then later, ‘in love’ changes to loving; it’s a very different thing, a much more important thing.” Elizabeth pleated her robe four times, and then took another sip of tea. “Sometimes, it takes work, loving. The thing is, Brittany is rather shy, Zach. Hardly a woman of the world. She never has been. One would like to be sure she is happy.”

Elizabeth leveled a soft, brown-eyed, puppy stare at him that Zach understood very well was supposed to be meaningful. He floundered. “You mean the farm—”

“No,” Elizabeth said swiftly, and lowered her eyes. “Chet would have handled this so much better,” she announced.

Zach had the sneaking suspicion that Chet wouldn’t have initiated this conversation in the first place. His eyes strayed helplessly to the clock. The witching hour was almost at hand.

“You’re rather male,” Elizabeth said nervously.

He blinked.

“And in the beginning of a marriage—well, that’s one thing. It’s later that counts. The years of building. And Brittany’s terribly gentle by nature; that just doesn’t go away. A man doesn’t usually feel…he has to be patient anymore, after a time. Actually, though, it’s the patience that counts long after the honeymoon. Love isn’t just measured in…” Elizabeth paused, taking another gulp of tea, her face poppy-red. “Chet would have handled this much, much better.”

Zach hadn’t missed the theme of the conversation this time, but handling it was something else. Elizabeth was wringing her hands together in her lap, her soft eyes resting on his, communicating how difficult it was for her to discuss the subject. He wished he felt more exasperation. As it was, he felt a swift stir of compassion, and total weariness at the realization that it wasn’t likely they were going to discuss privacy when his mother-in-law wanted to talk about sex. “Look,” he said gently. “If you’re worried about whether Bett and I are happy in bed—”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “I wasn’t trying to get that personal,” she said stiffly. “Honestly, Zach. If you think I would really pry—”

Zach’s hand covered hers. “I don’t necessarily think we need to mention this conversation to Bett.”

“Lord, no,” Elizabeth agreed nervously.

“Bett isn’t unhappy, Liz.”

Elizabeth’s poppy color shaded down to pale pink.

“And she certainly is shy. Terribly shy,” he said gravely, and added, “she’s a good girl.”

The phrase sparked a smile. “I—that’s just the thing. I always
knew
that. My Brittany is the kind of woman a man wants to marry, not just—”

“She certainly isn’t
that,
”
 
Zach agreed, praying silently that not an ounce of emotion showed on his face. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Yes. I’ve been worried about this for so long. I wish that Chet could have had this little chat with you…”

Zach stood up; so did Elizabeth. “Everything okay now?” he questioned gently.

Elizabeth heaved an enormous sigh. “Fine,” she agreed. “I just knew I could talk to you, Zach. I think we can both go to sleep now.”

Ten minutes later, he was cuddled against his delectably hot-blooded little wife, his disgustingly male instincts appropriately subdued when she murmured in her sleep, sensually curving her limbs around him. He knew damn well what Bett was dreaming about. The same thing he was about to.

From a distance, Zach watched Bett at the hives. The morning sun was bright and warm, even though the leaves in the orchard had already turned gold and brown; it was a glorious fall day. Bett wore a red flannel shirt tucked into her jeans and the crazy straw hat that she’d rigged up with netting that dropped to her shoulders.

She was humming, a husky, low love song. As she slid a tray from the farthest hive, a hundred bees whirled up and around her, and Zach unconsciously shuddered. She
wouldn’t
wear gloves, said she just couldn’t work with them.

She transferred the tray of honey to the bed of the pickup, where others already rested. He made an instinctive move forward to help her—and stopped himself. Zach was as familiar with the intricacies of raising bees as Bett was; he was also violently allergic to the formic acid in bee stings.

Bending over, she accomplished the last stage of the morning’s project—transferring brood combs to the new hive in an effort to balance the overabundant population of the insects. It was a sticky, awkward business. Bett whipped off the straw hat in obvious exasperation at its hindrance, and appreciatively Zach shuddered again. Somewhere between five hundred and a thousand honeybees clouded around her.

Finally finished, she very gently brushed them off her shirt and jeans, then walked toward the truck where he waited, the sun glowing on her face.

“You have that look on your face again,” she teased.

“It drives me crazy, watching you. If I had to choose between handling those bees and a vat of boiling oil, you know what I’d choose.”

“The vat.” Bett chuckled, and tucked her fingers into his belt as they ambled toward the truck. “You’d feel differently if you were female. In the meantime, you realize we’ve got at least two hundred pounds of honey to do something or other with this afternoon.”

“I can see that. What I
don’t
see is what being male has to do with not loving your bees.”

“It’s a lady’s world, obviously. The queen gets warmed, cooled, entertained and fed the equivalent of honey steaks, all at her whim. Who’d want to be a boy bee? The drones get kicked out of the hive in winter to starve; they never get to do anything interesting in the summer.” Bett swung into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut, and regarded her husband demurely. “The boys are only good for one thing.”

“And how you love that line.”

“Actually, he must be pretty darn good, considering the queen gets as many as a million eggs out of one…um…quickie. And I certainly hope
she’s
good, since he dies afterwards.” Bett propped one foot on the dash, relaxing against the seat. “I’ve worried for a long time whether he dies happy. Maybe he dies depressed. I mean, he’s lived his whole life for that moment, and then what if the queen’s frigid?”

“Tough luck,” Zach said dryly.

“For the queen, too. What kind of deal is that, to only get to make love once in a lifetime?”

“It wouldn’t suit you by a long shot,” Zach agreed. His wife sent him a sidelong glance and he chuckled. “Is your mother going to survive our honey harvest this afternoon?”

“I doubt it.” There was no reason to expect that life would suddenly take a smooth path after doing hairpin turns all week. Bett had felt worlds better after talking with Zach
 
about her mother, but that didn’t change unalterable facts. When Zach wanted her in the woods to help him cut wood for the winter, her mother expected her to go shopping. When her mother had decided to “fall clean” Zach’s study, half the receipts for the year had disappeared. And on the first free Sunday afternoon they’d had since summer, Zach had sat down to watch a football game. Elizabeth had spent every football game when Chet was alive chattering next to him. Bett’s dad had sort of tuned her out; Zach couldn’t.

“Bett, it’ll go fine this afternoon,” Zach assured her. He added wryly, “We’re not doing too well at matchmaking so far, are we?”

“You’d think my mother would catch on to the odd coincidence that we only have single male friends over fifty.”

Zach chucked, but only half in humor. The Monroe household was used to taking it a little easier by mid-October. The grain harvest was still going on; machinery had to be winterized; wood had to be cut for the cold months; but this was still the time of year he had extra time with Bett. Time to rest, time to fool around, time just to steal an afternoon together. And if Elizabeth miraculously found one more project for Bett to do, he would seriously consider strangling her. The instant Bett sat down and relaxed, her mother got nervous. Easy solutions were proving elusive.

The thing about getting Elizabeth married off…Zach sighed. No matter how irritated he was with her, he didn’t have in mind getting rid of the lady, but getting her involved with other people—something that Elizabeth was curiously shy about initiating on her own.

A handful of neighbors were coming over for their “honey bee” this afternoon. And if a “honey bee” wasn’t a good way of forcing people to let down their hair, Zach couldn’t imagine what was.

***

“My Lord,” Elizabeth said faintly.

“Now, just relax, Mom. Keep stirring,” Bett ordered cheerfully, as she lugged the huge kettle over to the stove. Elizabeth had come downstairs only moments before, dressed “for company” in expensive green linen slacks with a purple–and-green blouse, having ignored Bett’s suggestion that she wear something old. Bett, in jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, had briskly transformed the kitchen during the half hour her mother had been upstairs.

Honeycombs were stacked on a white sheet on the floor, their sweet smell permeating the entire house. A long table took up half the available floor space, again covered with a freshly washed sheet. On top of that were four five-gallon earthenware crocks and assorted glass jars. The counter next to the refrigerator was covered with cloves, lemon and cinnamon bark, those spicy smells mingling with the sweet one. Bett was wearing a white sweatband Indian-style across her forehead. And she’d immediately put her mother to work on the opposite counter with two bowls in front of her. One contained oatmeal, the other mud.

“My Lord,” Elizabeth said again.

Bett cast a critical eye at the mud mixture. “A little more dirt,” she said absently.

Elizabeth, looking more cowed than Bett had ever seen her, added a handful gingerly. “My kitchen,” she murmured. “My beautiful, clean kitchen…”

“Mother. You are going to have
fun,
” Bett insisted. “Really. You just have no idea—”

The front door opened. A chorus of laughter and conversation floated through from the living room, and in a moment the group descended, packing into every available space and cranny, Zach trailing behind them. He made the introductions. “Liz, this is Mabel Jordan, Susan Lee, you know Grady, Tom Fellers, Gail, Alice, Aaron, Trudy, Jane—this is Bett’s mother, Elizabeth, everyone.”

“Zach, you pour,” Bett shouted over the ensuing chatter.

The glasses were all set out. Zach started filling them from the last crock of the previous year’s mead. The women moved about the room, aproned and laughing. They were all neighbors, most of them from nearby farms. The first time Bett had mustered the courage to tentatively suggest a gathering of the local clans, she’d been panic-stricken when they actually swarmed in. Farm women were bossy. It came with the territory. The ones who didn’t want honey wine were already fussing through her cupboards looking for instant coffee or tea.

“Less dirt,” Mabel, a tall, skinny woman with iron-gray hair, told Elizabeth, peeking over her shoulder. “The consistency has to be just right when you put the honey in it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth was staring in horror as Grady and Tom Fellers took off their shoes in the doorway, then their socks. Both disappeared. Minutes later, they returned from the downstairs bathroom with bare, and clean, feet.

“Got the brew going?” Grady asked Bett.

“I’m getting it, I’m getting it,” Susan Lee told him. “You just set yourself down.”

Bett started the burner under the big kettle and measured in a quart of apple juice, two quarts of water and two pounds of honey. She bumped into Zach, whose arms steadied her as she whipped past him, and knelt to get out a 9-by-13-inch pan from the bottom cupboard. She found two, gave her startled mother a quick hug on the way back up and then poured the mixture of colloidal oatmeal and honey into the two pans. In a moment, both pans were on the floor, and Grady and Tom had planted their feet in them.

When she glanced up again, she was a little afraid Elizabeth was going into shock.

“Bett, what do you want me to do?” Alice shouted.

“Hmm. Cut up three cloves, if you would, then the juice of two lemons for the brew—” Bett popped a large piece of cinnamon bark into the huge kettle and started to stir. The liquid was simmering, wafting a tangy fragrance into the air. Suddenly, she stiffened.
“Zach
—
”

“I’ve got the yeast, two bits. Not to worry.”

She flashed him a smile. Her mother flashed her a panicked look that said,
What is going on? You’re insane. They’re insane…

“Mud’s about ready, Bett,” Mabel announced.

“Did you add the honey?”

Dripping a cupful of it across the once-spotless floor, Bett raced to that counter to add the correct proportion of honey. “Ready, ladies?”

The other women were sitting down in chairs next to the tables, scarves tied around their heads to protect their hair, their faces uplifted and brightened by irrepressible smiles. Bett glanced around. She’d planned on five. She was missing one—her mother.

Elizabeth was on her hands and knees, trailing people with a rag. Firmly, Bett took the rag away and maneuvered her mother gently into a chair beside the others. “Wouldn’t you like a mudpack? Come on, it’s fun, Mom.” Her mother didn’t answer. Bett started at the head of the line with her bowlful of mud and honey and stuck her hands in it. She couldn’t help laughing. She was very sorry her mother wasn’t enjoying it, but as she coated each upturned face with honey mud, she couldn’t help but start chuckling. Grady didn’t help matters; he was slapping his knee as he watched the women. She put some on his nose in passing; he only laughed harder.

“Alice and I are widows, too,” Susan Lee told Elizabeth. “Had a terrible time adjusting, both of us. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t know what to do with the farm. Never thought things would ever work out again, and Alice had kids still in school, didn’t you, Alice?”

When Bett got to the end of the row, Elizabeth’s face was—rather stiffly—upturned. Very, very gently, Bett slathered the mixture on her mother’s face.

The women kept up a steady stream of chatter, looking vaguely like creatures from a horror movie as the mudpacks slowly dried. Bett had never really understood why Aaron came, except for the fun of the chaos and the drink of apple-cider vinegar and honey she always gave him for his arthritis, but he was keeping up his usual monologue. He dragged a chair over by her mother, who had undoubtedly never considered carrying on a conversation with anyone of the opposite sex while sporting a mudpack on her face. Aaron was an old chemistry teacher turned farmer, white-moustached and tall, and his background showed.

“See, the bees secrete an enzyme that breaks down a chemical something like hydrogen peroxide—you know, like you use on a cut. It’s a natural mild antibiotic, honey is, and it’s got a water-drawing property—precisely what it does is draw water from the bacterial cells and make them shrivel up and die. See what I mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Elizabeth said faintly.

“And not that there’s any cure for arthritis, but the vinegar and honey together work pretty well to reduce swelling and take away the pain. It’s a soother, inside and outside. Unpasteurized stuff only, we’re talking about here. Do you have hay fever?”

“No.”

“Well, if you did, honey’s a natural antihistamine as well.”

“That’s very nice,” Elizabeth said.

“The girls like it for a face pack.”

“I can see that.”

“Which is again because of its moisturizing properties…”

“Zach, how’re we coming?” Bett took a second and a half out for a sigh. She’d been running around like a mad thing. Zach tugged her in front of him, with both arms resting on her shoulders, a very awkward position from which to stir the kettle on the stove. Still, Bett relaxed, cradled back against his chest, inhaling that fantastic sweet and spicy smell rising from the kettle.

“I’ll be ready to strain in five or six minutes,” he told her, nuzzling his chin on the crown of her head.

For just an instant, she closed her eyes. The next instant she opened them, startled—and delighted—to hear a different tone of laughter in the noisy group behind them. She peeked around Zach. Her mother was laughing.
Her mother was laughing,
her mudpack cracking, the women circling around her.

Bett glanced up at Zach. His blue eyes were doing a tango, waiting to meet hers. Bett was honey from crown to toe. He couldn’t see any part of her that wasn’t sticky. He had a wayward urge to lick off the shiny spot on her cheek, but controlled himself.

“Why don’t you come over for coffee tomorrow, Elizabeth,” Susan suggested. “I’ll show you how to do that jelly roll. Takes time, I’m warning you, but it isn’t all that hard if you watch someone else do it the first time…”

Zach didn’t exactly know how their honey harvest had mushroomed over the years. Bett had learned beekeeping from a retired neighbor, and had loved it starting with the first spring, but only realized in the fall exactly how much honey there was going to be to jar and sell. Zach had poked a “bee” in Grady’s ear, suggesting that one or two women neighbors whose farm season was over might like to help her. “One or two” expanded to a wide group, all bringing their old-time recipes for mudpacks and arthritis cures and remedies for fallen arches. Bett had searched out the old English recipe for mead. The neighborhood theory seemed to be that there was no fun in having half a mess; you might as well go whole hog.