Dorothy Garlock (23 page)

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Authors: More Than Memory

BOOK: Dorothy Garlock
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Lute was taking a pan from the oven when she came out of the bathroom. One-half of a small turkey lay in a nest of moist dressing.
“Get back on the couch. We’re eating on trays.”
“I can help,” she offered weakly.
“And spoil my fun. Go get settled, and I’ll bring you a plate.”
“Not too much,” she cautioned, before going back to the couch.
The tray he brought her was set with a napkin, silverware, and a plate of food that looked delicious. He had arranged thin slices of white meat on a mound of dressing and topped it with giblet gravy. Sweet potatoes and celery stalks stuffed with cream cheese lay alongside the entrée. He put the tray on her lap and stood back.
“Well? What do you think?”
“It looks divine.” She smiled up at him. “But there’s so much of it.”
“Eat what you can. Kelly will love the leftovers. I’ll get mine and join you.”
Nelda ate more of the food than she thought she could. Her throat was sore, but she finished most of the dressing and gravy because it slid down easily. Lute chatted through two plates of food, telling her about Thanksgivings he had spent while in the Navy. Both of them carefully steered away from the only other Thanksgiving they had shared.
She learned that he had been asked to run for county supervisor but had declined, and because of his interest in 4-H, he was on the county fair board. She learned of his political inclinations and prejudices, and freely volunteered information about her own. The meal stretched over an hour and ended with pumpkin pie and coffee for Lute and hot tea for her.
Lute finally carried their trays to the kitchen.
“Leave the dishes in the sink. I’ll do them later,” Nelda called.
“I’ll let them soak. We’ll have the leftovers for supper.”
Nelda lay back on the couch.
He’s going to spend the day. Why is he doing this?
Lute sprawled out in the chair to watch the football game, and Nelda watched him. A thousand memories somersaulted through her mind at the sight of him there, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes half-closed. He was a handsome man, charming when he chose to be with a sensual masculinity that her coworkers at Elite Decorators would adore. She couldn’t blame Miss Home Ec for being wild about him.
During the eight years she had been away from him, she hadn’t forgotten one thing about him. Without her acknowledging it, he had lived in her dreams, in her mind, and in her heart. She had looked for his face on every man she had met, gazed into so many laughing eyes, passionate eyes, indifferent eyes, but none of them were Lute’s eyes. Something had drawn her back here even when she had thought he would be miles away on the high seas. She knew now that he would forever be in her heart. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she closed them tightly lest he turn and see them.
The afternoon seemed to pass in the wink of an eye. When darkness came, Lute turned on the lamp and let Kelly out to run on the end of his rope. He returned and sat down on the edge of the couch, holding his palm to Nelda’s forehead.
“Hungry yet?”
“Are you kidding? I may never eat again.”
“I make a mean turkey sandwich.” His eyes dared her to argue.
“Okay. A half.” Her eyes devoured his face.
“I’ll take your temperature again, and if it’s not down, you’ll see the doctor tomorrow, my girl.” His voice threatened, but his hand was gentle on her cheek.
Nelda’s temperature was down another degree, and Lute was quick to take credit for it.
“It was the tender loving care I’ve given you today.”
“It was the aspirin and good food.”
She sat on the couch, the blanket across her knees, while her mind strove to sort out Lute’s strange behavior. It would be wishful thinking on her part to assume that he felt any more for her than an obligation and the desire a male feels for a female. He had said it all when he referred to himself as a stallion and to her as a mare in heat. Thinking about that humiliating episode was enough to shrivel her soul.
Once he had given her his love, and she had carelessly let it slip away. Now all that he felt for her was pity for a girl alone and sick. They were two lonely people held together by a slender thread of memory: youth, young love, and Becky.
They shared the supper tray, Nelda nibbling at her sandwich half. She drank the hot tea, and it helped to soothe her sore throat.
Despite her protest, he insisted on doing the
dishes and leaving them in the rack on the counter. When he returned to his chair, they watched
Gunsmoke
, then
Wagon Train
on the television. Nelda could barely keep her eyes open, and finally she fell asleep.
Lute switched off the television and turned on the radio. Weather news was important to a farmer. He twisted the dial to the local station. Patti Page was singing, “Tennessee Waltz.”
Lute, sprawled in the chair, watched Nelda and remembered when they had danced together at the Surf when they were young. They had gone to the ballroom only on special occasions. They were so close in those days that they discussed the cost of an outing because he didn’t have much money.
She’s much prettier now than she was at sixteen
, he thought, with his eyes dwelling on her face. Some women improve with age, others lose their looks. Nelda was one of those who would look more and more beautiful as she got older.
The women he had known during the past few years had meant little to him. He could hardly remember some of them. There was always something missing, however nice they were. They’d walk out of the room and right out of his head. Only one woman stayed with him and he couldn’t force her out of his mind and his head.
He had tried at first.
The lines of his jaw softened, and his blue eyes filled with tenderness as they focused on her parted lips. Godalmighty! What had caused him to act such
a fool and spout such cruel, stupid words after they had slept together on that couch.
Embedded in the woman whom he had loved all his adult life, he had thought he was in heaven. Then he had awakened with the realization that she was a career woman who would go back to the city, leaving him as miserable as before. Thinking of the lonely years ahead, he had grown so angry that he had lashed out at her.
Nelda coughed and flung off the blanket. Lute covered her arms and shoulders again. She moaned softly when he held his palm against her forehead. Her fever had risen.
Not one to hesitate once a decision was reached, Lute took a glass of water and the bottle of aspirin up to her bedroom. After turning low the lamp beside her bed, he flipped back the covers and fluffed up her pillow.
Kelly was whining at the door when he went back downstairs. He let him out on his rope, then went to the couch and lifted Nelda up in his arms. He had not expected her to be so light. She awakened and looked at him with dazed eyes.
“Lute . . . ?”
“I’m putting you in your bed.”
“Thank you—”
Her head fell to his shoulder, her arm moved up and around his neck. Lute carried her up the stairs to her room and lowered her to the bed.
“Here are a couple more aspirin.” He put the tablets in her mouth and held the glass of water to her lips. “Now, go back to sleep. I’ll be here.” He
lowered her to the pillow, removed her robe, and covered her with the flannel sheet and down comforter. After placing a gentle kiss on the side of her face, he stood looking down at her.
Lute Hanson, you’re the biggest fool in Cerro Gordo County
. After living in Chicago, having a career, hobnobbing with people like that nightclub owner who called her, she’d never be content to live on a farm where the most exciting thing that happened was a new litter of pigs or the birth of a foal.
Lute admitted to himself that he hadn’t realized how dull it was here until after Norris Smithfield became interested in Nelda. Norris hadn’t shown any interest in any of the local women that he knew of and some, including Meredith, had given him plenty of encouragement.
Well, to hell with Norris Smithfield, his money, and his damn smooth talk, Lute thought as he went down to let Kelly back into the house. Tonight was his.
He locked up the house and turned off the lights just as if he lived there, then went up the stairs to Nelda’s bedroom. Her forehead was hot and dry when he touched it, with the back of his hand. Lute moved around to the other side of the bed, took off his clothes, folded them, and placed them on a chair. Kelly watched him, then curled up on his bed beneath the window.
After turning off the lamp, Lute slid into bed wearing only his shorts, and pulled Nelda close to his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Awakening, she pushed against him.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep—”
“Lute . . . ?”
“Yes, honey, it’s Lute. Are you feeling any better?”
“I want a drink of water.”
“Sit up. I’ve got some right here on the nightstand.”
With his arm around her, Lute held the glass to her mouth. She drank thirstily. When they sank back down on the bed, she snuggled against him and went back to sleep. He had thrown caution to the winds when he undressed, got into bed with her, and pulled her into the crook of his arm. This was far more than he had expected to do when he came here this morning.
Her palm lay flat against his chest, her cheek against his bare shoulder, her soft breasts against him. Lute wondered suddenly if she had nursed their child. He hoped that someday they would be close enough that he could ask her. Tonight he had to be satisfied being here in the dark with her, holding her, looking after her.
Lute was unaware that he slept until he awakened suddenly and glanced at the window. Dawn streaked the sky. Soft fingers were stroking the back of his hand. They were touching the ring on his finger. It was so tight it wouldn’t turn. He captured her hand and held it against his chest.
“You could have cut it off.” A tear had seeped from the corner of her eye. He felt the wetness on his shoulder.
“No,” he said.
“Why are you here?”
“To take care of you. Your fever has broken. Do you feel better?”
“Much better. But it’s crazy being here like this,” she whispered.
“I know.” The words were a sigh, but his arms tightened, and he drew her legs more intimately between his.
“Do you ever think of that other life—when we were young and in love?”
There was a long silence. The hand holding hers to his chest moved to slide up and down her arm in a slow rhythm.
“I try not to think about that other life,” he murmured into the darkness. “It’s over. What’s important is what’s ahead.”
“I like to think about it because what I was and what I am now will be the total of what I will be.”
“That’s heavy thinking. I try to concentrate on whether or not to pick the beans, or if I have enough hail insurance, or if I’ll get the crops out and still have time for fall plowing.” The hand on her arm continued to stroke.
“You’ve always loved farming.”
“Yes, I knew what I wanted to do after that first summer when we moved to my grandpa’s farm. I like working the land, watching the crops grow, caring for my animals.”
“I always wanted to be a decorator.”
“Well” — he sighed—“you got what you wanted.”
“I wanted it then. Now I’m not sure what I want.”
She held her breath as soon as the lie left her
lips. She knew what she wanted: She’d walk over hot coals to be with him; he had only to beckon.
“I don’t know what to do about the farm.” She rushed into speech before he could comment on the remark. “I can’t decide if I should sell it or hold on to it for an investment.”
“You can always lease out the land, but if the house isn’t lived in, it’ll deteriorate.”
“My father wants to buy it.”
Lute heaved a deep sigh. “Hutchinson said he had a buyer. I never thought
he’d
want it.”
“I’ll never sell it to him.”
There was a long silence. She turned her lips to the warm skin of his chest and choked down the disappointment she felt when he let the subject of selling the farm drop so blandly.
“Why haven’t you remarried, Lute?”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Too busy, I guess. And I’ve not met anyone—” She took a quivering breath. “Meredith, the Home Ec teacher seems perfect for you.”
“She’d make a good farmer’s wife,” he acknowledged.
“And I wouldn’t.” The words were out before she could stop them.
“No. I can’t see you as the Florence Nightingale of the calf barn, or being concerned with anything as unglamorous as corn or soybeans. I realized that more clearly the night I saw you with Smithfield. You fit into his world much better than you do mine.” The hand holding hers gripped it tightly.
“Then why did you come here and . . . stay the night?” Hurt made her speak sharply.

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