Find Wonder In All Things (11 page)

“I have other sketches of you too.”

“Oh, really? I want to see them all.”

She patted the cushion at her side, and he vaulted over the back of the couch to land right next to her. Flipping through the sketchbook, she stopped at various portraits of him although he saw that there were plenty of other people in the book as well: her father behind the counter at the marina shop, the boys fishing, Virginia reading a book, and a haunting picture of her mother — despair pouring out of eyes encased in dark circles. There were also landscapes and a few close-ups of birds, flowers and the like. The ones of him were from the previous summer. In one, he was leaning back, one leg bent behind him, his foot braced against the wall, a plastic bus tub in his hands. In another, he was sitting on the dock. Still another depicted him perched on a ledge high above the surface of the water, leaning back on his elbows and looking up with a mischievous smile.

“I love this one — love them all. You’re very gifted, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” she said, beaming with pleasure at his praise.

He brought his arm around her in a tight embrace and leaned over to kiss her ear.

She shivered. “That tickles.”

“Mm-hmm — nice isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

He turned her face toward him and brushed her jaw with his forefinger before leaning in to kiss her again. He took the sketchbook out of her hand, set it on the coffee table, and they spent the next several minutes getting reacquainted as the cold, winter sun sank lower and lower in the sky.

The dusk settled around them and covered the room in various shades of gray that deepened as the minutes ticked by. The flames roaring in the stove stood out in sharp contrast to the gathering gloom. James lay on the couch, Laurel perched on top of him, her head on his chest as he absentmindedly rubbed her back. A fog of relaxation surrounded them, and although his body was urging him to get on with it, his mind was reluctant to let the moment go.

“James?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

He smiled. “I was wondering why I haven’t chased you into the bedroom yet.”

“I was wondering the same thing,” she replied, a hint of laziness in her voice. “Not that I’m complaining or anything.”

That drew a chuckle from him. “This just feels so perfect. I’m trying to imprint this moment on my memory so I can return to it again and again whenever we’re apart and I miss you.”

“Oh,” she sighed, lifting her head to rest her chin on his chest. He played with a curl that framed her face.

“Yesterday, it seemed impossible that I would ever feel this way again.”

“What way?”

“I love being here with you, but it’s more than that. Since I’ve been here, there’s this comforting sense of belonging, like coming home after a long trip. Yesterday, it felt like that was lost to me forever — that maybe because of the divorce, I can’t ever go home again. But I think I underestimated you. I should have known, though. You always make everything right. How do you do that?”

“I don’t know, but I do know you do the same for me.”

He pulled her up to kiss her again and felt her move against him, and the lazy moment was gone, replaced with a need to see and feel all of her. He pushed her gently and sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a sigh of longing and good-natured frustration while she stood in front of him. He leaned the crown of his head against her abdomen, circling her hips with his arms. Her hands combed through his hair.

“Wait here.” She held his now upturned face in her hands, smiling down at him. Peace suffused and settled between them.

Laurel disappeared into the bedroom and returned a minute later, with an armful of blankets and pillows.

“The bedroom is cold, so I thought this might be more comfortable.” She busied herself with arranging a make-do bed. “My granny would have called it making a pallet on the floor. I’m sure she never thought I’d use it for this though.” Once she was finished, she sat down and held out her arms to him.

He stripped off his sweater as he approached her, kicking off his shoes and leaving them beside the coffee table. “Don’t,” he said in a husky voice as she started to reach for the hem of her own sweater. “I want to unwrap you.”

He knelt at her feet and gently eased her back until she was lying down. Her stocking feet rubbed up and down his thigh, and he slowly pulled off her woolen socks one after the other, nibbling her ankles and massaging her arches. His hands slid up the outside of her jeans, undid the buttons and peeled them off her long legs. He stared at her until she crossed her hands in front of herself in a self-conscious display of modesty.

His eyes sought hers, but he said nothing out loud. Instead, he continued working upwards along her body, pushing up her sweater, then slipping it over her head and tossing it away. Drawing his finger down the center of her chest, he popped her bra clasp loose with one hand. The corners of his mouth lifted in a wicked grin, and his eyes darkened and danced with desire and amusement. “Best Christmas present I opened this year.”

He stood and unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them and his boxer briefs down and stepping out of them. After kissing up her legs and her body, he settled himself in the cradle of her hips and slid home. She rose up to meet him, again and again, and hooked her long legs around him to draw him close. He felt his restraint slipping away and tried to think about baseball, finals, anything to keep this from being over too soon. He regained some control, but at the same time, he could feel the tension building in her body, and he reached down between them to touch her. Her body tightened and then went slack with a moan and a sigh, and he let himself go. He couldn’t get far enough inside her, and she lifted his head from her shoulder and held his eyes with hers while he emptied into her.

He relaxed and then rolled to the side bringing her with him. Joy bubbled up from inside him, and he had the strange urge to laugh — to let a little of the unbearable happiness escape him. Her sweet voice called him out of his bliss, whispering words of love that he returned in kind before he lifted a blanket to cover them both. There they rested until complete darkness descended, their bodies intertwined in her mountain nest and warmed by the fire he built.

Chapter 9

New Year’s Eve

“When will this be ready? I’m starving.” James was cutting carrots into pieces while Laurel peeled potatoes at the counter.

“Slice them smaller, and they’ll get done faster.” She reached around him and guided his hands to make a narrower cut. He leaned down and kissed her mouth.

“Oooh, I gotta stir the beef.” She scooted over to the stove and turned the stew meat over to brown the other side.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for the little radio she kept in the kitchen. “Not in the mood for Hickville easy listening, Laurel.”

“Sometimes at night, I can get radio stations from Oak Ridge and Knoxville.” She twisted the knob back and forth and fiddled with the antenna. “There we go. REM — how’s that?”

“That’ll do.” His knife hit the cutting board. “I saw them at Riverfront last year.”

“Where?”

He grinned. “Riverfront Coliseum. In Cincinnati?”

“Oh. I haven’t been there, but I’ve heard people talk about it.”

“I can’t wait to take you to concerts — you’ll love them. Last New Year’s I went with the guys to this little hole in the wall to see . . . ” he trailed off, remembering the debauchery of that New Year’s Eve. “Well, it was a really great band. What kind of music do you want to hear live?”

“Any of it — all kinds. I’ve never seen anything but the locals around here, so it’s all new to me.” Her eyes were lit with a blue fire that James interpreted as a thirst for adventure that matched his own. Suddenly though, the fire went out with an abruptness that was startling.

She picked up a bowl of potato chunks and slid them into the stew pot, guiding them with her knife. “Last year, you saw a great band, and this year you’re snowbound in a mountain cabin making your own dinner. This must be pretty boring compared to the New Year’s Eve parties you’re used to.”

He mentally kicked himself for bringing it up. It made it sound like he was hiding something, but that wasn’t why he didn’t want to tell her about it. That New Year’s happened before he spent the best summer of his life in Kentucky — before he watched as his Mountain Laurel blossomed right in front of his eyes. He was another man last year, and everything was different now.

James walked over and put his arms around his girl, nuzzling into her neck. “If I wanted a crazy party this year, I would have found one. I’d rather be with you.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder and put her arm over his, holding him to her. After another squeeze, he released her and returned to his cutting board.

The song changed to a tune that had just come out and was sweeping through the dance clubs around Cincinnati. No doubt, the radio stations would overplay it, but it was a catchy song. James grinned over at Laurel in amused expectation. “Let’s see what you got, Elliot.”

She smiled mischievously, held a celery stalk up to her mouth like a microphone, and put one hand up in the air, reminiscent of a Supremes pose. Belting out the song’s signature line, she began a hip gyration that had him laughing — and damned if he wasn’t a little aroused again too. Even after she turned back to her vegetable peeling, her little wiggle kept going like a siren’s call. He moved in behind, put his hands on her hips, and joined her in a suggestive rhythm. She tossed him a coy glance from under her lashes, and he spun her around to face him, insinuating his leg in between hers. He instituted a bump and grind, both hands on her rear end. She laughed and broke away, singing, “Everybody chop now . . . ”

* * *

While the stew simmered, James brought out his guitar and settled on the couch, picking out several tunes in a row, one blending seamlessly into the next.

Laurel brought two beers from the kitchen and settled herself in the big soft armchair, one leg thrown over the leather-covered arm. She listened, quiet rapture on her face.

“You’ve been practicing,” she said, as she watched the elegant ease of his hands moving over the neck of the guitar and the graceful way he plucked the strings.

He noodled around, grinning, before he answered her. “Been writing too.”

“Play me something you’ve written.”

“Most of my stuff’s instrumental. No lyrics.”

“Okay, so lyrics will come later when you’ve got something to say. Let’s hear what you’ve got so far.” She nodded, encouraging him with her expression.

“Well these are what I’ve been working on lately . . . ” He leaned back against the couch, strumming a couple of his tunes.

“James, they’re wonderful! They remind of country music or Southern rock. You should head to Nashville. You could play at the Bluebird Café.”

He laughed softly. “You almost make me believe I could.” There was a quiet pause while he sat up, looking at her intently. “This one’s yours.”

She cocked her head to the side, a question in her smile.

“I wrote it for you.” His fingers moved over the frets and strings in an intricate, delicate melody. He couldn’t look at her because a sudden, surprising shyness overtook him.

She put down her beer and moved to sit on the floor at his feet. When he finished the tune, she seemed to realize that no words were needed, only an adoring smile and sweet kiss on the mouth — so that was what she gave him.

The evening stretched languidly into night. They ate dinner, washed up the dishes by hand, and sat together, telling stories about school and friends, and remembering funny anecdotes from summers gone by, completely forgetting about the time. After some undetermined length of time, he glanced at the clock and it was 12:34.

“Happy New Year, Mountain Laurel.” He leaned in to kiss her.

“Happy New Year. I had no idea it was already after midnight.”

“Me neither.” He gestured toward the window with his head. “Look, it’s snowing again.”

“So it is. Let’s go out.” She pulled him up to his feet, led him to the door and handed him his jacket. “Just for a few minutes.”

He followed her out into the front yard and watched her profile as she stared up into the sky. “Listen,” she whispered reverently.

He closed his eyes. There was no sound of life around them — no birds, no insects — only the tiny whisper of snowflakes falling on the blanket of snow, and gentle breezes rising and falling among the trees. When he felt her warmth on his front, he opened his eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes as bright as the stars, twinkling in the light that streamed from inside the house.

She brought her hand up and stroked his lightly stubbled jaw. “I love this place. I’ve always loved it, but when you’re here, it’s even more wonderful.”

He drew her into his arms. “I can’t think of anywhere in the world I’d rather be tonight.”

She grinned. “So you like playing house with me?”

“Most definitely.”

Her grin faded into a soft, awed look of adoration. “I love you.”

“And I love you too, always.” He kissed her for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. His lips were getting chapped. “But now I’m freezing, so let’s go sit in front of the fire, and I’m going to show you a wonderful game that I’ve never played but heard great things about.”