Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

“T
ell me about your leg,” Margaret said.

Charlie felt himself flush. It was a beautiful evening and they had walked from the restaurant toward his apartment, and he had kissed her a dozen times—against trees, against walls, against the curled stone banisters of Georgetown. He could not get enough of kissing her. But as soon as she spoke, he wondered if he hadn't been foolish in not mentioning it earlier. It had to come up, and now it did, and he wasn't sure what to say. No, that wasn't true: he wasn't sure what had prompted her question now and the notion that she had found him flawed made him insecure.

“If you don't want to tell me, I understand. I didn't know if I should ask, or if I should ignore it . . . and then it started to feel silly to ignore it. I'm sorry. Let's let it go.”

“No, it's just not much of a story. I stepped on a bomb, that's all. Nothing very heroic or wonderful. Just a stupid step and that's that.”

“That's a lousy break.”

He felt his stomach roll a little. It wasn't the first time he had felt awkwardness about his leg, but somehow he hoped to be spared the conversation with Margaret. But that made no sense; she was in an impossible situation, and it was rude at some level on his part not to put it in plain sight. He slipped his arm around her waist. He loved her waist.

“I should have said something,” he said, holding her against him. “I'm in the same boat. I never know when or if I should mention it. Usually I beat the other person to the punch, but with you, I don't know, I wanted to prolong the illusion in my head, I guess.”

“I'm sorry for what it must have been like, Charlie. For what it still is.”

“Thank you. Coming from you, I appreciate that.”

She stopped and turned in his arms. He smelled her perfume, the soap in her hair. He felt her touch his cheek, his chest.

“I won't ever bring it up again unless you do. It's your wound, it's your injury. I want you to know, though, that there's so much to love and admire about you that you should never, ever give it a thought. Not in the way you might. Do you know what I'm saying?”

“I do.”

“You're a remarkable man, Charlie. Your leg . . . it means nothing, believe me. In that way, nothing.”

He nodded. She put her arms around him and squeezed. That contact built and started urges in him and he kissed her, kissed her until it felt as though he fell into her ribs, into her heart, and that she met him there.

* * *

“Have you ever heard of a dawn-stone?” Charlie asked.

She shook her head. She felt wonderfully lazy and fulfilled and quiet. She lay naked next to Charlie, her head on his chest, and listened to his heart. Sometimes, with certain breezes, she smelled lilacs. Or maybe cherry blossoms. She reminded herself that Washington was famous for cherry blossoms, but she could not recall if they were in the correct season. Maybe so, although she imagined they bloomed earlier. Certainly in spring.

“A dawn-stone is a hammer. A primitive hammer,” he said, the air in his lungs making her head move slightly, his voice deep and lovely in his chest. “Early cave people used them to pound on objects, like a hammer. . . . Anthropologists and paleontologists, they concluded that individuals searched for stones that fit their hands. Fit them perfectly. Once the people found them, they kept them for years. The stone grew to fit the hand more perfectly as time went by. Anthropologists find them abandoned near camping spots or in caves . . . the usual locations. They were useful for lots of reasons and they also fit one person's hand . . . so, anyway, you're my dawn-stone. That's what I'm thinking right now. Long story. Sorry.”

She kissed his chest.

“I guess it's not very flattering to be compared to a stone,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she said and climbed onto him.

She kissed him for a while, sampling his mouth, moving her lips back and forth on his.

“You fit me perfectly,” he said when she stopped and rested on his chest again.

“Where in the world did you come from, Charlie? You need to go back there. You're spoiling me.”

“I don't know a million things about you. I don't know anything about the rest of your family, your brothers and sisters, your parents. The only things I know came from the little introductory bio they provided escorts for the bill signing. I know Thomas's case history, but not yours. Where were you born?”

“In Baltimore, actually. Then we moved to Maine. My dad worked for the railroad for a while. The B&M, but that ended and he went to work for a truck dealership. Big equipment, farm tractors. He was a salesman. My mom worked at an insurance company. I have a sister who lives in Oregon. Her husband is a forest ranger. And they farmed later on. My parents, I mean, not Annie.”

“So your parents aren't retired?”

“Dad's closing in on retirement. Mom works part-time. They seem pretty happy. My sister, Annie, she's the rebel in our family. She was always a bit of a wild child. She and her husband have one of those rocky relationships. They break up and get back together, then break up again. That's really all of it. It sounds so simple and tidy when you say it aloud like that, but it really was an okay childhood. We weren't rich, but we didn't want for anything.”

“Did you go to the prom?”

“Yes . . . ,” she said and felt herself blush. “And it was horrible. My date stole a bunch of nips—you know those airplane booze bottles?—well, he had a shoe box full he stole from his parents and I had two gins. I still can't stand the taste of gin. We got in all kinds of trouble because kids drank them and a couple threw up. Small potatoes, but it felt like a big deal at the time.”

“Maybe you're the rebel in the family.”

“Aren't I just scary? And what about you? Did you go to the prom? No, I bet you were a football hero. Did you play football?”

“No, basketball.”

“You don't seem like a basketball type. Too solid.”

“Iowa basketball is more about taking up space under the basket. I did that pretty well.”

“And the prom?”

“Dora. I went with a girl named Dora. How good a prom could it be with a girl named Dora?”

“There's Dora the Explorer now.”

“But not then. She was nice, actually. We had a dull time, that's all. We didn't click. Our parents kind of wanted us to go together. A lot of the kids went out to the quarry afterward, but I never liked going there because of my brother's accident. I suppose I disappointed her. We were home by midnight.”

“Poor Dora.”

A cool, moist wind blew in through the window and Margaret tasted rain coming. She wrapped a blanket around her from the bottom of the bed and went to the window and pushed it wider. She loved rain. She always had. She leaned out of the window a little and took a few deep breaths. Yes, some sort of flower, she thought. She tried to catch its scent again, but before she could Charlie was behind her, kissing her neck.

He spun her toward him and she had to brace herself against the windowsill. She felt rain begin to patter against the sash and drops flicked up onto her shoulders and backbone. He pulled the blanket away from her body and she let him do what he liked, let him do anything, let him use the wall and floor and window frame. The room remained dark behind them and Margaret felt herself release and abandon something, a control she had lived behind for a half decade, and she kissed Charlie over and over, his lips finding hers the instant she left his lips, and his hands moved and encouraged her everywhere. In time it felt too much; she could hardly bear it any longer. She kept kissing him and the rest of her body stayed rooted to the kiss and it went on and on, moving and climbing, receding and starting again, and with each movement the rain came harder and ran down her back, across her chest. She leaned back beyond the plane of the window and she looked up along the line of the outside wall and saw the drops of rain coming like so many small meteors, like flecks of light shed by the stars, and Charlie held her, consumed her, and stole her breath and refused to give it back.

* * *

“We could delay your flight back,” Charlie said, his finger slowly tracing her backbone. “I have time and you're here already. It would be easy enough to make an excuse. We could just tell your father-in-law that you were asked to give additional testimony. Monday, Tuesday. We can put you on a flight for Wednesday. You can be home Wednesday night at the latest.”

“Oh, you tempt me.”

“Honestly, I'm not trying to push you. But I am, I guess. We could take a ride out to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It's not so far from here . . . just down in the Carolinas, and the rhododendrons would be in bloom. They say it's one of the prettiest things to see in the South. Not-to-be-missed kind of thing.”

“You haven't been?”

“No, never. And I've wanted to go. We could find a little place to stay . . . if you like that kind of thing.”

“I love that kind of thing.”

“I could bring a fly rod. I like to fish. We could do a little fishing and sightseeing. We could see the flowers and the mountains . . . supposed to be beautiful. I know you're probably eager to get back to Gordon, but in the scheme of things two days isn't much. It really isn't.”

“It feels longer than that to a little boy.”

“Of course. I'm not trying to minimize it. I'm just saying I want you here with me.”

“I want to be here, too, Charlie, but maybe that's a good reason not to extend things. I'm married, Charlie.”

He nodded.

“You know,” she said, “I used to wonder if I would ever meet someone new. A man. Blake thinks I should start to date if I want to, but it's never felt right. I don't know. There are no rules for this. But now suddenly you appear, on this of all weekends, and I like you so much, Charlie. Any woman would be lucky to have you. To go away to see rhododendron blossoms . . . are you kidding? With a man she wants to be with? It's really not a question of making up excuses. I could extend my stay, but I'm worried I'll fall for you too deeply. It might make everything else harder in the end.”

“Will you at least think about it?”

“Of course I will.”

Charlie pulled the edge of the blanket over them both. He felt tired and calm and he felt Margaret edge back into him, spooning, her body tight against his. It was past midnight. It was Sunday already, and Margaret would leave this evening if she decided not to extend her stay, and Charlie held her close and tried not to think about that. How strange it all was. He had accepted the assignment to escort her to the bill signing out of loyalty to his brother, and because he had time, and because it was a good cause, and now he slept with the woman in his arms. It unnerved him a little to like this woman on so many levels. She was beautiful and passionate and kind. She was levelheaded, but not in the least dull. He thought of her at the ball, at the pleasure she took in the evening, and he remembered her against the window, the rain splashing and getting them both damp.

“I want more of you,” he whispered into her ear.

She turned and faced him.

“Charlie, more sex?”

The look on her face—she looked appalled at the notion—made him laugh. He couldn't help it. Her initial expression was so shocked, so alarmed, that it made him laugh harder each time he thought of it. It took her a moment and then she understood, and he felt her begin to laugh, too, both of them silent, holding their breath. The laughter went on a long time. It stopped and started once or twice, and eventually she pushed into his body and didn't say anything for a little while.

“I know what you mean,” she said eventually.

“This is too short.”

She nodded.

“They tell me airplanes even fly to Bangor these days,” he said.

“But I don't think you're ready to retire to a farm in Maine, Charlie. And you could break my heart. I'm careful with my heart these days.”

“It wouldn't have to be all one thing or another. We could see where it goes.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we could. It's pretty to think about.”

“You'll come to the brunch with me tomorrow?”

“Yes, I'd love to. I'm looking forward to it.”

“And then I'll take you to see the blossoms.”

“I'm not sure.”

“Are you sleepy?”

“Yes. I am. I like being here. I like having you beside me.”

Then for a while he thought she slept. He heard the rain subside outside and somewhere down the hall someone yelled something—a party, from the sound of it. Sleep closed over him slowly. He jumped once as his body shut down, and he felt pain in his phantom leg. He often felt pain, but he had grown accustomed to it and it didn't bother him much except at night.

“I want you to know that I love you, Charlie,” Margaret whispered close to his chest. “It's a kind of love I feel for you and I don't want to pretend I don't. I know, I know, it's all too quick and fast and so I don't want you to think anything of it. But I admire you, Charlie, and I think you're a wonderful man, and so I love that in you. You've made me feel like a woman again and I didn't imagine that would happen to me. Not after Thomas's injury. I'm being silly, I know, but I didn't want you to think I saw this as a passing fancy, a little sex and I don't know. Whatever name you want to call it. I like you too much, Charlie. Girls have to say this stuff, we just do, so I'm saying it now. I'm sorry if it embarrasses you. I don't mean it to. It's just love for another person. Now I'll shut up and I'm going to sleep and when we wake up it will be our last day and that's okay.”

She turned again in his arms, pressing her back into him, and he held her and kissed her neck below the ear, and he took her hand and held it.

“I love you, too,” he said quietly.