Sweet Everlasting (22 page)

“It wasn’t too bad,” she rushed on, leery of Ty’s pity when his palm tightened around hers. “I just got farther and farther away from people and kept to myself, and then I was all right. “She risked a glance; what she could see of his profile in the dimness was stony and grim. “Anyway, one day I was walking home from school. When I got to the bridge at the bottom of Dreamy, I saw two boys I didn’t know—older boys, they worked at the mill, I think—standing at the other end. I didn’t see them till I was in the middle. I stopped, and they started coming toward me, walking very slowly and snickering to each other in a nervous, nasty way. Well,” she tried to laugh, “I knew they were going to do something to me. I turned around to run, but Eugene had come up behind me and he was blocking the other end of the bridge. They’d all been waiting for me.”

She took a drink of lemonade and set her glass down on the porch floor. Without knowing she was going to, she got up all of a sudden, letting Ty’s hand go, and went to stand by the railing, not facing him but not quite turning her back on him. She hadn’t expected it to be
this
hard to say. Why was it? It was an old, old memory, she hardly ever thought about it anymore. She should’ve just said it all at once, not set the scene and told it like a story, because all the feelings of fear and shame were coming back, and she was afraid she might cry.

“So.” She had to swallow to clear her throat. “They caught me. In the middle of the bridge. Eugene said, ‘Hold her,’ and one got my arms behind me and held me still, and the other one started—he—opened my dress and touched me, my—” She put her hand on her chest. “I was crying, but they just laughed and kept saying, ‘Why don’t you scream, dummy, why don’t you scream?’ ”

She heard Ty get up, and a second later she felt his big hands on her shoulders. “Eugene was behind the one who was touching me. It was him I kept begging—with my eyes—to please, please make them stop.” She took a quick swipe at her eyes. “And he did. He stopped smiling all of a sudden, and the meanness went out of his face. He made them quit, Ty. He said, ‘Come on, leave her be, she’s just a kid.’ He was the leader, so finally they did what he said. And that’s the end, that’s all there was to it.”

Tyler’s arms came all the way around her, and she leaned back against his hard, solid chest. “After that, Eugene stopped teasing me at school,” she finished quietly. “Started calling me Carrie instead of—the other name. Pretty soon, the others did, too. Things got much, much better after that, and I knew I had him to thank for it.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised when Ty swore—softly, under his breath, but she could hear the vulgar words clearly. He bent his head so their cheeks were touching, her right and his left. He still had his arms around her, locked together beneath her breasts. The need to burst into tears went away slowly, and after a while she didn’t feel anything except safe.

“Carrie,” he murmured against her hair, “what can I say to you? I’m sorry you were hurt.”

“But it’s all right now. It’s all in the past, Ty, I don’t think about it.”

He sighed. “Stoneman told me a long time ago you were too good for this world. I think he was right.”

She laughed softly, tickled.

He gave her a gentle, impatient shake. “Eugene brutalized you. How can you just
forget
that?”

“I’ll never forget it. But he changed his mind, he did something
good,
not bad. And ever since then—it’s not that he watches out for me, it’s more that he’s—
aware
of me. He’s a part of my life, Ty. Whatever happens to either one of us, we’ll always … Oh, I don’t know the words to explain it.”

They stood still, looking down at their twined arms and feeling each other’s soft breathing. Louie got up suddenly, toenails loud on the wood floor, and ran down the steps to investigate something only he could hear. Carrie thought Ty would let her go now, now that he knew she was all right. But he didn’t. She could feel his breath in the curve between her shoulder and her neck, and a second later she felt his lips there. She stopped breathing, to savor it. She hadn’t let herself hope for this. Just a comfort kiss, though, that’s all it was. She closed her eyes and tried not to tremble when his lips glided so slowly across her skin, coming to rest in the sensitive spot behind her ear. But she gasped when she felt his tongue there. And shivered when he said, “Honeysuckle,” in a breathy whisper.

“No,” she finally remembered to say. “Rose petals. You must … you must need another olfactory bouquet.”

He laughed, a warm explosion on her throat, and turned her around. “Is that what I need?” She held still, didn’t lift her hands to touch his face, even though she was longing to. He stroked a finger across her lips, urging them apart with gentle pressure, and lowered his mouth to hers for a long, slow, sweet kiss. He let his hands drift into her hair, combing it with his fingers; the raspy sound of his touch on her scalp blended with a whispery roar in her ears, and she thought that must be what desire sounded like. She didn’t move, didn’t move, but she let the pleasure flow all the way through her, like rain filling up a barrel.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered, trying to read her face in the dim starlight. “Are you thinking about what happened, what those boys did?”

“No. When you kiss me I can’t think about anything,” she answered truthfully.

He smiled. Her heart stuttered. His hands on her waist tightened and relaxed, and then he slid them around to her back and pulled her closer. His mouth came down again. She couldn’t help it, she opened her lips so that he could kiss her the way he had before, that day on the mountain.

He sleeked his warm tongue in, and somehow he managed to whisper her name and stroke her inside her mouth at the same time, like a painter with a soft, wet brush. His mouth tasted like sugar, like lemon candy. Her blood flowed thin and hot, and her muscles felt weak and powerful, leaden and weightless, all at the same time. Everything he did made her want more, and what she wanted now was the feel of his hands on her breasts. But still she didn’t move, didn’t let him know how completely she was his, because then he would stop.

“Carrie?” he urged, taking soft sips of her lips, holding her face between his palms as if he treasured her. One of his hands coasted down her neck, her chest, his fingers playing in the hollow of her collarbone. Slow heat burned where he touched her so deftly, little circles lower and lower. Then he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, to hold her still while his fingers gently pinched the tight tip of her breast. Live sparks shot through her. She swayed, forced back a moan. The porch railing creaked when she leaned against it. Ty reached behind her and pressed his hand against her bottom, pulling her up tight against him, and everything she wanted narrowed and focused and became one thing: to join with him in an act of love.

I love you,
she told him, with everything except her voice. He muttered something, maybe her name again, and undid the top button of her dress. He fumbled with the second one; she could feel his impatience through his fingers.

Then he took a deep breath and held still.

“Don’t stop.” She whispered it so softly, she could barely hear the words herself. Part of her hoped he hadn’t heard them either, because they were so forward. But most of all she hoped he wouldn’t say he was sorry, because if he did she would cry.

What he said was, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, Ty, you couldn’t. How could you?”

“Easily.” He was whispering, too, his forehead resting against hers. It was easier to talk, she guessed, if they couldn’t see each other’s eyes.

“Nothing you could ever do could hurt me,” she said bravely, wishing it was true.

“Sweet Carrie. You’re so young.”

“I’m almost nineteen.”

“I’m almost twenty-nine.”

“That’s not so much.” She wished she hadn’t said that, too, because it wasn’t dignified to argue. “Is that what it is? That you think I’m too young?”

“Partly.”

She didn’t have the courage to ask what the other part was. A terrible confession was welling up inside, filling her chest like a balloon. “Is it … are you … careful with me because you think I’m a maid?” He didn’t answer. “I’m not.” Her cheeks flamed; she felt glad for the darkness. “I’m not. … So … you wouldn’t be the first. If you wanted me.”

He didn’t move and he didn’t say a word. Aghast, she listened to the echo of what she’d just told him; the longer the silence between them lasted, the harder it got to believe she’d really said it.

She stepped away, breaking contact. “Don’t hate me, Ty, I couldn’t stand it.”

“Never.”

“But you’re surprised. Aren’t you?” He couldn’t deny that. “And—disappointed.”

“No, of course not. It’s none of my business.”

She rubbed her arms, which were suddenly as cold as if she’d stuck them in ice water. “No, it’s not.” She started backing up.

He put his hand out to stop her. She flinched and kept moving, started down the stairs.

He caught her on the third step. “Wait—Are you leaving? Carrie, I’m—”

“I really have to go,” she cried, before he could say the hateful word.

“No, wait, listen to me.”

“I know what you’ll say already. I’m all right, Ty, I’m fine, you didn’t hurt my feelings. I have to go home now, so please let go of my arm.” He did, and she clattered down the rest of the steps.

But he followed. He didn’t touch her again, but he moved fast to get in front of her and block her way. “Don’t go. Please. I hate it when you run away from me like this.”

“I’m not running.”

“Then stay and talk to me.”

“Sometime outside—in a field someday, in the sunshine—” She wasn’t making any sense. With a great effort, she made her voice sound very calm. “I wouldn’t say things the right way if we talked now,” she explained. “But you were right, Ty, I am none of your business, and I have to think about everything before I can see you again.”

“That’s not what I meant. I
swear
that’s not what I meant. Do you think I care who’s touched you before me?”

“No. I know you don’t.” She sidled around him, desperate to be gone.

“Wait, Carrie. Wait!”

Lou started barking and dancing around his feet. Carrie saw her chance and walked away, as fast as she could without running. She heard Ty curse, and hoped he hadn’t tripped over the dog. He called to her one more time, but she kept going and didn’t answer.

T
HE LAST RAYS OF
the sun warmed a line of limp laundry hanging in the cabin’s side yard—yellow work shirts and wide-waisted denim trousers; towels and pillow cases and three narrow sheets; a cotton nightgown, long, skinny stockings, a woman’s drawers. Tyler approached the cabin slowly, tired from the climb; he’d come on foot, wanting the time to put his thoughts in order. The smells of hot pine and bleach and wet earth mingled in the humid air. Beside the porch, the flowers and low shrubbery were dark and wet—from a recent dousing with wash water, he surmised.

He stopped with his foot on the porch steps when he caught sight of Carrie through the screen door, seated in profile at the table, poring over something. She didn’t see him; the hand she was resting on her temple shielded him from sight. Something about her still posture, her fluid angularity or the long, gracious curve of her neck, arrested him. Sexual heat engulfed him in a fast, spiking wave, taking him by surprise. Small, soft, helpless young women had attracted him in the past, rich men’s pampered daughters who flirted and promised secret things with their eyes. Carrie was nobody’s daughter, she couldn’t flirt, she wasn’t helpless, and her elegant body was sleek and reed-slim, practically boyish. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone. She wasn’t a “maid,” she’d said. Who had her lover been? His curiosity was as low-minded as it was uncontrollable.

She lifted her head. When she saw him, she laid down the pen she’d been using and stood up. “Hello,” he said from the doorway. She didn’t answer, only watched him. “Is your stepfather here?” he guessed, in a different voice. He hadn’t considered that possibility, even though it was Saturday.

But she said, “No, he went into town.”

“Ah. May I come in?”

“Yes.”

The spare, small room was shadowy; it was time to light a lamp. It smelled of soap and furniture oil; the bare floor looked freshly swept. There were no pictures on the walls, no ornaments or mementos anywhere. If he didn’t know her, he might have made the mistake of thinking that Carrie’s spirit, the vital, imaginative center of her, was as barren as this room.

He moved toward her, uninvited by her manner, drawn anyway by a sudden ungovernable tenderness. She didn’t retreat, but behind her smile he glimpsed a remnant of the half-wild wariness he’d thought was gone between them for good. He reached for her hands, resisting the urge to embrace her because she was skittish, and because of the news he’d come to tell her. He’d sent her enough confusing messages; now, clearly, she was the one paying for his confusion.

“I was writing you a letter,” she murmured, sidestepping, sliding out of his hands like a cool, slippery fish.

“Were you?”

She gestured toward the table. “It’s not finished.” She brushed a wayward lock of reddish hair behind her ear. She was tense, but she looked aimless and indecisive; something had gone out of her.

“Do you want me to read it?”

“It’s not finished,” she said again; then, “Yes, if you want to.”

“I’m sorry about last night, Carrie,” he blurted out. “Even though you don’t want to hear it. What happened was entirely my fault—again.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said gently. Her eyes hinted at some dark awareness that disturbed him. He wanted to argue, but she glided past him to stand in the doorway, leaving him alone. He picked up her letter.

Dear Tyler,

Thank you for the loveliest summer of my life. Dreams fade when you wake up, even the magic ones you think you’ll hold on to forever, but this was a dream I’ll never forget, even when I’m an old, old lady.

I don’t want to write about last night except to say that many things got clearer to me afterward, and the main one is that it’s going to get harder and harder for me to be with you anymore. This has nothing to do with you. I’ve been not seeing what I didn’t want to see. I took your kind friendship and pretended it was something else, and I embarrassed you. Always you say you’re sorry, but the fault is really mine.

Do you think we could be friends the way Dr. Stoneman and I are friends? We could see each other every once in a while, and sometimes I might write you a letter—just a note to say how I am doing and so forth. You know a secret about me now, but you should understand that that doesn’t mean you have any responsibility for me. I know that you will keep the secret, even though you don’t know and have never asked—