When Venus Fell (43 page)

We survived. We would not live in silence
.

Tearful but victorious, I raised my head and met Gib’s gaze. I had a real part of my family’s heritage and my childhood back. I had spent so many years at this piano, I had grown up there, talking to Gib, my boy in the photograph that had sat on top of this piano with far more grace than I now demonstrated.

“The music,” I said. “I can’t leave it. Can’t leave it here. Can’t leave anything. I have to take care of my family’s—”

“The supervisor is shipping everything to Tennessee right away.” Gib held out his arms. “
This week
. No doubt about it. No tricks, no lies, no manipulation. I can’t change what happened in the past, but in this instance the
government
is made up of people who want to do the right thing, people you can trust.”

I shook my head wildly. “I’ll never believe any so-called ‘official’ decision or any promise—”

“You only have to believe
me
. You have my word.” He emphasized every syllable.
“You have my word.”

I gazed at him, growing calmer. He was right. I didn’t need to dissect the circumstances, the motives, the outcome. I trusted him. I had always believed in him; he had always been, whether he knew it or not, the one true and unbroken man in my life.

I nodded finally. I had Gib Cameron’s word.

By the time we left the warehouse the snow had already made a white frost on the pastures and the cattle. Winter twilight settled in. I couldn’t leave without something to show Ella, so we took the only crate small enough for us to put in the jeep’s
backseat. I nonchalantly wound one arm between Gib’s car seat and mine, so I could rest a hand tenderly on the crate. I would have liked to touch him with the same possessiveness.

“It’s too late to drive to Tennessee tonight,” he said, “and the roads may be bad once we get back into the mountains. I’m going to stop at that motel we passed when we got off the interstate. See if we can get a couple of rooms.”

“Fine.” I was limp with exhaustion and emotionally drained.

We had no trouble booking two rooms, since it was Christmas and the motel was empty except for us and a bored clerk at the front desk. Gib placed the crate on the floor of my room then left me there while he went in search of dinner. I sat on one of my room’s double beds with my shoulders slumped. My body ached as if I’d pulled every nerve, muscle, and vein. My
mind
hurt. I looked at the crate with painful anticipation.

A quick peek inside showed that it contained a jumble of scrapbooks and loose photos, plus stacks of greeting cards bound with ribbon. Ella and I had hoarded every card our family received when we were children. Those and other miscellaneous items had been dumped together when everything was seized.

I heard a knock on the door and ran to open it gratefully. Gib scowled when I did. He held a large pizza box and a six-pack of beer. “I could have been a mugger,” he accused. “Are you losing your street smarts, Nellie?”

“Sorry. I guess I feel safe when you’re around.”

Awkward silence closed over us. “Interested in Christmas dinner?” he asked gruffly.

“Turkey-and-dressing pizza?”

“I have no idea. The guy said there were two choices today: pizza or pizza.”

“My
favorite
. Come in.”

We sat on separate beds and ate while we pretended to
watch the weather forecast on TV. I kept looking at Gib, and then at the crate. The room was warm and pleasant enough. Through a part in the window curtains we watched large snowflakes sift through a streetlamp. “Are you going to look through the crate tonight?” Gib asked.

“Yes. Do you want to help?”

“If you don’t feel it’s too personal.”

I touched the crate. “I’m not sure I’m ready to look through what’s in there.”

“It’s up to you. You know as well as I do that living with fear is worse than confronting the reality behind the fear.” He hesitated, giving me a slight, sardonic smile. “Godawmighty, now you’ve got me offering philosophy like a dime-store horoscope book.”

“Yes, Great Mystical One, but any soothsayer who brings pizza must be obeyed.” Taking a deep breath, I moved the lid off the crate.

We piled scrapbooks and assorted stacks of cards, loose photos, and keepsake boxes on one of the beds. I looked at it all with grieving recognition and couldn’t bear to pick anything up. “What’s wrong?” Gib asked quietly.

“I’m happy to have it all back. But it hurts to remember.”

“I’ll start. Let’s look at this.” By some absolute quirk of fate Gib picked up a small wooden box decoupaged with flowers and pictures of musical instruments cut from magazines. I saw the box at the moment he reached for it, and I tried to subtly snatch it before he could, but he sat down on the opposite bed and opened it.

“Oh, that old thing,” I said anxiously. “That’s nothing important. Don’t bother.”

“If it’s not important then why did you make a grab for it?” He flipped the box open and took out a yellowed stack of cards and envelopes. “Aha,” he said drolly. He pointed to the words decoupaged on the inside of the box lid.
The boy I love
. “The secret boyfriend card box.”

“When I decorated that box I hadn’t learned to be evasive and coy yet,” I said in a small voice. “To twist men around my little finger and never let them know I cared.”

Gib flipped a card open. “Let’s see who the poor, manipulated slobs
were
.” He read the inscription. He frowned and grew very still. I moved over and sat down, slowly, beside him. “This is a card I sent you when we were kids,” he said.

“I know.” He looked through the others. I felt heat creeping up my face. All of the cards were from him. “This was my special Gib Cameron collection,” I said. “I was only in the first grade but already single-minded and methodical.”

He slowly pulled a slender swath of black hair from the box. It was tied with a white ribbon. He looked at me for an explanation. “Voodoo,” I admitted. “I was told to put a piece of my hair in the box. As a charm to make you mine.” Flustered and depressed, I reached for the box. “It seems silly now, but at the time it was—”

“It worked,” he said. “The hair worked.”

I kissed him. Just on the jaw, first, near the corner of his mouth, so we could both pretend it meant nothing but sentimental sweetness, if need be. “Where are you going?” he asked in a gruff tone as I pulled back.

I hesitated. Then, “Just switching sides.” I kissed the other side of his jaw.

“That’s getting there,” he said. Both of us understood we were playing with fire, but didn’t stop what was happening. Gratitude mingled with lust, admiration, respect, and affection. With love, I hoped.

“Here?” I kissed his lower lip.

“Closer.”

Slowly, I kissed him fully on the mouth. The taste of him was reinforced by his skilled yet careful response; if he had moved too fast or surprised me in other ways I might have pulled back. But he nuzzled me gently with his jaw against my cheek, and he put his arms around me in a deep hug. He wasn’t in a hurry, even though we were sharing a finely tuned
vibration that made my breath short. Calm relief slipped through my body. I knew him so well now.

“I’ve wanted you all my life,” I admitted. Those were hard words to speak, and I feared he didn’t want that much honesty. He drew his head back and studied me. I searched his expression anxiously but saw only pleasure in his face. “You’ve always had me,” he answered.

That night with him was the purest experience I’d ever known. Wing-walking, blind, obsessive, playing by heart, glorious. We were both fierce, hungry, tender, not aggressive so much as desperate, feeding and being fed a banquet after starving for so long.

“Look at me,” he ordered as he moved inside me. His tone was both urgent and pleading. The context of the order made it exciting—a surge went through me. Both of us were in tune with every nuanced whisper of our bodies; we were caught by each slightest touch, barely able to look at each other, we were so ready.

Afterward I felt wounded but also restored. We needed each other. We understood each other. I’d never felt addicted to a man before. It was as if I had to have more of Gib or I’d die. As if I’d throw everything away to stay with him.

I knew from the moment I met him that Gib was the kind of man I would meet only once in my life—unlike anyone before or anyone yet to come along. It was visceral; I was nearly speechless, reverent, like looking at a fine painting or listening to Chopin.

Life had always seemed chaotic to me. That was why I liked music. The precision, the order, the logic of it. It was the same with a well-oiled machine, a fine meal, a freshly polished floor, a perfect sunset. A moment of pure order, where the world is safe and absolutely right, and just by being there to appreciate the moment, to observe, to listen, to perform, to learn, you’re the center of the universe.

The snow was beautiful at midnight, and later, too, and just before dawn. We watched it from the dark, warm cave of the room through the space between the window curtains. I lay with my head on Gib’s shoulder and one arm curled over him. He stroked his left hand up and down my bare arm, and I gently tapped my fingers on his chest.

“You’re playing a song on me,” he said.

“Something by Schubert. It’s a long, beautiful piece with a lot of energy, and the main theme repeats with amazing variations.”

He laughed soundlessly; I pressed closer to feel the vibrations. He took my hand, silhouetted it to the shaft of light from the streetlamp outside, and we fitted our fingers together. “I think it’s time to admit this is a lost cause,” Gib said.

A chill went through me. I lifted my head quickly and studied him. “If you’re about to get up and leave this bed and tell me what we’ve done wasn’t a smart idea—well, maybe I agree, but I think you owe me—”

“It’s a lost cause to go on pretending we don’t love each other.” He watched me. I went very still, trying to recover my dignity. “It’s interesting,” he went on with gruff amusement, “to watch your hackles go up and down every time you have to reevaluate me. Are you going to disagree with what I just said?”

“No, but I don’t have any intention of turning silly and reckless either. I mean, we’re not kids. I’m twenty-nine, you’re thirty-five, we’re experienced—”

“Are we?” His voice was low, serious. “You’ve never told me anything about your
experience
with men. You know what kind of experience I mean. I don’t want the details, Nellie, but I’ve given you an idea of where I’ve hung my hat in the past, so to say, and I’d like you to at least give me a clue what my competition has been.”

“No one compares to you.”

“Well, hell, of course not,” he said dryly. “My superiority is a given. Now drop the flattery and talk turkey to me.”

Searching for distractions and other diplomatic diversions, I hesitated. Then, “First, tell me. How do I rate among the women you’ve known?”

He sat up enough to look at me. “I wouldn’t even know where to list you if I had a rating system. I’d have to come up with a new category.”

“Why? Have I done something unique and kinky that I’m not aware of?”

Gib studied me, frowning. “Apparently.” He continued to search my face.

I grew agitated, cornered under his intense scrutiny. “I’m discreet, choosy, and nobody’s fool.” I sat up abruptly. “It’s almost dawn. Let’s get dressed and dig a path to that diner up the road. I want scrambled eggs—”

“Coward.” He snaked an arm around me from behind, gently pinning my back against his chest. “It’s not going to be that easy to avoid me from now on.”

I looked down at my bare breasts couched atop his forearm. “You don’t own me. We don’t own each other. We are adults who agree that we shouldn’t be dewy-eyed, sentimental, and
nosy about each other—
”

“Look at me. Stop it. Look at me.” Gib took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “Were you raped?”

The words froze me. I sat there stiffly in his embrace. Suddenly I understood how Olivia lost her voice. Some words are impossible to speak. He placed both hands around my face and looked into my eyes. “After your father died and you were being harassed—you already told me some of it was sexual—now tell me how far it really went.
Were you raped?”

I couldn’t force a sound. I’d never discussed it with anyone, not even Ella. “I’ll take no answer as a yes,” Gib said gruffly.

“No.”
I shivered then took a deep breath. “Almost,” I managed finally. My shoulders sagged.
“Almost.”

He exhaled. “Keep talking.”

“One of the FBI men cornered me in my bedroom. He didn’t strong-arm me, he … was intimidating, insinuating … I can’t describe it, and it’s always made me feel so ashamed of myself because it wasn’t as if he forced me—I don’t know. I just, I ended up half-dressed and shaking and … he stopped because some of his fellow agents drove up. He heard the car. So he didn’t go all the way. And I made sure I was never alone with him again after that.”

Gib rested his forehead against mine for a moment, then simply pulled me closer and held me. I finally gave up the pretense of pride and burrowed my head in the crook of his neck. “Hell, yes, he forced you,” Gib said, his tone hard. “Let’s be clear on that. He didn’t have to throw you against the wall or threaten to hit you for it to be force. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. If you’ll tell me his name I promise that when I find him I won’t kill the bastard.”

“Thank you. But it’s a moot point. He died a few years ago. I kept track of him. Ella doesn’t know any of this story. Please don’t ever tell her.”

Gib drew his head back. “Of course I won’t tell her.”

I reached up and rubbed my knuckle under each of his eyes. There were tears beneath them. “Don’t cry, John Wayne,” I ordered in a broken whisper. “I’ll fall apart if you do.”

He placed several slow, careful kisses on my face before looking at me again. “Give me your word that you’re all right.”

“I swear. I’m telling you the truth. He didn’t rape me. But he would have.”

“Trust is the first rule of sharing a bed. You give me your word. I trust you. That’s how it works.”