Woman in Black (2 page)

She arrived at the house to find Mr. Meriwhether breakfasting in the morning room. No one else besides her mother was up and about. A tall, buff-colored man with thinning blond hair and militarily erect posture, Ames Meriwhether, in addition to being one of Atlanta's eminent trial lawyers, was every inch the proud descendent of his great-great-grandfather, the Confederate cavalryman. In private, though, he was relaxed and affectionate. When the children were little, he'd get down on all fours and have them straddle his back, bouncing them up and down until they squealed with delight. His affectionate nickname for Rosalie was “the General.” If a child wanted permission to do something, he'd say, with a wink, “You'll have to ask the General,” or, slipping Abigail a bag of treats, “Don't let on to your mama, hear. I don't want to get into trouble with the General.”

Abigail's mother knew more about his habits than did his wife, Gwen, who slept in most mornings, sometimes until noon, and had little to do with the running of the household: that he liked his eggs over easy but still runny and his bacon extra-crisp; that he was in the habit of losing buttons off his shirt cuffs and that his pants usually ended up in the laundry basket with their pockets full of loose change, crumpled receipts, and scraps of paper scribbled with phone numbers; that he was a fitful sleeper, his bed, in the room next to his wife's (she suffered from chronic migraines and couldn't abide his presence during those bouts), such a tangle of sheets and blankets Rosalie had once joked that if he were ever to wrestle the devil for his soul, there was no doubt who'd win.

“Take it away before I eat them all,” Ames groaned, pushing away the plate of biscuits before him. To Abigail, he commented with a chuckle, “If I'm fat, it's because your mother's too good a cook.” He patted his belly, which had thickened a tad with middle age. Except for that, he might have been an older version of Vaughn, with his enviable physique and keen, blue-eyed gaze.

“Fat? You're no such thing,” Rosalie protested. Her hill-country twang, sanded down by the years of working for quality folks, carried but a faint echo of her hardscrabble youth. “Wouldn't I be the first to know if your pants needed letting out?” She spooned onto his plate a second helping of scrambled eggs. “Besides, a man has to keep his strength up. I don't know anyone who works as hard as our Mr. Meriwhether,” she remarked to Abigail, as if she herself hadn't been toiling away since sunup.

Ames Meriwhether's expression briefly clouded over. He had to be thinking the same thing as Abigail and her mother: that there was a reason other than his crushing caseload for why he spent such long hours at the office. It had been evident for some time that his marriage wasn't all it should be. Not that he and Gwen fought, at least not openly. Just the opposite: They went to elaborate lengths to be polite to each other in front of Rosalie and the children, which was worse in a way. It was like watching actors in a play that you knew from the outset wouldn't have a happy ending.

“Well!” Ames exclaimed in an overly hearty tone when he'd finished what was on his plate. “Thank you, Rosie, for another fine meal.” He turned to Abigail, as he was pushing back his chair, saying with a twinkle in his eye, in an exaggerated drawl such as the old Colonel might have used, “Ab-beh, will you please tell huh royal highness, when she deigns to make an appearance, that huh fah-ther's in the barn saddlin' up.”

“Too late, sir; she beat you to it,” Abigail informed him. Lila had gotten up earlier than usual to take her new gelding for a ride. The horse had been a gift from her parents when she and Vaughn had turned sixteen the month before, and since then she'd spent nearly every waking hour with him. (Vaughn, who preferred the kind of horsepower that came under a hood, had been presented with a brand-new Dodge Ram pickup in a shade of red that ought to have been illegal, given the effect it had on Abigail whenever it came roaring up the drive, Vaughn at the wheel.)

“What's with the
sir?
” Ames growled with mock sternness. “I thought I made it clear there'd be none of that.”

Aware of her mother's eyes on her, Abigail struggled not to smile. Rosalie was strict about how Abigail should address her employers, however relaxed she was with the twins. “I'm sorry, s—Mr. Meriwhether. It won't happen again,” she said with feigned seriousness.

He leaned in, his breath pleasantly smoky from the six slices of extra-crispy bacon he'd put away, to whisper, “Between you and me, I prefer Ames. But we don't want to upset the General.”

He and Rosalie exchanged an amused glance as he went out.

Minutes later Vaughn padded barefoot into the kitchen on his way to the morning room, yawning and tucking in his shirttail, his eyes heavy-lidded from sleep. (To Rosalie's eternal vexation, he always took the back stairs, seldom bothering to make a proper entrance.) At the sight of him, Abigail's pulse quickened and she was flooded with memories of the night before. She struggled to keep her gaze averted, fearing it would betray her, as she set out a napkin and cutlery.

It had begun innocently enough. They'd gone into town to see
ET
, which had just opened at the Rialto. Lila was supposed to come, too, but when it was time for them to leave she was nowhere to be found.

“She probably went for a ride and lost track of the time,” speculated Vaughn, as he was digging his car keys from his pocket. He shook his head in bemusement, as if to say,
Typical of my sister
.

Abigail responded with a shrug, leaving the impression that she'd done a thorough search, when it had been cursory at best. Deep down, hadn't she
wanted
to be alone with Vaughn? she thought, feeling a pang of guilt as they started down the driveway. This way, she could pretend it was a date. And, as it turned out, she didn't have to work too hard at pretending. All evening, she was almost excruciatingly aware of his presence: his hand lightly cupping her elbow as he steered her through the crowd at the entrance; during the movie, his forearm resting on the armrest separating their seats, tickling the tiny hairs of her bare arm; his buttery fingers brushing against hers when he reached into the popcorn box just as she was doing so.

Nevertheless, she read nothing into it when, on their way home, Vaughn pulled onto the old quarry road instead of heading toward the house. It was early yet, and these days he seldom missed an opportunity to put his new set of wheels to the test. As they barreled down the dirt road, dust boiling up around them and the tape deck cranked up to full volume, blasting Van Halen, she let go of any trepidation she felt at the speed with which Vaughn drove and gave herself over to the sense of abandon that he never failed to generate in her. Vaughn, it seemed, had been born with the inverse of gravitational pull, and as he raced along, expertly guiding the pickup over bumps and potholes, the wind streaming in through the open windows making a tornado of his sun-streaked hair, she was infected by the thrill of it as well.

When they could go no farther, they got out and went the rest of the way on foot, picking their way over rocks and down a slope that after a dozen or so yards ended in a steep drop-off. Below, the waters of the quarry gleamed blackly, pricked with the reflections of stars.

Vaughn turned to her with a grin. “How about a swim?”

It was a warm night, the air soupy and sluggish as the water below was cool and inviting, but she hesitated even so. Where once they'd run around each other half naked, lately she'd become self-conscious with Vaughn. It had started the night of her school dance, when in the span of a few short hours he'd gone from being her surrogate brother to someone capable of breaking her heart. These days, whenever she was around him, she felt as if an invisible band were constricting her chest. It was difficult to speak without having to stop every few seconds to catch her breath.

But she didn't want him to know her feelings toward him had changed, so she tossed back casually, “Why not?”

They stripped down to their underwear, as they had countless times before, only this time it was different. Abigail turned her back as she hurriedly peeled off her T-shirt and jeans, glad for the cover of darkness.

As always, he was the first to dive in. She quickly followed, the shock of the cold water against her sweaty skin causing her to cry out, a cry that ricocheted against the quarry walls and sent Vaughn splashing his way toward her, hooting in laughter as he attempted to dunk her. They wrestled briefly underwater, his limbs slippery against hers, his hand grazing her breast at one point, before they surfaced with breathless whoops. It was too cold to stay in for very long, and minutes later they were stroking their way toward the rocks, Vaughn scrambling onto a wide, flat boulder, then grabbing her by the wrist and hauling her up alongside him.

She stretched out on her stomach, soaking up the warmth of the boulder, which had retained some of the day's heat. She was shivering, and her flesh felt shrink-wrapped from the goose bumps that covered every inch of her. “Ooof! I don't remember the water being this cold!” she exclaimed.

“That's because we never went skinny-dipping at night.”

Vaughn lay on his back, his fingers laced behind his head, gazing up at the starry sky. Extremes in temperature didn't bother him as they did most people; he was like a wild animal that way, adapting to changes in climate with the ease of a creature naturally suited to the outdoors.

“I wouldn't exactly call this skinny-dipping.” She brought her head up, propping her chin on her folded arms to peer at him. A three-quarter moon shone overhead, casting a glow that turned the boulder on which they lay the dirty white of a salt lick. She could see the braided muscles in his arms and chest, glistening with droplets of moisture. His briefs clung to him like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. She quickly averted her gaze, but not quickly enough. The humid night air grew warmer, and she felt the tightness of her goose-pimply flesh ease.

He laughed. “You say that like there's something wrong with it.”

“No. All I meant was, we're not little kids anymore. I'm a little old to be parading around in my bra and panties.” She cringed inwardly as soon as the words were out. Oh, God. Why was she drawing attention to the fact? Why didn't she just shut up about it?

“So I've noticed.”

He rolled onto his side so that he was facing her, lifting himself onto one elbow. The moonlight reflecting off the water made his face appear to shimmer. His eyes, normally a pale, almost unearthly shade of blue, were as dark as the surrounding shadows. She felt a sense of gathering momentum, though neither of them had moved so much as a muscle. Even the air was as still as a held breath.

When he leaned in to gently kiss her on the lips, it caught her by surprise nonetheless. She drew back with a sharp intake of breath. “Why'd you do that?” She'd fantasized about it often enough, but now that it was happening, she didn't trust it: Suppose he was only fooling around, the way boys were known to do? (Not that she'd had much experience in that department, having been on a grand total of two dates before now.) Suppose it meant nothing more to him than scratching an itch? The thought was unbearable.

He didn't help matters by answering, with a shrug, “I don't know. I just felt like it, is all.”

“You're still doing it,” she said hoarsely as he nuzzled her cheek, toying with a damp lock of her hair. Heat traveled through her like a fire through pitch pine. She could feel the feather movement of his lips all the way down in her crotch, where the wet fabric of her panties clung.

“Do you want me to stop?” he murmured, nibbling on her ear.

Abigail didn't answer. What was there to say?
I'll die if you don't stop, and I'll die if you do
. Death from the thousand cuts that would be inflicted by watching him with other girls, once he'd tired of her. Already she was in over her head, and for once she couldn't rely on Vaughn to protect her. He was the reason she was drowning.

They kissed some more, alone in the dark with only the chittering of nightjars and the rustling sounds of some larger creature, a possum or a raccoon, making its way through the underbrush. There was something dreamlike about the whole thing, as if in shedding their clothes they'd stepped out of their bodies as well, becoming different people. When he rolled over so he was on top of her, the wet imprint left by his body on the rock seemed to belong to the other Vaughn, the Vaughn she'd known only as a brother; as if he were still stretched chastely alongside her and the moist, warm flesh pressing against hers, the mouth hot against her face and neck, belonged to someone else entirely. A beautiful stranger she desperately wanted to get to know, but a stranger nonetheless. Already they had passed a point of no return, though. Whatever happened next, there would be no going back to the easy familiarity they'd known.

She stiffened briefly as he fumbled with the hooks on her bra, but she didn't protest. It occurred to her briefly that she should tell him to stop. She'd only been kissed once before, by Bif Wannamaker after the homecoming dance, and then with an awkward tentativeness that had left her more embarrassed than anything. Now here she was doing things the girls at school talked about in whispers, things her mother and Sunday school teacher had
warned
against, and she didn't feel the least bit inclined to hold back. Was there something wrong with her for wanting this as much as he? Some sort of internal brake system that asserted itself in other girls, at this point, that was missing in her? If so, it must be in her blood. Look at her mother, who'd been only a year older than Abigail when she'd gotten pregnant.
I was born bad
, she thought. So why fight it? Why not just let nature take its course? When her bra fell away and he gathered her breasts in his hands, bending to take one of her nipples in his mouth, she only arched her back, shivering with pleasure.