Cider House Fools, page 33
“Good girl,” he purrs. “That was the truth.” He bends down and latches on to my clitoris, sucking and lashing his tongue over me until I moan. The moment I make noise he pulls away. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Bad girl.”
“But there weren’t any other rules!” I protest.
“Hm. You’re right. We didn’t make any other rules. I will make that up to you, but not today. There will be no coming until I say. Do you agree? If that’s not okay, we can stop. Agree or disagree, Bennett.” His hand kneads my left ass check as I remain silent.
“Do you think I resent you for leaving?” He asks. His hand stops kneading.
“Yes,” I answer.
Crack. “Bad girl. That’s a lie. You don’t know. You hope I don’t. You hope we all don’t.” He rubs the area he swatted, then grabs my hips and lifts up my ass, lapping up my arousal from my clit, up to my vagina, swirling his tongue over my asshole before humming his approval. “But that was a trick question. There’s no way for you to know because you haven’t asked.”
“You just said we shouldn’t talk about it until after tomorrow!” I shout. He flips me over. His cock juts straight out, pulsing, his thick, circumcised head staring me right in the eye.
“I know I did! God damn it Bennett, yes, I’m mad and yes I understand why you left. But all of that is shit we can work through as long as you believe that I love you.” He falls silent and stares at my pussy. He bends over me, slowly sliding two fingers in as I whimper and circle my hips. My legs are flopped open in a blatant invitation. I expected him to yank me to the edge of the bed and fuck me until we were both dripping sweat but he’s busy staring at my cunt.
“Balthasar please!” His other hand presses against my pubic bone, his blessed thumb dropping to the throbbing nub of flesh that’s desperate to be rubbed.
He starts rubbing in slow circles while his other hand works me from the inside, his finger curling and dragging against my walls. “So gorgeous. Always so completely and utterly beautiful. It doesn’t matter to me if your covered in horse sweat or swathed in silk. Big tits, no tits, it isn’t your body I see when I look at you.”
He increases his pace incrementally until I want to scream. The worn weave of the comforter is bunching under the tender red skin of my ass and my vagina wants more than the admittedly skillful fingers working her. I’m so close. I am almost there. “Please, Balthasar,” I gasp, “I want to come. Please.”
He removes his hands and yanks me down on the bed, scraping my ass across the thin’ cheap fabric. He leans over and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, pulling back and nipping me hard before I pop out of his mouth. “I want to see how the rest of you pinks up when you come Bennett.”
He withdraws his fingers and nestles the head of his cock at my entrance. My mind is split, fractured by a river of anticipation. There is nothing like the perfect, first slide of a thick cock into my ready and willing pussy and Balthasar doesn’t disappoint. He drops his hand over my pubic bone, his thumb finding my sweet spot easily. He fucks me hard, his rhythm never wavering, his eyes roving over my body. His other hand is clamped on my thigh, dragging me back from each driving thrust.
“Whenever your ready love,” he grunts. He’s thrusting and grasping and rubbing and I’m moaning and thrashing, and it feels so fucking good I never want it to end.
And that’s when I come.
The low-pressure storm in my pelvis sweeps through my body like a tornado, blowing me apart. He with me, grunting, filling me up as I . When I can open my eyes, the first thing I see is his flushed and glowing skin, and a single bead of sweat runs between his pecs. I watch it roll down the valleys in his abdomen, feeling his eyes on my body the entire time. He swirls his thumb through my folds and brings it up to mouth, sucking it clean like a rib. “Fucking delectable. This wasn’t enough,” he announces. “I’m sleeping over tonight. I’m going to taste every inch of you and eat your cat until it can meow no more.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He picks up his boxers and leaves the room. I hear the bathroom faucet run. He comes back with his boxers on, a glass of water, and warm, wet rag. “Up. Drink this.”
I lean up on my elbows and take the water. I consider offering to skip the gift-wrapping session this afternoon, but I want to be the one to prepare Gran’s final gift to the community. And there is nothing I’d like more than doing that with Balthasar.
Chapter thirty-one
December
Whittaker
When I arrive at Gran’s in the morning, Balthasar is drinking coffee at the table. Bennett is dressed in simple, tailored black dress. She’s got some kind of fancy black panty hose with a pattern on them on, and dressy black boots. There’s a garment bag laid over one of the chairs. She’s hands me a cup of coffee. “Mom had black chef coats made for Franklin and I.”
“That was really nice of her, Goldie.” I hold my coffee in both hands, unsure if I should embrace her. Her eyes are bright, the white’s a faint pink. Her whole aura is a paradox. The more fragile she appears on the outside, the more I sense her inner strength. I take in her puffy under eyes and pray she has the strength she needs to get through the next few days. She’s going to need every ounce of strength she has today.
Hell, I’m going to need it. This is it. Gran’s service. Bennett is supposed to stay on the farm until New Year’s, but no one would hold her to that. She’s got a business to run. Franklin has indicated he’ll probably be leaving to go back to Pennsylvania soon, as they can’t expect their sous chef to run Smoke and Mirrors indefinitely.
“Does anyone know what’s going on with Smith?” Bennett asks suddenly. She frowns. “I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning. Is he at the VFW?”
Fuck. I don’t want to lie to her. I begged Smith to tell her. He swore he could get there and back in one day. I rack my brain for something to say that isn’t a lie. “I haven’t spoken to him this morning.”
She narrows her eyes, frowning. God damn it. I should have found a reason to turn around. Bennett can smell lies like a bloodhound. I think that’s why it hurt her so bad when I said I’d never leave the farm. She knew I meant it.And I did. Until I got a taste of life without her.
Balthasar head is bouncing back and forth between us. A slow you’re-fucked-and-I’m going-to-enjoy-every-minute-of-this grin is aimed directly at me. “Everything is done,” he volunteers helpfully. “The tables and chairs are set up, Santa’s throne is in place, the gifts are ready, the food is as prepped as it’s getting until it’s time to serve. I even got Becky Robinson to come snap pictures of the kids. She’s on the high school newspaper and yearbook staff.”
“Speaking of photos…can you believe the arrangement Melanie made?” he prattles on, ignoring the dirty looks Bennett is tossing his way. “So artfully arranged. Gran would hate a big display, but I think it’s fitting. That picture of your grandparents on their wedding day is art,” Balthasar effuses, examining his nails before picking an imaginary piece of lint off of his jacket.
“Where is Smith Whittaker?” she grinds out.
I almost sigh in relief. Finally, a question I can answer honestly. “Don’t know. Where’s Franklin?” I volley.
“Franklin was up early,” Balthasar answers for her. “He came over to pick up the coffee creamer. I offered him coffee, but he had…pie for breakfast.” He smirks at Bennett.
I glare at him. I get he’s trying to make Bennett laugh, but that isn’t what she needs. I can feel her vibrating. I move closer to her. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
Her eyes flare, then she shrugs. “If I prepare something, I’ll start crying as soon as I get up there and I won’t be able to stop. I’m just going to speak from the heart. Everyone around here knows what kind of person she was. Whittaker, I need Smith.” Her back is straight, her face resolute, but I see the budding panic behind her eyes.
“Hey,” I grab her hand, “Smith will be here. For Gran, and for you.”
“I guess I have no choice but to trust you both,” she sighs.
The linoleum and paneling in the building should have replaced years ago. The place is so cold I’m tempted to tell Bennett to keep her coat on. But she hangs it up and carries the garment bag into the kitchen. I hear Franklin greet her, so I wander over to the bar, where Melanie is perched on a stool, staring at a bloody Mary with longing. Brian smiles and holds out a hand. “How’s she holding up Whittaker?”
“I can’t answer that until Smith shows up,” I mutter, clasping his and shaking it. I stare at his whiskey with longing. I’d like to pull out a stool and sit down to get shit-faced while I say good-bye to the woman who did most of my raising.
“Oh fucking hell,” Melanie curses, draining half of her glass.
“I hope you took your medication this morning honey,” Brian says, his face etched in concern as she wipes her mouth.
“I don’t care about acid reflux Brian. My daughter is drowning in a swamp of grief while her life is in pieces around her and I can’t fix this for her! Give me a medication for that, why don’t you,” she snaps, then gasps. “Brian, I’m so sorry, I—”
He wraps her up in a hug. “I wish I had that pill for you baby.” She turns her face into his chest, hiding, her slim shoulders shaking. Melanie needs a moment of privacy with her husband. My face etched with sympathy, I head past the kitchen to the men’s room. I pull my cell phone out and call Smith. The call goes to voicemail. “Where are you? She’s looking for you, and things are getting dangerously close to me having to lie.” I jam my finger into the screen of the phone and tuck it back into my pocket.
When I turn to leave the restroom, Franklin is standing in the doorway. “You tread lightly for a big man.”
“Do you think he was successful?” he asks quietly.
My eyes brows fly up in surprise. “He told you?” Smith doesn’t ever confide his plans. He only included me because he needed someone to be on the look for that fucking scumbag Weston.
Franklin chuckles. “He went off to try to sell my restaurant so yeah, he told me.”
“I think it was a mistake not to tell Bennett,” I admit, closing my eyes briefly at the unease that rolls through me.
“I don’t think there is a right time in this situation. Weston complicates things. She can get mad, but I think she’ll understand why we chose this when some time passes,” he replies, running his hands down the front of his double-breasted chef uniform.
“We? I don’t recall Smith asking for a group vote,” I say wryly. This bathroom makes my skin crawl. It smells like twenty-year-old urinal cakes and piss with a faint hint of Pine-Sol, but It’s my best bet to keep Bennett from hearing our plans.
Franklin sighs and scratches his beard. “He’s going to find out quickly that shit won’t fly if everything goes to plan.”
“And what is the plan, Franklin?” I demand. “Do you think the restaurant is going to sell and the new one will magically open? Do you really believe she’s going to stay? You think in two weeks we’ll all be sitting around a Christmas tree together exchanging gifts like a happy, emotionally stable, new age nuclear family?” The desire to kick one of the stall doors is strong, but I refrain. I don’t feel like fixing them.
“The plan is to get Bennett through today, tomorrow, and then every day after that for the rest of our lives.” His arm snaps out and grabs my jacket. He yanks me forward and kisses me so thoroughly my head is spinning. “Snap the fuck out your negative spiral. This isn’t going to work for you if you’ve already decided it won’t.”
It isn’t until he exits the bathroom that I realize he didn’t say us.
People have started to file in. The ladies auxiliary are bustling around the kitchen. Balthasar is in the ladies bathroom with Bennett helping her touch up her face. Franklin drags me to the bar and orders me a scotch I’ve never heard of. The bartender snorts. “Jack and Coke, please,” I say, interrupting whatever witty retort she was brewing up for Franklin.
“That I can do,” she responds, slapping the bar and glaring at the back of Franklin’s head.
The room is buzzing. The tables are full. Most folks aren’t in suits. They’re in overalls and Carhart’s. Many of the women are wearing red and green, and a few are in pink. Franklin might be staring at the bathroom, waiting for Bennett to come out, but my eyes keep skipping to the door. I almost drop my drink in relief when Smith walks in, accompanied by an older man in a suit. His silver hair is slicked back, and although he’s got a gut, his chest is broad, and his arms look like they’ve spent some time using a bag. They take a seat at the end of a row of tables. Smith is leaning forward, scanning the room, his body tensed and ready to move. The other man leans back and rests an ankle over his knee.
Bennett comes out of the bathroom. Her eyes run down the length of the tables. The tension literally bleeds out of her when she sees Smith. I finish my drink, making a silent vow to break every bone in his face if he fucks up today.
The room quiets down, and by the time Bennett gets to the front of the room, most of the children have been gathered by their families. Melanie hands a microphone to Bennett.
“Good afternoon and thank you for coming this afternoon to celebrate my grandmother, Beatrice Louise Redmond Vanderberg. As I’m sure you are all aware, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.” Her eyes briefly acknowledge the survivors in pink dotting the room. “But she didn’t let it stop her from living. Like everything else she did in life, she put her boots on and went to work. We didn’t have any big decisions to make folks. Gran already all the arrangements made, her obituary written, and a video to explain everything. She even left me a note in one of her books.” A smattering of fond laughter ripples through the room.
“I could stand up for hours and regale you with memories,” she continues, “but I’d really like to hear yours. Every knows I’ve been away for a long time. And lots of you knew Gran before I was born. I’d like to leave the mike open for anyone who like to share a memory or talk about her.” A pleased murmur follows her announcement.
“Now, I know some of you might think it’s odd that we have a Christmas tree in here. But most won’t bat an eye. Anyone who knew Gran knew she adored holidays. Each one was her favorite, until the next came around, but I think if she would have been forced to pick a favorite Christmas would have been her choice. I decorated her house, with a little help. It was hard, but I know she appreciates it.” She swallows hard, turning away to press her fingers under her eyes. When she regains her composure, she carries on. “In the spirit of celebrating the person she was, let’s share a meal while we share our stories. Then we are going to celebrate Christmas, the way Gran would want us too.”
A smattering of applause flows over the tables, along with excited squeals from the children. Those bring a smile to Bennett’s face. “My grandmother made me the person I am. She showed me how to live, how to love, and how to work hard. She taught me the value of nurturing my community. She passed down her recipes and instilled a passion for cooking I feel in my soul. She built me from the ground up, giving me an unshakeable foundation. Her love gave me the strength and courage to strike out on my own and for that, I will forever be grateful.” She pauses to catch her breath, turning to wipe her eyes. “I love you Gran. I promise to live every day the same way you did. Full of love and good food.”
Bennett abruptly hands the microphone to Melanie and heads towards us. Melanie’s voice fills the room as the ladies start hauling out food. Franklin slides off the stool. “That’s my cue,” he says setting his glass down. He kisses Bennett on the top of the head. “You were amazing. Ya did good, kid.”
“Thank you,” she says, lifting up on her tip toes to kiss him. She stops at the last minute, remembering where she is.
“If you want to kiss him Bennett, do it.” I don’t want her to ever feel like she has to hide who she is.
“It’s not us. It’s the function,” he squeezes her arm and heads for the kitchen.
“Whit, did you see Smith is here?” Bennett whispers.
“I told you he would be here.” The words aren’t a told you so. I want her to know she can believe me when I make her a promise. We watch him tap the man, who was courteously listening to Melanie, on the shoulder. The man looks back. Quietly, but quickly, they are out of the chairs and walking around the end of the tables. My eyes skip ahead, plotting their path to the door.
“Fuck me is that Weston?” Bennett exclaims angrily. “That’s all I need today, dealing with him. Why can’t he get a…oh my God.” Smith and the man in the suit are scuffling with Weston. Something black and heavy thuds to the floor. Smith kicks it under a table and yells my name. Together they haul Weston out of the building. I spring off the stool and hustle over to where I last saw the object. Bennett is hot on my heels. She hands me a bar towel when I bend down to reach under the table.
I pull the gun to the edge of the tablecloth and flip up the safety, then remove the clip before wrapping it up in the towel. Bennett is leaning against the table with one hand pressed to her chest. “He brought a gun? Safety off, ready to shoot? He isn’t going to quit, is he? Where are they taking him?” She rattles breathlessly, her face pale.
I stand, stuffing the gun in my pocket. “You’re safe Bennett. Trust Smith to take care of it.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Smith isn’t a cop Whittaker. What’s he going to do about it?”
“Do you know what he did in the military Bennett? Trust me, Smith has it under control.” Doubt infiltrates her features.
She isn’t wrong. Smith may have Weston under control for Gran’s service, but what about tomorrow?
Chapter thirty-two
December
Franklin
Funerals always leave me feeling off balance. It’s always disconcerting to experience such a wide range of emotions in a public forum. I’ve never been comfortable participating in a ceremony to review the highlights and deeds of a person who usually has had no say in the event. Then there’s the business of witnessing the friends and family of the deceased publicly navigate their despair. The emptiness of permanent loss combined with the heightened empathy folks become capable of gives the pall of grief an opportunity to burrow into your soul. Time pauses, dragging out despair for what seems like an eternity before it kicks into high gear, doing it’s damnedest to erase the marks we’ve made on the world. How many folks end up with a pastor who didn’t know them reading bible verses that meant nothing to the deceased while offering trite clichés in between dry prayers? I much prefer the receptions. That’s when the real tea comes to light. Food and drink loosen tongues, and the good stories come out. That’s when you find out who the deceased really was. This is why Bennett wants to give in the spirit of Christmas while the town says goodbye to Gran. Because Gran new the secret a rich life was less belongings. I make a mental note to tell Bennett after all of this is done how proud I think her grandmother would be of her.
