Just One of Those Things, page 7
A little appalled at how brave she was, she shifted her knees, giving him better access. He answered by quickening his pace, stroking fast and sure. Tension spiraled toward her belly, tightening her focus. She knew she should be touching Matt, should be giving him the same rush of pleasure he was giving her. But need was drowning out her concentration. Hot, sweet heat flooded away every conscious thought.
“Now,” Matt whispered, his fingers slipping home. “Yes,” he said as she tumbled toward the edge of a cliff. “Em,” he sighed, and she collapsed around him, crying out his name as her thighs slammed closed, as her entire body clutched tight and he pulled her close with his free arm, nestling his lips close to her ear, kissing her hair, her cheek, her eyelids.
When she could finally think again, she considered being embarrassed. She’d finally relaxed enough for Matt to slip his hand from between her legs. He was leaning back against the tree, a goofy smile on his lips.
She’d read books. She’d watched movies. She knew she wasn’t supposed to take, take, take; it was her obligation to give as good as she got.
She shifted, just enough that she could slip her hand inside her pocket. She found the foil there, crumpled but untorn. Palming the condom, she reached for the buckle on Matt’s belt.
She wasn’t as coordinated as he was. It was hard to hold onto the square of foil while she worked his belt free from its loops. She was afraid to pull the leather tight enough to release the metal tongue; she didn’t want to hurt him. But the buckle was nothing compared to the button on his jeans. How had he snapped hers open with one twist of his fingers? His denim seemed as stiff as cardboard.
Embarrassed by her clumsiness, she bit her lip again. She refused to meet his eyes, even when he folded his hands over hers. “Hey,” he said, but she wouldn’t look up. “Emily.”
Her full name sounded strange on his lips. She definitely couldn’t look at him now. She reached down, intending to stroke him through his jeans, to let him know that she knew she still owed him, to let him know she cared.
“Emily,” he said, and this time, his fingers locked around her wrists. “You don’t have to—”
“I do!” She threw herself at him, draping her arms around his neck. She found his lips, kissing him the way she knew Jon loved, with her mouth open, her tongue exploring his.
And he pulled his head away. “Jesus, Emily.” He wiped his lips against the back of his hand. “Champagne?” he asked.
She felt ashamed. “It’s okay,” she said, words bubbling up from some place deep inside her. “That’s why Jon was supposed to meet me here. That’s what we were supposed to do. I’m ready! I have protection!”
The condom looked pathetic on her open palm. They both stared at it, it seemed like forever, and then he finally curled her fingers over the square and guided her hand back toward her pocket.
She sank to the ground, mortified.
So what, if they hadn’t actually had sex? What they’d just done, the way he’d touched her, the way he’d said her name as she folded herself around him, that had been a million times more intimate than what she’d expected that afternoon.
She’d written the scene with Jon long before she’d walked out to the bridge. She’d imagined how the ground would feel against her shoulder blades, how heavy he’d be on top of her.
In her mind, though, she’d never imagined how she’d feel inside. She’d never dreamed of that explosion, binding her to him. Binding her to Matt.
She hugged her arms around her knees, barely watching as Matt cinched his belt tight. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry! I want you to let me make it right. Make it even!”
His laugh sounded sad. “There isn’t an even, Emily.”
Em! she wanted to say. Call me Em! Instead, she pulled away to the far edge of the blanket, to the corner obscured by fallen petals.
“I’m sorry,” Matt said again, and this time she didn’t interrupt him. “But you’re drunk. And you’re my little brother’s girlfriend. I never should have gone this far.”
“I’m not drunk!” she said. And she wasn’t, not anymore. But she wasn’t exactly sober either. She was on a lot firmer ground when she said, “And I’m not Jon’s girlfriend.”
“Come on,” Matt said. “He’s a jackass. Anyone who’s spent one day with him knows that. But deep down, he’s really a good guy. And he didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Right.”
“He never means to hurt you. You or anyone else. He’s like a puppy who just can’t remember the rules.”
“Then what does that make me? Some old shoe, gnawed to pieces? It’s over. Jon and I are done.”
He didn’t answer her. Not with words. But he climbed to his feet and offered a hand to help her up. She stood on her own.
Matt leaned down to gather up the blanket. She scrambled forward, rescuing the discarded champagne bottle and his jacket. She watched as he folded the blanket, matching the corners and creasing the seams. She reached out for the basket once he’d closed the lid, but he shook his head, shifting it easily to his far hand.
Exasperated, she shoved his jacket toward him. He took it by reflex, and she tried not to gloat. But she’d won.
She led the way back to town, crossing over the bridge, skirting the meadow at the bottom of Old Man Marshall’s property. She slipped the champagne bottle into the first trashcan they found, on the very edge of town, trying not to feel guilty that it wouldn’t be recycled. And she crossed her arms over her chest as they walked the rest of the way, telling herself that she wasn’t cold. She definitely wasn’t chattering. The last thing in the world she needed was Matt Dawson’s jacket.
They didn’t say a word to each other as he handed over the picnic basket on the sidewalk in front of her house. She wasn’t going to look at him as he walked away.
But then she dared herself to watch him disappear into the gloom.
After all, Jon broke the rules, and he never had to pay a price. He skipped class all the time; he barely scraped by with Cs and Ds. He hooked up with Kaylie Putnam, lying about it and telling Emily she was the one who was nuts.
Well, Emily could break the rules too. She could stare at Matt Dawson’s butt as he walked away into the twilight. And after he was gone, she could head into the house without an apology for being late, for failing to set the table on time.
She was tired of being the good girl. Tired of being the perfect middle child who did whatever it took to maintain peace and harmony at home, at school, wherever. She needed to add a little more of Jon’s philosophy to her day-to-day life—do what she wanted to do and who cared if people didn’t like the result.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and cranked her music through her speakers, not bothering with earbuds. And she didn’t feel guilty when Anne needed to come all the way upstairs to get her for dinner. Not even when Anne said she’d called from the foot of the stairs three times. Not even when everyone else was already gathered around the table, waiting for her, hungry.
She loaded a second Cornish pastie onto her plate because she was ravenous, even though it would have been more polite to pass the dish around the table for everyone to have firsts. Because she was through following the rules. A new Emily Barton was ready to face the world. And everyone else would just have to deal with that.
CHAPTER 6
One week after Save Our Stores was founded…
Emily stood in the doorway of the sunroom at Jefferson Manor. Down the hall, she could hear salsa music with an instructor calling out, “Use your hips, people! Don’t forget to use your hips!”
Emily figured she’d be lucky if she could waltz when she was old enough to move in to Jefferson Manor.
She crossed the room to the expected pair of wheelchairs situated in the corner. One of them was centered in a patch of sunshine. Its occupant wore a cheerful orange sweater, the blazing color set off against a pair of crimson pants that looked like she might have stolen them from Santa Claus. A very skinny Santa Claus. A very skinny Santa Claus who preferred bright yellow slippers to boots.
The other chair lurked in the shadows, looking like a black-and-white photograph of the first. The ancient woman who sat there wore black slacks and charcoal slippers. Her soot-colored sweater set off her pale face, and she’d wrapped a grey scarf around her thin neck.
Both women were sleeping. Emily slipped into a nearby chair, gently easing her gigantic tote bag off her shoulder. Apparently she wasn’t quiet enough, though, because when she turned back to the sleepers, she found herself staring into a pair of glittering black eyes.
“Dolores!” Emily said, smiling and getting up to kiss the old woman’s cheek. She smoothed the grey scarf back into place as she stepped away.
After accepting her due, Dolores reached out to kick her sister’s chair. “Joyce!” she snapped. “Wake up!”
The younger Horton sister—by three minutes, if legend was true—startled awake. Emily brushed another kiss against her soft cheek and said to both of them, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Dolores said. “Spend the day sleeping, and you’ll be certain to toss and turn all night.”
Joyce patted at her hair, decades past the age when she’d bother to contradict her sister. Instead, she beamed a smile at Emily. “Hello, dear. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Emily grinned and did her best to keep her voice cheerful. She didn’t have ninety-six years of practice, but she thought she did a damn good job. “I’m sorry to say the sweater-knitting class didn’t get enough people to sign up. I have to cancel it.”
“Again, dear?” If Joyce was upset, she didn’t show it. Instead, her dark eyes clouded with concern. “You mustn’t let it get you down, dear. There are more student fish in that sea.”
“When was the last time one of your classes actually did go forward?” Dolores asked. Her voice sounded as if it had been dipped in a tub of liquid gloom.
Emily redoubled her efforts at positive thinking. “Classes just aren’t that popular these days. Maybe things will pick up after the new year.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what will happen, dear. Perhaps you can show people how to knit Easter bonnets.” Joyce sounded as if she couldn’t imagine a world without hand-made Easter millinery.
“That’s absurd,” said Dolores. “People are far more likely to knit Christmas presents. If you can’t get them into the store as the weather’s getting cold, I can’t imagine you’ll have any better luck come spring. Maybe Theresa should consider packing up.”
Emily’s back teeth gritted as she forced herself to smile. “She’d never do that. Not when she has the support of long-time customers like both of you,” she said. “And that’s why I brought some yarn with me this morning. If students won’t come to Harmony Skeins, then I’ll bring the class to them.”
“What a wonderful idea, dear!” Joyce actually clapped her hands, as if she’d just been told she was getting a pony for her birthday. Although what a ninety-six year old woman would ever do with a pony, Emily didn’t dare consider.
“What’s the project?” Dolores asked.
Before Emily could reply, Joyce said, “It’s that cable knit sweater, silly. Don’t you remember? The one with the crew neck?”
“Crew neck,” Dolores sniffed, and Emily was pretty sure she was trying to cover up a moment of forgetfulness. “Those always make me itch.”
“Not this wool,” Emily said, reaching for her well-stuffed bag. She pulled out a dozen skeins of soft black yarn. “It’s Spud and Chloe.”
Dolores pursed her lips. “Sounds like a potato. And a French prostitute.”
Emily smothered a laugh by turning back for Joyce’s yarn, a vibrant fuchsia. For any other customer, Emily would have suggested a more…subtle shade, but Joyce exclaimed in pleasure. “How perfect! And this is soft.”
“It’s superwash, too,” Emily said. “So you can just toss it in the machine if you ever need to clean it.”
Joyce shook her head in amazement. “What will they think of next?”
Emily smiled and parceled out the rest of her supplies—knitting needles and counters, half a dozen cable holders each, a multi-page pattern that she’d taken the liberty of printing at four times the normal size. She’d used a neon highlighter to indicate the instructions for the size Extra Small each sister would need.
Only after her students were casting on their requisite stitches did Emily fish out her own yarn. She’d skipped the Spud and Chloe in favor of a complex grey tweed. It was an unusual choice for her; she generally preferred dark jewel tones. But something about the yarn had called to her as she unpacked the shipment. The hand-dyed wool had subtle flecks of baby blue and soft lavender, even a hint of gentle pink. She checked the pattern, running her fingers beneath the instructions for her usual Medium.
She asked Joyce and Dolores about Jefferson Manor’s plans for Halloween, and then she cast on. As Dolores bemoaned the over-abundance of store-bought costumes—“Nothing beat a plain white sheet when we were growing up. A plain white sheet, with two holes cut out for eyes”—Emily frowned at her knitting.
Years of experience had taught her that the sweater was going to be…form-fitting if she kept to the instructions for a Medium. Emily preferred her clothes loose. “Gallumping,” her mother had described them when she was growing up. She cast on another twenty stitches, eyed it again, and added ten more. She dug a pen out of the bottom of her bag and made some quick calculations, expanding all the other dimensions of the pattern. She circled the new numbers so she wouldn’t accidentally short-change herself later on.
“So, dear,” Joyce said as she whipped her yarn around her needles. Not for the first time, Emily wondered why the woman even pretended to need a knitting class. “I understand you’re sparking with Matthew Dawson.”
Emily choked.
“Don’t say ‘sparking,’” Dolores instructed severely. “Young people these days say, ‘going out.’ Isn’t that right, Emily?”
“Yes,” she said, swallowing hard. “That’s what they say.”
Joyce cackled with delight. “Then you and Matthew are going out!”
“No!” Emily said. Her voice was sharp enough that both of the Horton sisters stared.
Joyce recovered first. “Then you’re just friends, dear?”
“Not exactly,” Emily said weakly.
“I could have sworn I heard about you and young Matthew. Sadie Parker said his truck was parked right in front of the yarn shop, what was it? Two weeks ago, I think.”
What was it with these women at Jefferson Manor? Their surveillance system could teach Homeland Security a thing or two.
“He wasn’t visiting me,” Emily said. “He just stopped by The Corner Bar to catch up with old friends.”
“It must be so difficult for him,” Joyce said. “Losing his brother overseas. Poor Jonathan. That boy was a hero.”
Emily glanced at Dolores. The woman never had a positive word to say about anyone or anything. Emily was actually curious to see how she would bad-mouth Harmony Springs’ genuine war hero.
She was surprised to see Dolores bow her head. The old woman whispered a few words, some sort of secret prayer, and when she looked up, her adamant eyes were glazed with a suspicious sheen. But that was impossible. Dolores Horton never cried. “May he rest in peace,” she said, her voice almost soft.
Shaken, Emily knit a few more stitches. Not surprisingly, Dolores recovered first. “I understand young Matthew bought Zeb Marshall’s place,” Dolores said. “I suppose he’s decided to settle down. To become a gentleman farmer.”
Emily shook her head. “Not really.” The basilisk look was back in Dolores’s eye. She was like a terrier; she wasn’t going to rest until she’d shaken loose every possible morsel of potential gossip. Emily knew her choices: Clarify now, or clarify later. She completed three more stitches before yielding to the inevitable. “Matt is opening up the American Discount store. Out on Main Street, just before First.”
“Well that makes sense, dear.” Joyce nodded happily and continued her knitting.
“It does?” Emily couldn’t help but sound mystified.
“Well, he is his father’s son.”
“What does that mean?”
Joyce looked at her with astonishment. “Why, he’s following straight in David Dawson’s steps.”
Emily answered carefully. “Dave Dawson is an accountant at Baked Rite.”
“Certainly, he is now. But David never planned on making a career balancing books out there. He had such grand dreams when he came out of the Army.”
“Dreams!” Dolores huffed. She pointed her knitting needle at Emily. “He was going to open a nursery.”
“Plants,” Joyce said helpfully. “Not babies.”
“But babies changed his plans,” Dolores cackled. “He’d scraped together the money to set up his business. Brought in all his stock—fruit trees and flowers, rare things he’d read about in books. Kept most of them in a greenhouse because they couldn’t take the mountain cold. And it was just his bad luck that first spring ran long. Seventeen inches of snow in May. Wet snow too; it brought down the power lines. He couldn’t afford a generator, not at first. So everything he had died.”
“But that Susan Franklin, she stayed with him,” Joyce said.
“What choice did the girl have, once she started putting on her baby weight?” Dolores’s smile glinted.
Joyce said, “They had a lovely wedding. Father Steven married them in June, and he christened little Matthew in December.”
Dolores was not about to be softened by happy wedding memories. She scowled and said, “They never took a honeymoon. David walked out of the church the day they were married and drove straight over to Baked Rite. Took a job on the night shift, the only thing they had open, running the machine that puts the cookies in boxes. Worked a full shift every night and took classes at Shenandoah Valley Community College during the day.”
