Tonight, like so many recent nights, she lay on the bed, nak*d, Taylor beside her. His hands were slick with oil, and the sensation of his hands sliding over her slippery body was unbearably tantalizing.
“You feel like heaven,” Taylor whispered.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she groaned.
He kneaded the muscles in her lower back, applying gentle pressure, then relaxing his hands. “Doing what?”
“Staying up this late every night. It’s killing me.”
“For a dying woman, you still look good.”
“I haven’t had more than four hours of sleep since last weekend.”
“That’s because you can’t keep your hands off me.”
With her eyes almost closed, she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Taylor bent over and kissed her on the spine between her shoulder blades.
“Would you like me to leave so you can get your rest?” he asked, his hands moving up to her shoulders again.
“Not just yet,” she purred. “I’ll let you finish first.”
“Just using me now?”
“If that’s okay.”
“It is.”
“So what’s happening with Denise?” Mitch asked. “Melissa ordered me not to let you leave until you filled me in on all the details.”
They were at Mitch’s house on Monday, finally repairing the roof that Taylor had so successfully put off last week. The sun was blisteringly hot, and both had their shirts off as they worked their crowbars, prying off the torn shingles one by one. Taylor reached for his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his face.
“Not much.”
Mitch waited for more, but Taylor said nothing else.
“That’s it?” he snorted. “ ‘Not much’?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“The works. Just start rambling and I’ll stop you if I need something explained.”
Taylor glanced from side to side as if making sure no one else was around. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
Taylor leaned a little closer. “So can I,” he said with a wink, and Mitch burst out laughing.
“So you’re going to keep all of this to yourself?”
“I didn’t know I had to fill you in on everything,” he retorted with mock indignation. “I guess I just assumed it was my own business.”
Mitch shook his head. “You know, you can use that line on other people. The way I figure it—you’re going to tell me sooner or later, so it may as well be sooner.”
Taylor looked over at his friend, a smirk on his face. “You think so, huh?”
Mitch began prying a nail from the roof. “I don’t think so. I know so. And besides, like I said, Melissa won’t let you out of here until you do. Trust me, that gal can throw a frying pan with deadly accuracy.”
Taylor laughed. “Well, you can tell Melissa that we’re doing fine.”
Mitch grabbed a damaged shingle with his gloved hands and began to tug at it, feeling as it ripped in half. He tossed it to the ground and started working the other half.
“And?”
“And what?”
“Does she make you happy?”
It took a moment for Taylor to answer. “Yeah,” he said finally, “she really does.” He searched for the right words as he continued to work the crowbar. “I’ve never met anyone like her before.”
Mitch reached for his jug of ice water and took a sip, waiting for Taylor to continue.
“I mean, she’s got everything. She’s pretty, she’s intelligent, she’s charming, she makes me laugh . . . And you should see the way she is with her son. He’s a great kid, but he’s got some problems with talking, and the way she works with him—she’s so patient, so dedicated, so loving . . . It’s really something, that’s for sure.”
Taylor pried another nail loose, then tossed it over the side.
“She sounds great,” Mitch said, impressed.
“She is.”
Suddenly Mitch reached over, grabbing Taylor on the shoulder and giving him a good shake.
“Then what’s she doing with a slacker like you?” he joked. Instead of laughing, however, Taylor simply shrugged.
“I have no idea.”
Mitch set the jug of water aside. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Could I stop you?”
“No, not really. I’m like Ann Landers when it comes to things like this.”
Taylor adjusted his position on the roof, making his way toward another shingle. “Then go ahead.”
Mitch tensed slightly, anticipating Taylor’s reaction. “Well, if she’s everything you say she is and she makes you happy, don’t screw it up this time.”
Taylor stopped in midmotion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know how you are in things like this. Remember Valerie? Remember Lori? If you don’t, I do. You go out with ’em, you pour on the charm, you spend all your time with them, you get them to fall in love with you . . . and then wham—you end it.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mitch watched as Taylor’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “No? Then go ahead and tell me where I’m mistaken.”
Reluctantly Taylor considered what Mitch had said.
“They were different from Denise,” he said slowly. “I was different. I’ve changed since then.”
Mitch held up his hands to stop him from continuing. “It’s not me you have to convince, Taylor. Like they say, don’t shoot the messenger—I’m only telling you because I don’t want to see you kicking yourself later.”
Taylor shook his head. For a few minutes they worked in silence. Finally: “You’re a pain in the ass, do you know that?”
Mitch brushed at a couple of nails. “Yeah, I know. Melissa tells me that, too, so don’t take it personally. It’s just the way I am.”
“So did you two finish the roof?”
Taylor nodded. He was holding a beer in his lap, nursing it slowly, a couple of hours before Denise began her shift. They were sitting on the front steps as Kyle played with his trucks in the yard. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, his thoughts kept returning to the things Mitch had said. There was some truth in his friend’s words, he knew, but he couldn’t help wishing he hadn’t brought the matter up. It nagged at him like a bad memory.
“Yeah,” he said, “it’s done.”
“Was it harder than you thought it would be?” Denise asked.
“No, not really. Why?”
“You just seem distracted.”
“I’m sorry. Just a little tired, I guess.”
Denise scrutinized him. “Are you sure that’s all?”
Taylor brought the beer to his lips and took a drink. “I guess so.”
“You guess?”
He set the can on the steps. “Well, Mitch said some things to me today . . .”
“Like what?”
“Just stuff,” Taylor said, not wanting to elaborate. Denise read the concern in his eyes.
“Like what?”
Taylor drew a deep breath, wondering whether or not to answer but deciding to anyway. “He told me that if I’m serious about you, I shouldn’t mess things up this time.”
Denise felt her breath catch in her throat at the bluntness of his comment. Why would Mitch need to warn him this way?
“What did you say?”
Taylor shook his head. “I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Well . . .” She hesitated. “Does he?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why is it bothering you?”
“Because,” he said, “it just pisses me off that he’d think I might. He doesn’t know anything about you, or us. And he doesn’t know how I feel, that’s for damn sure.”
She squinted up at him, caught in the dying rays of the sun. “How do you feel?”
He reached for her hand.
“Don’t you know?” he said. “Haven’t I made it obvious yet?”
Chapter 21
Summer rose in full fury in mid-July, the temperature creeping past the century mark, then finally it began to cool. Toward the end of the month Hurricane Belle threatened the coast of North Carolina near Cape Hatteras before turning out to sea; in early August Hurricane Delilah did the same. Mid-August brought drought conditions; by late August crops were withering in the heat.
September opened with an unseasonal cold front, something that hadn’t happened in twenty years. Jeans were pulled from the bottoms of drawers, light jackets were donned in the early evening hours. A week later another heat wave arrived and the jeans were put away, hopefully for the next couple of months.
Throughout the summer, however, the relationship between Taylor and Denise remained constant. Settled into a routine, they spent most afternoons together—to escape the heat, Taylor’s crew started early in the morning and would finish by two o’clock—and Taylor continued to shuttle Denise to and from her job at the diner, whenever he could. Occasionally they ate dinner at Judy’s house; sometimes Judy came by to baby-sit Kyle again, so they could have some time alone.
During those three months, Denise came to enjoy Edenton more and more. Taylor, of course, kept her busy as her guide, exploring the sights around town, going out in the boat, and heading to the beach. In time Denise came to see Edenton for what it was, a place that operated on its own slow schedule, a culture tied to raising kids and spending Sundays in church, to working the waters and tilling the fertile soil; a place where home still meant something. Denise caught herself gazing as he stood in her kitchen, holding his coffee cup, wondering idly whether he would look the same way to her in the distant future, when his hair had turned to gray.
She looked forward to everything they did; on a warm night toward the end of July, he took her up to Elizabeth City and they went dancing, another first in too many years. He moved her around the floor with surprising grace, waltzing and two-stepping to the drumming bass of a local country band. Women, she couldn’t help but notice, were naturally drawn to him, and occasionally one would smile at him from across the floor and Denise would feel a quick hot pang of jealousy, even though Taylor never seemed to notice. Instead his arm never left her lower back, and he looked at her that night as if she were the only person in the world. Later, while eating cheese sandwiches in bed, Taylor pulled her close as a thunderstorm raged outside the bedroom window. “This,” he confided, “is as good as it gets.”
Kyle, too, blossomed under his attention. Gaining confidence in his speech, he began to talk more frequently, though much of it didn’t make sense. He’d also stopped whispering when running more than a few words together. By late summer he’d learned to hit the ball off the tee consistently, and his ability to throw the ball had improved dramatically. Taylor set up makeshift bases in the front yard, and though he did his best to teach Kyle the rules of the game, it wasn’t something Kyle was interested in at all. He just wanted to have fun.
But as idyllic as everything seemed, there were moments in which Denise sensed an undercurrent of restlessness in Taylor she couldn’t exactly pin down. As he had during their first night together, Taylor would sometimes get that unreadable, almost distant look after they made love. He would hold her and caress her as usual, but she could sense something in him that made her vaguely uncomfortable, something dark and unknowable that made him seem older and more tired than Denise had ever felt. It scared her sometimes, although when daylight came she often berated herself for letting her imagination run away with her.
Toward the end of August Taylor left town to help fight a major fire in the Croatan forest for three days, a dangerous situation made more deadly by the searing August heat. Denise found it difficult to sleep while he was gone. Worrying about him, she called Judy and they spent an hour talking on the phone. Denise followed the coverage of the fire in the newspaper and on television, searching in vain for any glimpse of Taylor. When Taylor finally returned to Edenton, he drove straight to her house. With Ray’s permission, she took the evening off, but Taylor was exhausted and fell asleep on the couch soon after the sun had gone down. She covered him with a blanket, thinking he’d sleep until the morning, but in the middle of the night he crept into her room. Again, he had the shakes, but this time they didn’t stop for hours. Taylor refused to talk about what had happened, and Denise held him in her arms, concerned, until he was finally able to nod off again. Even in his sleep his demons gave him no relief. Twisting and turning, he called out in his sleep, his words incomprehensible, except for the fear she heard in them.
The next morning, sheepish, he apologized. But he offered nothing by way of explanation. He didn’t have to. Somehow she knew it wasn’t simply memories of the fire that were eating him up; it was something else, nak*d and dark, bubbling to the surface.
Her mother had once told her that there were men who kept secrets bottled up inside and that it spelled trouble for the women who loved them. Denise instinctively knew the truth of her mother’s statement, yet it was hard to reconcile her words with the love she felt for Taylor McAden. She loved the way he smelled; she loved the rough texture of his hands upon her and the wrinkles around his eyes whenever he laughed. She loved the way he stared at her as she got off work, leaning against the truck in the parking lot, one leg crossed over the other. She loved everything about him.
Sometimes she also found herself dreaming of someday walking down the aisle with him. She could deny it, she could ignore it, she could tell herself that neither of them was ready yet. And maybe the last part of that was true. They hadn’t been together very long, and if he asked her tomorrow, she liked to think that she would have the wisdom to say exactly that. Yet . . . she wouldn’t say those words, she admitted to herself in her most brutally candid moments. She would say Yes . . . yes . . . yes.