Part 20 (1/2)

Scooting over to me, he raised the front end of his poncho, then lifted mine so that we were sitting under a little tent, our bags of equipment between us. The rain was coming down hard, pelting the plastic over the top of us, but it was cozy and dry inside our little tent. Too cozy, actually.

”I want you to take these and play with them,” Russell said, holding out the little camera and the tiny printer. The camera had five million pixels.

Gee. Funny how your scruples disappear when something becomes free.

Had I been disdainful of digital photography merely because I couldn't afford a digital camera?

”I couldn't. Really,” I began, but he was slipping both items into my bag.

”It's just a loan.” He was smiling, and at this close range I could smell his breath. Flowers would be jealous. ”Besides, to get them back I'll have to see you again.”

Looking down at my bag of camera equipment, I tried to smile demurely.

What I really wanted to do was tattoo my address and phone number across his upper thigh. ”Okay,” I said after what I hoped was a suitable interval.

”That is, if you're sure there's nothing going on between you and Newcombe.”

”Nothing whatever,” I said, grinning. I didn't add that there might have been, but Ford had dropped me the second he saw Miss Dessie's cleavage.

And her talent, I thought. I didn't want to be fair, but I was cursed with the ability to see both sides of a problem.

Russell peeked out of the ponchos. The rain didn't seem to be letting up.

”I think we better go or we'll be caught in the dark.”

Wouldn't that be a tragedy? I wanted to say, but didn't. I was feeling a bit frantic that we hadn't exchanged telephone numbers, but I didn't want to appear anxious.

Russell solved the problem by opening a pocket on the side of his bag and removing a couple of cards and a pen. ”Could I possibly persuade you to give me your telephone number?” he asked.

I would have said that I'd give him the number of my bank account, but I'd done that with Kirk and look what had happened. Oh, well, that was water under the bridge. I wrote the phone number for the house I shared with Ford on the back of one of the cards, but before I handed it to him, I turned the card over and looked at it. ”Russell Dunne” and a telephone number in the lower left corner was all that was on the card. I looked up at him in puzzlement.

He understood my unspoken question. ”When I had them printed, I was about to move and I couldn't decide whether to put my new address or my old one on it.” He shrugged in a way that I found endearing. ”Ready?” he asked. ”I think we should try to get out of here while we can.”

If we couldn't spend the night together, I guess I'd have to follow him to wherever he was going. Minutes later we were on the trail, heads down against the driving rain, camera equipment safe under our ponchos, mud clinging to our shoes. Somewhere along the way, I told myself that I needed to ask him what his address now was. Was he staying nearby? Or had he driven here all the way from Raleigh? When would he return to his job and his real life?

But the rain and our fast pace kept me from asking anything. I just kept my head down and followed him, watching his heels, not looking ahead, and having no idea of the direction he was taking to get us out of there.

After a while we came to pavement, but it was still raining too hard for me to look up. It was odd that even though I'd just met this man, I had complete faith that he knew where he was going. I followed him as though I were a child with its father, unquestioning.

When he halted, I almost ran into the back of him, and when I did look up, I was surprised to see that we were in front of Ford's house. The rain was making such a racket that I knew we couldn't talk. I looked up at Russell and made a gesture for him to come inside for something warm to drink.

Lifting his poncho-covered arm, he pointed to where a wrist.w.a.tch went, and shook his head. Then he used his finger to do a pantomime of tears running down his cheeks and sniffed. Like most people, I hated mimes, but he was making me change my opinion.

Turning the corners of my mouth down, I imitated great sadness.

Pretended to imitate. Actually, I wanted to take him inside, tell Ford I'd found him in the forest, and could I keep him? Pretty please?

Smiling, Russell leaned forward, put his beautiful face inside the hood of my poncho and kissed my cheek. Then he turned and was gone from my sight in seconds.

For a moment I stood there looking into the mist of the rain and sighing.

What an extraordinary day, I thought. What a truly extraordinary day.

Turning, I went down the path, up the porch stairs, and into the house.

Like something in a 1950s teen movie, I floated up the stairs. I just wanted to take a hot bath, put on dry clothes, and dream about Russell Dunne.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Ford I'm sure a psychic experience in which you see a couple of little kids go up in flame wasn't what a normal person would label as ”fun.” But saving those children had been.

Sometimes Jackie had a way of looking at me that made me feel like I could solve all the world's problems. At other times, she made me feel old and decrepit. Whatever she thought of me as a physical specimen, she certainly looked surprised when I grabbed her backpack and mine and headed back down the trail. It was easier going on the return because, if nothing else, the cobwebs had been cleared away.

Then there was the ride in the truck. As we bounced along the trail, the look on her face reminded me of something my cousin n.o.ble liked to do.

He was blessed-or cursed as one of my female cousins said-by not having the Newcombe looks. In other words, n.o.ble had a face girls love.

He'd go into town, do his ”shy-little-me act” as a cousin called it, and a girl would inevitably sashay over to him. n.o.ble would eventually treat her to a ”Newcombe special” which was a fast pickup ride across deep ruts.

Afterward, he'd come home and entertain us all with vivid accounts of the indignation and fear of the girls.

Back then I never appreciated the humor or the appeal in what n.o.ble did.

I'd always wanted to spend time with a town girl-namely, one who wasn't likely to give birth at sixteen-but my looks and my shyness didn't attract those twinset-clad girls with their perfect pageboy hair and single strands of pearls. It wasn't until I was at college and away from the stigma of the Newcombe family that one of those girls paid any attention to me. When I met Pat she was wearing a sky blue twinset, a darker blue skirt, and a strand of creamy white pearls. ”Fake,” she told me later, laughing when I asked her to leave the pearls on while we made love.

On that day when I was driving the truck across the ruts, I finally understood why n.o.ble had so loved scaring those town girls. Jackie's face bore a combination of fear and excitement that did things to me in a s.e.xual way. She looked at me in horror, true, but she also looked at me as though I were a magician, a race car driver, and a rescuing hero all in one.

After the exhilarating experience of saving the kids was added to the thrill of the drive, I don't know what would have happened if Dessie hadn't shown up. While Jackie and I had bought pizza and beer, my mind was tumbling all over itself with images of a naked Jackie with little rings of black olives scattered over her nude body. I could imagine myself drinking beer and trying to decide which delectable little ring I was going to eat next.

I was trying to figure out how I was going to make this vision a reality when we arrived home and Dessie was standing there waiting.

Since the last time I'd seen her and she'd unveiled the sculptures, I'd had some time to think and-Well, okay, Jackie's sarcastic, albeit painfully true, remarks had dimmed some of the stars in my eyes. Maybe it hadn't been so tasteful of Dessie to unveil a statue of a man's beloved, deceased wife in front of guests. And, yes, Jackie was right that that sort of thing pretty much always produced tears. I didn't, however, agree when Jackie said, ”Especially in someone as soft and sentimental as you are.” That didn't sound very masculine, so I protested. Then she pointed out that I had written some books that were ”pretty weepy.”

Okay, so she had me. Jackie had a way of seeing to the heart of a matter, which was a good thing. But, sometimes, I really wished she'd keep her mouth shut about what she saw.

By the time I was to leave for Dessie's house on Sunday, I wanted to call her and tell her I wouldn't be able to make it. At breakfast Jackie made a remark about which of the little statues that Tessa and I had bought Dessie would replace first. I was determined not to let Jackie see what was in my mind, so I began reading the nutritional content on the back of the box of that cereal she eats. ”Amazing,” I said. ”This stuff has more vitamins and minerals than three of those green pills you take.” I'd read the label on those, too.

When Jackie narrowed her eyes at me, I knew she knew I was avoiding her comment.

The night before, Dessie had stayed until a little after midnight. I'd had to give a couple of huge yawns to get her to leave. Of course I knew what she wanted. She was after a trip to my bedroom.

But I couldn't do it. A couple of hours before I'd been l.u.s.ting after Jackie, and I wasn't the kind of man who could change from one woman to another in the course of an evening.

Besides, Jackie made me laugh. Her sarcasm and black humor nearly always amused me. When I was around Jackie I felt alert, and as though something exciting was about to happen. Jackie was interested in things in the same way I had been before Pat died. I was finding Jackie's photography fascinating, and I had a good time when she invited people over.