Because of Joe Read online

What are you doing, Maguire? First you swim naked with your ex-husband and now you're getting all cleaned up in preparation for doing the deed with him. Nothing like jumping up and down, waving your arms and yelling, "Hurt me again. Please hurt me again."

  She turned off the shower and stepped out, pulling a fluffy towel from the rack.

  He can't hurt me now, she argued with her reflection, combing her wet hair. And I can't hurt him. We don't love each other any more.

  A large arm came around the bathroom door, holding a tee shirt. "Put this on," said Tell, "if it makes you more willing to come out."

  "Thank you." She took it and pulled it over her head. "You can come in now."

  He stopped her flight from the bathroom with a hand on her cheek. "You know," he said, "there's no law saying you have to go through with it."

  His expression was guarded, and it struck her that he was as gun-shy as she was.

  But the fingers on her face were warm, their touch gentle. When she slipped her arms around his waist, he felt solid and strong and familiar.

  She'd never realized how much she missed familiar.

  Too nervous to lie down on the king-size bed with its blankets folded invitingly back, Rags wandered around the room. She noticed that there was no telephone in here, only an intercom she assumed was connected with the room where his parents had slept and where Ellis Ann still rested.

  The bareness of the closet was testimony to Tell's temporary residence. No suits hung from the garment rod, no neckties from a multi-pronged hanger, no crisp white shirts with discreet monograms on the cuffs. The only shoes in the closet were sneakers and topsiders. Where were the Bass oxfords in the style she used to order from a store in Lexington, Kentucky because that was the only place they'd found them?

  A slight film of dust covered his dresser, and she took a pair of white socks out of the second drawer where she'd known they'd be. She put one of the socks on her hand and began to wipe down the piece of furniture, stopping when she came to the pictures.

  The photographs of the children were the same ones she kept on her bureau back in Indiana. They had been taken the weekend of the twins' high school graduation. Micah and Marley toasting each other with the first champagne they'd ever drunk with permission. Joe and Ben playing guitars, with Ben in his brand new clerical collar and Joe in no shirt at all.

  The last picture was one she'd never seen, snapped at that moment when she and Tell had hugged each other. They'd been looking into each other's eyes and laughing.

  "Joe took it." Tell spoke from behind her. "He wrote, 'I'm sorry I took this away' on the back of it and mailed it to me."

  She turned to face him. Shared pain arced between them. Oh, Joe.

  "What did you do?" she asked.

  "Called him. He was clear across country and I woke him up, but I spent a good fifteen minutes yelling anyway. Threatened to kick his ass from here to eternity for saying such a thing."

  Tell crossed the room to where she stood and took her in his arms. "I didn't tell him how often I'd thought it."

  Her hair muffled the words, but not enough to keep her from hearing the heavy regret that flowed through them. She held him, feeling his grief.

  "Isn't it odd," she said, leaning back in the loose cradle of his arms, "that in all these years, even though we got over the anger and became friends, I don't think I ever forgave you for not wanting Joe. Until now."

  "That puts you one up on me. I sure can't absolve myself."

  She stared into his eyes, saddened that they once again looked like shattered glass. "Have you ever forgiven me for demanding the perfect family?"

  He smiled crookedly, hitching her closer so their lower bodies touched. "It was the only one you'd ever had. How could I fault you for wanting it to go according to design?"

  His legs, muscular and lightly covered with light brown hair, rubbed against hers. Sensation rippled up her inner thighs as her body reminded her of why they were in this room.

  She nestled closer into the vee of his legs and raised her face to his.

  Ah, there it was again. The passion rose like a friendly serpent, warming her belly and weakening her knees. She wondered fuzzily how often they'd stood like this before they made love. Any minute now, they'd be lying down as they had a thousand times before, with Tell still wrapped in his towel and her wearing a tee shirt.

  And a sock on her hand.

  Rags had never been much of a giggler. Life had always been too serious for that. But she'd never been in a man's bedroom wearing a sock as a duster, either.

  The laughter came before she could stop it, and she rested her forehead against his chest and gave it free rein.

  "I realize," he said calmly, his hands caressing her ribs in a way calculated to drive her mad, "that I'm probably out of practice, but I really hoped for better than this."

  Gasping, she raised her hand and waggled it.

  His face cleared. "Oh, the dusting sock. God, what a powerful aphrodisiac."

  Without knowing precisely how it had happened, Rags found herself on the bed with Tell beside her. They lay on their sides facing each other. She reached to trace a scar, new enough that it was still red against the pale skin of his groin where the towel fell away. "What's this?"

  "Angioplasty. My heart got a little weird on me a while back so they did some balloon magic on it." He held her palm over his heart. "See? Good as new."

  The pulse was strong and steady under her hand, and she swallowed the metallic taste of terror. "That explains the decaf and the careful diet? And the retirement from high stress?"

  "Uh-huh."

  She closed the distance between them. "The kids never said anything."

  "Except for Ben, they don't know, and I swore him to secrecy. One good thing about having a minister for a son is that you can make him do things he'd rather not in the name of professional confidentiality." He held her, tucking her head into his shoulder and stroking her back through the shirt. "I'm fine."

  She lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Really?"

  "Really." He smiled, and the tenderness in the expression nearly overwhelmed her. "And I want you."

  "Welllll..." She drew out the word, fluttering her eyelashes, then stood on her knees and began taking the sock off her hand. "Come on, Maguire, where's the music? I'm doing a strip tease here."

  He folded his hands behind his head. "A capella has so much more class, don't you think?"

  "Oh, by all means." Inch by painstaking inch, she pulled the sock off, her eyes clashing with his in shared laughter.

  She gave the sock an airy toss and nearly lost her balance, catching herself by grasping his thighs below the towel that still lay around his hips. "Oops," she said, and gave a little experimental disarrangement to the towel's folds before returning to her performance.

  With her arms crossed, she began to lift the tee shirt, moving her hips in time with the silent music. The cloth floated over her belly and caught on her breasts. "Oh," she said, having no trouble at all making her voice breathy, "I think I need help."

  But he was already there, tugging the shirt over her head and relegating it to the floor.

  Her hand between them consigned his towel to the same fate, and passion soared. What had been flickers of flame became an inferno as their lips and bodies came together.

  Rags felt as though every hair on her body was standing on end, smoothed only where Tell's mouth traveled. Over the slope of her breasts and into the moist crannies beneath them. Down the indented line between her ribs and over the soft curve of her abdomen. He lingered on the place between hip and thigh before moving to her center and sending her senses on a roller coaster ride.

  Only this wasn't what she wanted. She wanted them to go to the wild place together as they had in the old days. She wanted passion's ride to be familiar and safe.

  But it wasn't. It wasn't.

  It couldn't be because they weren't the same people they'd been then. She wasn't even the same woman who'd flown into Pensa
cola Airport only a few days before. Instead, she was a woman who swam naked in the ocean and seduced-however poorly-the man she used to love.

  In early years, sex had been hot, frequent, and joyous. But not lingered over. There'd been no time, between the demands of children, Tell's job, and Rags' quest for a perfect family life. Oral sex had been foreplay, a little bit wicked and never fully explored. They had nearly always reached completion together, fully satisfied and immensely pleased with themselves for accomplishing such a feat.

  But there would be no together this time. A part of her protested. "Tell-"

  He didn't lift his lips from what they were doing, and when he spoke against her skin, the shudders of delight increased. "Let it go, old lady. Let it go."

  "But-"

  It was too late for "buts." She did not so much let it go as have it erupt from her in undulating splendor. Wave after wave of sensation washed over her in tender assault.

  A few minutes later, Tell moved up beside her, scooping her limp body into his arms.

  She looked up into his face and answered the question she read there. "Never."

  "Not even once?" He grinned at her, pushing the damp hair away from her face.

  "No, it's never been like that before. Not even for you and me and God knows-" she stopped. Tell didn't need to know that sex had never been as good with anyone else. That was her problem, not his. "But you didn't-"

  "Yet," he said.

  "Oh, well," she said. "I guess one good turn deserves another."

  ~*~

  Tell had not been with an endless array of women over the past eleven years, but several had come into his life. While none of them had been one-night-stands, neither had the relationships lasted long enough to give justice to the word. Most of the women had been a little younger than his ex-wife, slimmer, and much more worldly wise. They'd been, without exception, more experienced, more "awakened" than she was. They'd been beautiful in ways she was not, with each hair in its proper place and their makeup unscathed by the demands of the day. Their designer clothing had been sources of pleasure to them, not instruments of torture.

  He'd met them in the course of business and they'd been intelligent, independent, and emotionally undemanding. He'd occasionally seen in their eyes and heard in their voices the wish to have it all. They'd looked longingly at babies in strollers and been surprisingly interested in houses. But none of them had expected him to be the supplier of anything but the most basic of their needs.

  They had never, he admitted now, giving himself over to Rags' tentative ministrations, been enough. He'd accepted what they offered without demanding more, and they had responded in kind. None of them had ever made him angry enough to chew nails or happy enough to throw caution aside and just enjoy the moment.

  And, oh Lord, he was enjoying this moment. If he enjoyed it any more, it would get downright embarrassing really fast.

  "Rags." His voice sounded as though it were coming from a tunnel. "Come here, old lady."

  Her body, soft-skinned and glowing silver-gold in the moonlight, moved slowly up his, mapping a path with her hands that she followed with her mouth. "Ah, don't," he breathed, praying she wouldn't obey him.

  She didn't.

  As he lowered himself within the welcoming curve of her, he met her eyes in the dim glow from the windows. And hesitated. Was this wrong for them? Would they wake with regrets?

  "Are you sure?" he said, because he wasn't.

  "Make love with me, Tell." Her voice was as velvet as the night. "I want to feel alive the way I can only with you."

  Uncertainty fled, and he slipped into her. How different it felt with her than with anyone else. Different even than he remembered it from their years together. It was as though he'd left home and come back to find the house painted a different color, the furniture replaced, and the glasses moved from the cupboard nearest the sink.

  It was different, but it was still coming home.

  Chapter Seven

  As the ex-daughter-in-law, Rags would be able to distance herself from the social event that was Harlan's funeral. But her children would have to dress well, say the right things, and be present for the long hours of food, drink, and solemnity following the services. The boys would have to smile proudly when Harlan's associates pronounced them "chips off the old block" and Marley would have to field questions about when she was getting married.

  Tell would be the respectful and dutiful son. It would be as though the man who'd held Rags in his arms last night and thrilled her to the depths of her soul had never existed.

  She thought, as she stepped into the skirt of a linen suit before the funeral, that she'd be able to mingle for a half hour or so and then slip unnoticed into the kitchen. Surrounded by her friends, Ellis Ann wouldn't need her erstwhile daughter-in-law. Flanked by the children, Tell wouldn't need his ex-wife. They could go through this hazardous family duty called a wake without her services. Rags could kick her high heels under the table and help the caterers refill the trays of food and glasses as they came empty to the kitchen. She could load the daily consumption of towels into the washer and drink greedily of coffee instead of the wine that made its rounds in the living room.

  It didn't work out that way. Ellis Ann kept beckoning and saying, "Come here a minute, dear," and Rags would work her way through the room, casting a longing gaze toward the doorway. Ellis Ann would take her arm, leaning on her slightly, and introduce her to cronies as "my Yankee daughter-in-law. Isn't she lovely?"

  Joyce gave her an evil look from behind a potted orange tree and said grimly, "If I'm staying here, you are, too. I'm just the doctor who let him die, for God's sake."

  Abby left Ben's side and came to Rags'. "I'm a southerner," she said, "but not this southern. Someone asked me if I was related to the Nightingales of Atlanta."

  "I thought she was talking about a choral group," Marley murmured from Rags' other side. "You must have kept us up north too long, Mama."

  "If you two make me laugh, we'll all be thrown out in disgrace." Rags spoke without looking at either of them.

  "Promise?" said Marley. She looked around at the crowd of well-dressed people. "I just can't believe this many people liked Grandpa."

  "They may not have, but they like your grandmother." Rags' eyes sought Tell's. "And your father."

  The look in his ocean blue eyes seemed to embrace her, much as he had the night before, with every little fiber that made up Telluride Maguire.

  "Mingle, girls. You're doing wonderfully." With a smile and waist-squeezes for the girls, Rags skirted the crowd until she reached Tell. "Doing okay?"

  "I'm ready for a break," he admitted. "Want to sneak out with me?"

  His arm was around her, the expression in his eyes still a caress. She would have gone anywhere with him.

  They escaped only as far as the breakfast room, where they sat and drank coffee, their hands together on the tabletop. Rags looked down at where his fingers clasped hers loosely. "Isn't it odd," she said, "that we never held hands when we were young?"

  "Our hands were always full," he said. "When we met, we were busy with VISTA. When we were going together, we wanted privacy, not to put our relationship on display. When we were married, we had kids and briefcases between us." He tightened his hold. "Do you mind doing it now?"

  "Not at all."

  During the remainder of the afternoon, Rags stayed at his side. She didn't miss the speculative gleam that lit her children's eyes, but she didn't take time to think about it, either.

  The day finally ended when Tell paid the caterers and closed the back door behind them.

  Ellis Ann moved among her grandchildren and Abby, kissing them indiscriminately. "Thank you, my dears. I was so very proud of all of you."

  Ben had officiated at his grandfather's funeral, Joe and Micah had been pallbearers, Marley and Abby had greeted people at the doors.

  Tell had been proud of them, too.

  He looked around at his family. The girls had already got
ten rid of their shoes, Ben his clerical collar, Micah and Joe their ties. Ellis Ann was just the slightest bit tipsy. Sam and Joyce stood near the French doors, their arms around each other. Rags had run her hands through her hair so many times it was standing on end the way it did when she first got up in the morning.

  Something should be missing, Tell thought. He reached for his father's presence and couldn't find it, searched for a sense of loss and realized there wasn't one. Tell's life was in this room. All of it.

  The house would begin to empty all too soon. The twins would return to college, Ben and Abby to their lives in North Carolina. Ellis Ann was eager to get back to Glory Ridge Highway.

  He didn't allow himself to consider Joe and Rags. Joe's habit of disappearing for months at a time didn't bear thinking about in light of the seriousness of his illness.

  And Rags.

  Could he let her go again?

  Did she want to go again?

  ~*~

  It was past midnight when Rags carried a glass of wine to the deck. She stood still, reveling in the dearth of human voices. She closed her eyes and allowed the sound of the crashing waves to both soothe and revitalize her.

  In that peaceful time and place, it was possible to grieve. Not really for Harlan, but for Ellis Ann who had loved him through everything.

  Rags could not imagine a world without Tell in it. Even though she hadn't loved him in years, she'd always felt safety in the knowledge her children had a good father. She'd always been glad Tell Maguire was alive and well.

  ~*~

  The house was at rest, its inhabitants so exhausted their goodnights had been little more than hands flapped as bedroom doors closed. None of the children had bellowed, "'Night, John-Boy," or "Are we goin' huntin' tomorrow, Pa?" as they ascended the stairs. Ellis Ann had not cautioned him to "be sure and lock up tight now."

  Sam had gone home with Joyce, and Tell missed his friend's steady presence. He would have liked to have talked to someone about Harlan, and Sam had seen the old man at both his best and his worst.

  The day had been long and difficult, but the kids had been troopers. He was so glad they were there.