the fields with his father in a kind of swagger that came from owning the land your feet landed on.
The eyes, she thought. She might have placed the eyes. That deep summer blue, like Hope’s. The sun had left its mark there as well with faint lines etched into the corners. The kind, she thought, that brought men character and women despair.
Those eyes watched her now, with a kind of lazy patience that might have embarrassed her if her pulse had been level.
“It’s been a long time” was the best she could do.
“About half my life.” He didn’t offer his hand. Instinct told him she’d only jolt and embarrass both of them. She looked ready to jump, or collapse. Neither would suit him. Instead he tucked his thumbs casually in the front pockets of his jeans.
“Why don’t you come on out on the front porch and sit down? It appears that old rocker’s the only chair we’ve got right now.”
“I’m fine. I’m all right.”
White as death was what she was, with those soft gray eyes, which had always fascinated him, still wide and bright. Growing up in a household largely dominated by women had taught him how to get around female pride and sulks with the least fuss and energy. He simply turned back, pushed open the screen.
“Stuffy in here,” he said, and stepped out, keeping the door wide and banking on manners, nudging her to follow.
Left with little choice, she crossed the room, walked out onto the porch. He caught the faintest drift of her scent and thought of the jasmine that preferred to bloom at night, almost in secret, in his mother’s garden.
“Must be an experience.” He touched her now, lightly, to guide her to the chair. “Coming back here.”
She didn’t jump, but she did edge away in a small but deliberate motion. “I needed a place to live, and wanted to settle in quickly.” Her stomach muscles refused to loosen up again. She didn’t like talking to men this way. You never knew, not for certain, what was under the easy words and easy smiles.
“You’ve been living in Charleston awhile. Life’s a lot quieter here.”
“I want quiet.”
He leaned back against the rail. There was an edge here, he mused. However delicate she looked, there was an edge, like a raw nerve ready to scream. Odd, he realized, it was just what he remembered most about her.
Her delicacy, like the business end of a scalpel.
“There’s a lot of talk about your store.”
“That’s good.” She smiled, just the faintest curve of lips, but her eyes remained serious and watchful. “Talk means curiosity, and curiosity will bring people through the door.”
“Did you run a store in Charleston?”
“I managed one. Owning’s different.”
“So it is.” Beaux Reves was his now, and owning was indeed different. He glanced behind him, out to the fields where seedlings and sprouts reached for the sun. “How does it look to you, Tory? After all this time and distance?”
“The same.” She didn’t look at the fields, but at him. “And not at all the same.”
“I was thinking that about you. You grew up.” He looked back at her, watched her fingers curl on the arms of the chair as if to steady herself. “Grew into your eyes. You always had a woman’s eyes. When I was twelve, they spooked me.”
It took the will, and the pride she’d carved into herself, to keep her gaze level. “When you were twelve, you were too busy running wild with my cousin Wade and Dwight the—Dwight Frazier, to pay any notice of me.”
“You’re wrong about that. When I was twelve,” he said slowly, “there was a space of time I noticed everything about you. I still carry that picture of you inside my head. Why don’t we stop pretending she’s not standing right here between us?”
Tory rose in a jerk, walked to the far end of the porch and stood, arms crossed over her chest, to stare out at the fields.
“We both loved her,” Cade said. “We both lost her. And neither of us has forgotten her.”
The weight
The eyes, she thought. She might have placed the eyes. That deep summer blue, like Hope’s. The sun had left its mark there as well with faint lines etched into the corners. The kind, she thought, that brought men character and women despair.
Those eyes watched her now, with a kind of lazy patience that might have embarrassed her if her pulse had been level.
“It’s been a long time” was the best she could do.
“About half my life.” He didn’t offer his hand. Instinct told him she’d only jolt and embarrass both of them. She looked ready to jump, or collapse. Neither would suit him. Instead he tucked his thumbs casually in the front pockets of his jeans.
“Why don’t you come on out on the front porch and sit down? It appears that old rocker’s the only chair we’ve got right now.”
“I’m fine. I’m all right.”
White as death was what she was, with those soft gray eyes, which had always fascinated him, still wide and bright. Growing up in a household largely dominated by women had taught him how to get around female pride and sulks with the least fuss and energy. He simply turned back, pushed open the screen.
“Stuffy in here,” he said, and stepped out, keeping the door wide and banking on manners, nudging her to follow.
Left with little choice, she crossed the room, walked out onto the porch. He caught the faintest drift of her scent and thought of the jasmine that preferred to bloom at night, almost in secret, in his mother’s garden.
“Must be an experience.” He touched her now, lightly, to guide her to the chair. “Coming back here.”
She didn’t jump, but she did edge away in a small but deliberate motion. “I needed a place to live, and wanted to settle in quickly.” Her stomach muscles refused to loosen up again. She didn’t like talking to men this way. You never knew, not for certain, what was under the easy words and easy smiles.
“You’ve been living in Charleston awhile. Life’s a lot quieter here.”
“I want quiet.”
He leaned back against the rail. There was an edge here, he mused. However delicate she looked, there was an edge, like a raw nerve ready to scream. Odd, he realized, it was just what he remembered most about her.
Her delicacy, like the business end of a scalpel.
“There’s a lot of talk about your store.”
“That’s good.” She smiled, just the faintest curve of lips, but her eyes remained serious and watchful. “Talk means curiosity, and curiosity will bring people through the door.”
“Did you run a store in Charleston?”
“I managed one. Owning’s different.”
“So it is.” Beaux Reves was his now, and owning was indeed different. He glanced behind him, out to the fields where seedlings and sprouts reached for the sun. “How does it look to you, Tory? After all this time and distance?”
“The same.” She didn’t look at the fields, but at him. “And not at all the same.”
“I was thinking that about you. You grew up.” He looked back at her, watched her fingers curl on the arms of the chair as if to steady herself. “Grew into your eyes. You always had a woman’s eyes. When I was twelve, they spooked me.”
It took the will, and the pride she’d carved into herself, to keep her gaze level. “When you were twelve, you were too busy running wild with my cousin Wade and Dwight the—Dwight Frazier, to pay any notice of me.”
“You’re wrong about that. When I was twelve,” he said slowly, “there was a space of time I noticed everything about you. I still carry that picture of you inside my head. Why don’t we stop pretending she’s not standing right here between us?”
Tory rose in a jerk, walked to the far end of the porch and stood, arms crossed over her chest, to stare out at the fields.
“We both loved her,” Cade said. “We both lost her. And neither of us has forgotten her.”
The weight
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