Mother,” Clay said, patting her hand. “Really it is.” He kissed her temple. “You start packing. I’ll go down to the levee and see about booking passage on a southbound steamer.”
Nodding, she said hopefully, “There’s still Professor McDaniels. He’ll help you all he can. I know he will. Maybe there’s still hope, maybe there’s some way you can get into the academy.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said, heartsick, knowing it would take nothing short of a miracle to realize his long-cherished dream now.
Fortunately Mary Ellen, Clay’s other “long-cherished dream,” made it easier to bear his anguish over the lost opportunity for an appointment to the academy. Mary Ellen kissed away the hurt and sympathized and swore she believed that where there was a will, there was always a way. He’d get his appointment. She knew he would. Why, wouldn’t Professor McDaniels do everything he could to help? Write letters on Clay’s behalf and assure the academy that Clay made the highest marks of anyone in school?
“You’ll still get go to the academy,” she told Clay confidently. “I just know you will. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t. Not when you want it above all else.”
“You are what I want above all else,” Clay corrected her. “I can stand it if I don’t get to go to Annapolis, so long as I have you.”
And it was true.
When Mary was in his arms, nothing else mattered much. And she was in his arms often during that long, sultry summer.
After their initial intimacy, Clay and Mary Ellen could hardly keep their hands off each other. They employed every possible excuse to be alone. And the moment they were alone, they sought the privacy of their secret river cove or the deep dense woods or an old abandoned building. Anywhere they could safely be together. They made love at every possible opportunity, day or night, unable to get enough of each other.
It was the most wonderful summer of their lives.
Even the torture of not being able to touch, to kiss, when in the company of others was strangely enjoyable, exciting for them both. Mary Ellen found it incredibly stirring to steal glances at Clay as he sat in the front parlor of Longwood or at the dining table, talking, making conversation with her parents. Ever polite, he answered her father’s many questions about school and his work at the cotton mill. When John Thomas mentioned—and it was not the first time—the possibility of Clay attending the Naval Academy, Clay again confessed that with his grandfather’s death he had little chance of gaining an appointment to Annapolis. Purposely, Clay paid Mary Ellen little or no attention.
More than one leisurely evening meal in the candlelit dining room, Mary Ellen watched as Clay’s tanned fingers curled caressingly around a crystal tumbler of iced tea and felt a delicious thrill surge through her. His beautiful, artistic hands would be caressing her before the evening ended.
Clay’s thoughts were even more dangerous, more immodest, than Mary Ellen’s. For that reason he focused on her as infrequently as possible. At times just the sight of her across the dining table, or seated primly on a beige-and-white-striped sofa in the parlor, was enough to conjure up shameful erotic visions. He couldn’t forget for a second what she looked like, felt like, beneath her pastel summer dresses. And he could hardly wait to undress her again, didn’t think he could stand it if he couldn’t make love to her within the hour.
The sexual heat between them was so intense, they knew they had to be extra careful. It was imperative that they behave discreetly at all times.
Not only were they too young to consider marriage, Clay was not yet able to provide for a wife. He cautioned Mary that they would have to wait if they were to have any hope of gaining John Thomas Preble’s blessing.
Mary Ellen agreed. But she was certain it was only their ages that would keep her father from saying yes immediately. Clay was
Nodding, she said hopefully, “There’s still Professor McDaniels. He’ll help you all he can. I know he will. Maybe there’s still hope, maybe there’s some way you can get into the academy.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said, heartsick, knowing it would take nothing short of a miracle to realize his long-cherished dream now.
Fortunately Mary Ellen, Clay’s other “long-cherished dream,” made it easier to bear his anguish over the lost opportunity for an appointment to the academy. Mary Ellen kissed away the hurt and sympathized and swore she believed that where there was a will, there was always a way. He’d get his appointment. She knew he would. Why, wouldn’t Professor McDaniels do everything he could to help? Write letters on Clay’s behalf and assure the academy that Clay made the highest marks of anyone in school?
“You’ll still get go to the academy,” she told Clay confidently. “I just know you will. It wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t. Not when you want it above all else.”
“You are what I want above all else,” Clay corrected her. “I can stand it if I don’t get to go to Annapolis, so long as I have you.”
And it was true.
When Mary was in his arms, nothing else mattered much. And she was in his arms often during that long, sultry summer.
After their initial intimacy, Clay and Mary Ellen could hardly keep their hands off each other. They employed every possible excuse to be alone. And the moment they were alone, they sought the privacy of their secret river cove or the deep dense woods or an old abandoned building. Anywhere they could safely be together. They made love at every possible opportunity, day or night, unable to get enough of each other.
It was the most wonderful summer of their lives.
Even the torture of not being able to touch, to kiss, when in the company of others was strangely enjoyable, exciting for them both. Mary Ellen found it incredibly stirring to steal glances at Clay as he sat in the front parlor of Longwood or at the dining table, talking, making conversation with her parents. Ever polite, he answered her father’s many questions about school and his work at the cotton mill. When John Thomas mentioned—and it was not the first time—the possibility of Clay attending the Naval Academy, Clay again confessed that with his grandfather’s death he had little chance of gaining an appointment to Annapolis. Purposely, Clay paid Mary Ellen little or no attention.
More than one leisurely evening meal in the candlelit dining room, Mary Ellen watched as Clay’s tanned fingers curled caressingly around a crystal tumbler of iced tea and felt a delicious thrill surge through her. His beautiful, artistic hands would be caressing her before the evening ended.
Clay’s thoughts were even more dangerous, more immodest, than Mary Ellen’s. For that reason he focused on her as infrequently as possible. At times just the sight of her across the dining table, or seated primly on a beige-and-white-striped sofa in the parlor, was enough to conjure up shameful erotic visions. He couldn’t forget for a second what she looked like, felt like, beneath her pastel summer dresses. And he could hardly wait to undress her again, didn’t think he could stand it if he couldn’t make love to her within the hour.
The sexual heat between them was so intense, they knew they had to be extra careful. It was imperative that they behave discreetly at all times.
Not only were they too young to consider marriage, Clay was not yet able to provide for a wife. He cautioned Mary that they would have to wait if they were to have any hope of gaining John Thomas Preble’s blessing.
Mary Ellen agreed. But she was certain it was only their ages that would keep her father from saying yes immediately. Clay was
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