JEZEBEL'S BLUES Read online

  Eric leaned on the porch rail, grinning, and even that small act pleased him, because for the first time, the cut on his lip didn’t split and bleed.

  With a small, warm jolt he realized all the tight muscles in his shoulders had eased. His chest, so full of hollow worry the past week, felt normal. Even the morning seemed full of hope.

  He would know if Laura were dead. He would just know. In the serenity of the gentle morning, he knew she was alive—not where she was or why she’d left her safe house here in the woods, but he’d find that out.

  Yesterday he’d called every hospital and doctor’s office and sheriff’s office in the three-county stretch of the flood, and no one had seen anybody even faintly resembling his sister. The only thing he could do now was wait.

  And in front of him stretched a fine summer day with nothing to do. He smiled and thought of a little spot on the river.

  * * *

  His supplies had been depleted with the storm, and worry over Laura had kept him from replacing them. Eric walked the mile into town, fishing pole slung over his shoulder, his empty backpack in his hand. As he walked, he found himself whistling in good humor.

  Even the old buildings of Gideon’s six-block downtown looked good to him. He stopped at the Piggly Wiggly to buy some apples and hot dogs, Oreos and soda. The girl behind the counter smiled shyly at him, and Eric found himself flirting easily, chuckling to himself at the blush on her teenage cheeks.

  A woman pushed her cart into his legs, gently but insistently. “Eric Putman, you incorrigible flirt, leave that poor girl alone and let me get my groceries.”

  Eric turned with a laugh to see Mrs. Greer, who’d been his Sunday school teacher for more years than he could count. He chuckled. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” he said.

  She pushed at her basket again, backing him up out of the way. “You always were too good-lookin’. Now you think because you went out and got yourself famous, the girls will all swoon for you.”

  Eric laughed, holding up a palm in defense.” I swear, I wasn’t doing anything!”

  “When are you gonna settle down and get married anyway?” she asked with a hand on her hip. “We need some more Putman children to liven up this old town.”

  He winked at the cashier and gave her a bill to pay for his small cache of food. “Well, Miz Greer,” he drawled, “you’re already married, and this pretty lady’s got a big old diamond on her finger, so I guess I’m out of luck.”

  Mrs. Greer shook her head with a smile. “I’d sure like to see you hang around here, honey. Gideon needs its young.”

  He gave her a mock bow. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “You do that.” She plopped a bag of oranges onto the conveyor belt. “You have any more records coming out that I should know about?”

  He paused. She knew as well as anyone else in town that he wasn’t making music these days, but she never said anything without a reason. His mouth came up with an answer his head knew nothing about. “I’ve been working on a few things,” his mouth said, and his eye winked. “I’ll let you know.”

  Mrs. Greer nodded. As Eric pushed out the door, he heard the cashier whisper loudly, “That was Eric Putman? Oh, my God! My fiancé’s gonna go crazy when he hears.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Eric smiled to himself, feeling the same heady thrill he always felt when somebody he had never seen or spoken to knew about his work. Mainly what he felt was amazed. Delighted. How could anybody help it? Here in Gideon, it always meant that much more because it was vindication, not only for himself, but for his mother and his sister. Maybe even his unknown father.

  He strolled past the diner and the hardware store and the drugstore, remembering little trips to each as a child, to spend money he earned mowing lawns. With a quirk of his lips, he realized there were things about Gideon he missed—not all the time, not with all of his heart and soul, but with a kind of sad aching that struck him at odd times. He knew every square inch of the land here, knew the rhythms of the way people walked and where to find what.

  He knew the names of the people who stopped to chat with him politely. He knew who’d be behind the counter pouring coffee in the diner, who would sell him nails in the hardware store. He knew that when he stepped into the bait shop, Joe Terrell with his bald head and impressive paunch would be dressed in a striped work shirt and plain blue cotton pants that slipped down too far.

  And when it was Joe Terrell in the shop, balder and paunchier than ever, Eric grinned. “Hey, Joe.”

  “Why, hello there, Eric.” Joe straightened and tugged at the waistband of his pants. “How the hell are you, boy?”

  “Not bad.” He nodded. “Be a lot better when I can get my line in the water.”

  Joe pursed his lips and gathered the supplies Eric wanted—worms and hooks. Eric paid and wandered out again, replete with his plans for the day.

  And there across the street was Celia, nibbling a doughnut as she admired a fall of cloth in a window. Her fine hair glittered around her face in the early sunshine. She wore a tank top over jean shorts that left her long, long legs bare, and he was surprised to note that she showed signs of tanning, rather than sporting the burn he’d imagine the sun would give her.

  It was almost as if he’d been expecting to meet her out in the street. As he admired her slim, graceful body, he realized it had been the time spent with Celia in his arms last night that had given him this new optimism. It had been the comfort of her mouth on his that had eased him enough to sleep well for the first time since finding Laura’s house empty. It had been talking and talking and talking that had eased his hollow heart.

  And in spite of pushing her away last night, he couldn’t resist crossing the street this morning. He came up behind her. “Hey, sugar,” he said close to her ear.

  Her gaze met his in the reflection caught by the plate-glass window, then she turned, her gray eyes shimmering like river water at twilight. “Hi,” she said openly.

  He grinned. “What’re you doing out so early this morning?”

  “Escaping,” she replied with a smile. “That attic is like a sauna.” She bit into her doughnut with obvious pleasure and chewed it slowly. “And I’m so sick of cleaning, I just couldn’t face another day of it.”

  So pretty, he thought, staring into her wide eyes. He wanted to kiss her right there in the street, but he didn’t. “I’m running away, too. You like to fish?”

  She frowned. “I doubt it. Don’t you have to stab a worm to death to catch a fish?”

  He laughed and felt the sound move through his chest like a miracle, breaking up the last lingering traces of worry. “Yep,” he said. “But you also get to sit on the side of the river and eat and watch the birds and listen to Jezebel sing.”

  “Hmm.” Celia smiled, and he could see that she was waiting.

  “Come on,” he said, and surprised himself by taking her hand. It was small and cool against his own and a fleeting memory of her massaging his aching hands in the middle of the night crossed his mind. “Let me show you my Gideon,” he coaxed.

  She nodded. “I hope you have the food. All I’ve got is two more doughnuts, and that won’t be enough.”

  “I’ll feed you,” he promised, then bumped her teasingly with his shoulder. “For a little thing, you sure can eat.”

  “I know. Can’t help it.” She licked her finger cheerfully. “I’m sure I’ll be a round old woman, just like my grandmother.”

  “You don’t care?”

  She smiled. “No. There are much worse things than being a soft pillow for grandchildren.”

  “So you plan on having children, do you?”

  “Yes—many, so that they have lots of brothers and sisters, and then—” she smiled up at him with a touch of whimsy “—I’ll have about thirty grandchildren running around.”

  It was a peaceful, old-fashioned fantasy, and Eric was oddly touched. He gave her a sideways smile. “If those brownies are any indication, you’ll be good at it.”
/>   Her silvery eyes met his steadily. “I know.” As if there was some magic that sprung from those fey eyes, he felt a silver ribbon spiral through him, bringing to life long-dead cells and byways, and blowing a cleansing wind through his dusty mind. For one tiny instant, he thought of her swelled big with his child.

  His feet had slowed on the sidewalk as he stared into her face, alive with dreams he’d never ever entertained.

  He grinned. “Come on. Fish’ll be gone if we don’t get down there.”

  * * *

  It was a glorious day, Celia thought later, stretched out sleepily on a blanket in the grass by the river. She would never have dared explore Jezebel on her own, but with Eric along, pointing out paths and steering her around pitfalls, she felt safe. There were still more bugs flying and crawling and buzzing around than she’d ever dreamed existed, but Eric knew all their names and told her which ones to worry about. Mud daubers were big, black flying bugs that really hurt when they stung, but they didn’t sting very often. Tics were tiny black or brown bugs with hard shells and they didn’t hurt, but if you spent time outside, you had to remember to check yourself over for them. The rest were ordinary and irritating, but not dangerous—mosquitoes and horseflies and ants. It somehow made the environment seem less threatening to know what was what.

  Twice Celia saw snakes glide by in the water, slipping into stands of cattails. A snapping turtle once grabbed Eric’s line, getting a hook stuck in his lip. Eric, cursing, freed the creature and moved a few feet upriver to avoid him.

  Eric. She crossed her arms on her knees and propped her chin on her wrists, looking at him. This Eric, with his dancing eyes and quick grin and teasing asides, had been glimmering below the surface since she’d met him, but this was the first time he’d allowed that side of him to show.

  He stood at the edge of the river, shirtless and barefoot, which seemed to be the mode of dress he preferred. As she admired the taut lines of his smooth back, she remembered how sleek that burnished flesh had been against her palms last night.

  As if he felt her gaze, he turned and gave her a wink. “Getting bored?”

  She simply shook her head. It was as natural to admire him in the sleepy heat of high noon as it was to slip off her shoes in the evenings.

  He smiled and propped his fishing pole beneath two rocks, then ambled over to sit beside her. The warmth of his sculpted arm radiated outward to touch her, and she lazily smiled.

  All day she’d been waiting. Waiting for him to reach out to kiss her, touch her. Something.

  He’d held her hand, nudged her with his elbow, squeezed her shoulder. Nothing more.

  Now he plucked a long strand of grass with a bushy end and leaning on one elbow, reached up to tickle her nose with it. “How do you like my Gideon?”

  “I like it,” she said, brushing the grass away. “It’s so peaceful you can cut it with a knife.”

  “Knives aren’t very peaceful,” he said with a chuckle.

  As he looked at her, his blue eyes sparkled with something akin to happiness. “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He dropped the blade of grass and fell backward onto the blanket, grabbing her hand.

  Celia leaned over him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually happy right at this moment.”

  He opened his eyes and lifted a devilish eyebrow. “I’ve got another word for it,” he drawled.

  She tilted her chin upward. “No, you don’t. It’s just been so long you forgot what to call it.”

  Slowly, he licked his full bottom lip, his eyes dancing. “Randy is the word I was thinking of.”

  Celia smiled, and that, too, was natural. She felt as though she’d known him always, since birth. It was that easy to be with him. All day he’d talked to her about Gideon and his time on the road. He’d told her stories about getting caught in a biker bar once in Chicago and talking to the wrong woman; about tripping and falling off a stage in New Orleans, right into the lap of a fat woman who instantly grabbed him; about his sister finding a tutu she wore around the house for months when she was nine. He made Celia laugh until her cheeks hurt from smiling.

  In turn, she told him about her parents accidentally leaving her behind in a Brussels train station; about the time her mother decked a photographer in a Milan restaurant; about girls in boarding school.

  So now it was easy to lean close and put a hand on his chest. “Randy?” she repeated. “Unless I’ve got my slang mixed up, that means, er, lusty?”

  Still grinning, he nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” she asked, and since he didn’t seem like he’d mind and she was tired of waiting, she kissed him. It was gentle and warm, and she released him after a moment.

  His mouth had softened with her kiss, but the gentle shine didn’t flee from his eyes. Instead he lifted one hand and touched her cheek. “Maybe it is just happy,” he said in his low, dark voice.

  Celia took one big hand into both of hers. With a light touch, she explored the long graceful lines, admiring the strength and size and elegance of a hand designed to create. The thready scars, white against the darkness of his flesh, seemed a sacrilege—and all at once she knew they also held the key to the loneliness that clung to him like perfume. “What happened to your hands, Eric?”

  He pursed his lips. His eyes sobered and Celia knew she’d hit the mark. With a small, slow sigh, he lifted his free hand, examining it as if it belonged to someone else. “I used to play guitar,” he said quietly. “I miss it so much sometimes…” His voice trailed off as he flexed his fingers.

  Celia inclined her head, waiting. She’d learned that his stories came out slowly, in their own way, end to beginning as often as beginning to end.

  He sat up. “I left home when I was sixteen. Laura had gone to Dallas for cosmetology school, and I didn’t want to hang around here without her, so I took my guitar and my harp and hitchhiked to New Orleans.” He picked up a stick that he used to draw in the dirt at his feet. “It took some time, but I really did make a name for myself out there with my songs.”

  The story rumbled out in his ragged, dark voice. He spoke quietly, but even the insects seemed to have gone silent to hear.

  “About five years ago, I came back to Gideon for a visit and somehow or another when I left, I had a woman with me. Her name was Retta Neely, and her family was the only one in town with a worse reputation than my own. I guess I felt sorry for her.”

  He cleared his throat and looked at Celia. “That’s a lie.” A faint gleam of sardonic amusement twisted his lips. “She was the kind of woman I thought I wanted at the time. Fast and sexy and wild.”

  Celia tried to swallow a smile, but before she wiped it completely away, he caught it. “If you laugh at me, Celia Moon, all they’ll find left of you is little pieces in the woods.”

  She laughed outright, then at his expression of utter bewilderment, she smoothed the corners of her lips with her fingers. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “It’s a sad story, Celia.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  A glimmer of amusement sparked in his dark blue eyes, and he smacked her ankle lightly. “Hush now.”

  Celia nodded and tucked her tongue over her teeth to sober herself.

  ’Anyway,” he said pointedly, “we were okay for a couple of years. Sometimes she drank too much and got pretty crazy, but I understood that she just didn’t know that she had anything.” He frowned, then glanced at Celia, looking for understanding. “All she thought she had was her body, you know? She didn’t know she …”

  He shook his head. “Anyway. The drinking got a little worse and little worse, and nothing I did or said made her feel any better.”

  Celia thought of her mother. “I know people like that.”

  He glanced at her and a light dawned in his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  She raised her eyebrows but didn’t speak.

  “Well,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I didn’t know it
at the time, but she started having an affair or whatever you want to call it with one of the guys in the band. I didn’t find out until it’d been going on for about six or eight months.

  “We were playing a club in Charlotte for a couple of weeks. It was big deal, a lot of money and exposure. And the longer we were there, the worse Retta got. One night while I was playing, she started booing us.”

  Celia winced.

  “Yeah.” Eric inclined his head. “It was pretty bad. A bouncer finally got her outside, but she was waiting in the alley when we came out. She was so drunk she could hardly stand up, and she started yelling at me and this other guy, the one she’d been sleeping with.”

  Eric rubbed his face. “Why am I telling you this?”

  “Because I asked.”

  He jumped up, crossed to his fishing pole and adjusted it minutely, then turned around, his hands on his hips. For a moment Celia didn’t know if he would go on. He looked at her hard, then returned to her side.

  “I lost it—just finally lost it. I’d felt sorry for her and tried to help her as much as I could, but she was so nasty that night. I just lost my temper.” He paused, staring off over the river. “I loaded her in the car. She was screaming filthy words at me and the band, acting the fool. I told her if she wanted to be a fool, she could do it at home in Gideon where I didn’t have to put up with it. I was going to drive her to the airport.”

  Celia reached for his hand and pressed it between her own. A shimmer of sunlight glossed his black hair as he bent his head.

  “It was raining, the middle of the night—I was furious with Retta, but nothing like she was at me. It was crazy. The whole time I drove, she screamed and slapped me, scratched my face—” He broke off, and his jaw went rigid. “I hated her, Celia. I stomped on the gas pedal, trying to make her shut up.” He swallowed, and when he resumed speaking, his tone of voice was flat and hard. “I lost control of the car. We slammed into a tree going about ninety. I went through the windshield. Retta didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Eric,” she said softly.

  “No.” He tugged his hand from Celia’s and stood up. “You haven’t heard the worst of it. When I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t even care that she was dead. All I cared about was my hands and if I could play guitar.”