chapter 15
Tuesday, September 4
Rebecca began one of her weekly tasks of tending the Society hall’s garden at the side courtyard bordering 33rd Street.
The day had started with scheduled predictability, yet as the early morning haze gave way to the brilliance of afternoon she felt the torrid sun making her blood race faster with each passing minute.
Uncle Cade and Edward were visiting Society members on the outskirts of Galveston today and were not expected home until after dinner at the earliest. Before leaving, her uncle had instructed her to go about her morning duties and remain at work until she received her guest.
Rebecca clipped a worm-eaten rose into her basket. She stared at the spoiled and ravaged petals. Was she allowing her life to be torn from her in small pieces by a place and a vocation that didn’t represent her true desires or gifts?
She had agreed to everything her uncle said and was less surprised at the absence of any compulsion to either oppose or indulge his vengeful intentions than by the fact that since meeting Bret McGowan everything in her life was now colored by risk and exhilaration like an undercurrent of a perceptible fever.
Rebecca continued pruning the rosebushes. Pausing to remove her straw sun hat, she wiped the sweat from her brow and stared at the spoiled, wasted rose in her basket. She picked up the flower and ground the petals in her glove.
The sound of someone lifting the latch on the wrought-iron garden gate made her turn in that direction.
Bret strode under the overhanging palms, pushing aside an overgrown lilac as he made his way toward her. He removed his hat, exposing his perspiring head to the sun. His beige linen suit was excessively crumpled and visibly damp under the collar as though he had spent the night in it.
Drawing closer to her, his eyes—hard and dark in his unshaven face—confirmed that this was likely true.
She stopped pruning and smiled at him.
He paused, disheveled and anxious, about ten feet away and patted his forehead with a red handkerchief. “Lord, feels like another scorcher. I’m surprised you’re not down at the beach enjoying the waves.”
Rebecca put the gardening shears down on the wicker chair beside her. “In such a short time, you’ve come calling again. Surely, I can’t be that interesting. I’m positive you would find Miss Caldwell much more to your liking.”
“Whatever you’ve heard I can assure you that’s all in the past.” Bret stepped closer and ran the fingers of his hand through his dark hair. “I hope you didn’t ask me to visit to talk about my old friends.”
He snapped a lilac and inhaled its deep aroma. “I can’t forget your voice or that night and the song.” He stood close enough now that he could reach out and take her in his arms if he wanted. “The melody haunts me . . . even in my dreams.”
Rebecca removed her gardening gloves and placed them down beside the shears. “Why would that be?”
“I . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Rebecca. I was hoping you could tell me.” He touched her cheek.
“Do you enjoy taunting me?” Rebecca pushed his hand back and turned away. “I’ve heard that you were once engaged to Miss Caldwell.” She pivoted gracefully around on the soles of her shoes.
“Old stories travel faster than a fresh wind in Galveston,” he said.
“Well? Is there any truth to it?”
“Yes, Miss Caldwell and I were close once but . . .” Bret let out a deep breath, appearing to take time and choose his words carefully. He gently touched her arm. “Circumstances changed and since returning I have been so caught up in my business affairs . . . that is, until I heard you sing.”
“I see. And which circumstances would those be, Bret?” She pushed his hand back. “Our Society has many rich and influential members.” Her breasts rose and fell, her breathing short and fleeting. “Are you trying to court me so that I might introduce you to prospective investors?”
Rebecca turned on her heel and strolled to the opposite corner of the garden. She composed herself, fighting the sensation of being swept by an overwhelming current further and further out from shore into fathomless waters rushing over to claim the only family and security she had ever known.
After a time, Bret’s footsteps followed from behind but she didn’t turn around. His grip was warm and secure on her upper arm. “That’s what I’m trying to say, Rebecca.” He turned her around gently. “While I was away everything changed, and since my return I know Gabrielle has too.”
Rebecca looked up into his tired blue eyes. She imagined his natural cheerfulness and appealing warm color had dulled since his returning to Galveston and the unfortunate circumstance of having to remain on polite social terms with the Caldwells.
“How do you know?” Rebecca asked.
“We always argue when we speak, if we speak at all.” He shook his head. “Occasionally, we still discuss business as it affects our families but the rumors of my misadventures abroad have proceeded my return and proved my undoing with her.”
Rebecca moved closer to him. “You don’t sound sad about that, Bret.”
He smiled. “It’s proper in this town to be intrigued by the scandalous but it’s deemed quite inexcusable to be engaged to the genuine article.” He touched a loose tendril of her long red hair. “I should thank her for saving us both from the sanctified misery of marriage.”
Bret reached for her and she let herself be drawn in by his circling embrace. “So? Are you intrigued, Miss Armstrong?” His manner was enticing, of course, undeniable and forceful, making everything he said and what she wished seem even wilder than she could ever have imagined.
Rebecca tilted her head back to receive his kiss. “Ohh . . . I’m very much beyond that, you can be sure.” He kissed her with passionate delight, letting his lips linger on hers for as long as he wished.
Pausing in their embrace, Rebecca took his hand and pressed it against her breast. Relishing the excitement in his eyes, she laughed and led Bret by the hand toward her imposing stone sanctuary.
Timothy DeRocha stepped around the corner and spotted Bret’s automobile parked in the alley running along the west wall of the Theogenesis building. Exactly where Doctor Hellreich said it would be.
He had also explained where to look in the vehicle: an unlocked compartment similar to a small drawer near the driver’s seat. There was no question in Timothy’s mind that he was doing this for the sake of Gabrielle.
After the doctor had told him the repulsive and sickening story of what occurred, it was clear that Bret McGowan was rapidly degenerating into something vile.
Timothy drew in a long breath. Knowing that, how could he risk that Bret might force himself on Gabrielle in the same depraved way once he deceived her into taking a ride in that damnable vehicle? Who would be there to protect her then?
Wiping the sweat from his cheeks, Timothy surveyed the immediate vicinity to make certain he was alone. Satisfied, he exhaled and strolled casually across the street. I will speak with Weems about it . . . just to be sure.
Rebecca glanced out her third floor bedroom window and watched the sun drop lower over the roofs of 33rd Avenue, its golden haze thickening and turning to gray. The clouds appeared to be hanging off and she was hopeful rain would not reach the city tonight.
She sipped her second glass of wine and stroked Bret’s cheek. Knowing that they would have an hour alone to indulge and gratify their attraction in any way they wished, Rebecca shuddered with the wicked pleasure of having Bret McGowan in her bedroom.
Bret finished his glass and fixed his eyes on her. Rebecca flushed from the heat she felt from being so close to him.
He was her sensuous dream come to life in the hot, masculine flesh and blood of a man she desired like no other. The carnal eagerness of his kisses, the unashamed passion of his touch . . . it aroused in her the quiescent sensuality she had first felt when she sang for him that night.
She let his hands and lips caress her wherever he wished, making sure to hold them in place if they seemed too quick to move on.
“After you left my party,” Bret kissed her neck, “I was afraid I would never see you again.”
Rebecca undid the knot of his striped tie. “My uncle has put my whole life on a schedule. Sometimes I just want to break free, be unpredictable,” she smiled. “Scandalous even.”
She slowly pulled the loose tie through Bret’s turned-down shirt collar. “Everything is always so serious with them.” With a final quick yank, she snapped it off his neck. “I could just scream.”
Bret brought her into his tight embrace again. “So much beauty . . . so much mystery. Who are you really, Miss Armstrong?”
Rebecca turned to him for a long breath and held his intense, unguarded gaze in hers. She let down her long, thick red hair and shook her head to loosen the strands. “Are you only interested in asking the question . . .”
She took Bret’s hand and raised it to her lips. “Or finding out beyond a doubt?” She licked the tips of his fingers, then pressed them down against her breasts. Still holding onto his hand, she turned and led him toward her red and white satin canopy bed.
Rebecca undressed, delighting in Bret’s silent gazes of appreciation and desire as she let her clothes and undergarments fall from her body one by one.
Bret stepped over, picked up her stocking and rubbed the smooth white silk between his fingers. He seemed more lightheaded than she would have expected but Rebecca wanted more than the wine to intoxicate him; she wanted to seal the burning sweet taste of her name on his lips forever.
“Bret? Is something—” Rebecca covered her breasts with one arm and turned away from him. There. She had seen it in his eyes—the glint of guilt, a feeling of uncertainty, as if he had just realized his mistake and was stumbling, lost and helpless in an unfamiliar place.
“Are you sure you want to be with me?” she finally asked. “Or do you want me to—”
“No,” Bret answered, moving close to her. He pulled her close, gently pressing his firm yearning against her. The exquisite torment of the pressure was almost more than she could bear.
Rebecca turned back to face him. A dark color rose in his cheek and she pulled at his arm. “But how do I know you’re not just using me so I’ll help you with your business?”
Bret reached out and stroked her long, red hair. “I see only you, my sweet, there’s nothing and no one else.” He took her by the hand and lay her down on the bed.
“Bret . . . I want you so much, I do, but—”
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“I . . . I can’t chance . . . an accident.”
Bret sat down on the mattress and ran his warm hand over the curve of her slender hip. “If the body and desire are willing, Rebecca,” he kissed the smooth flesh of her waist, “there are ways.” He reached over and massaged the nipple of her breast.”
Rebecca inhaled sharply, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m embarrassed. You’re a free man who knows so much of the world while I’m still fettered and trapped behind these walls.” She pressed his hand against her breast. “I want to experience more, feel more.”
She sat up, her eyes unswerving from his. “Can you take me somewhere different? Away from these dull rooms and dry books, if only for a while?” She turned her face away from him again as though ashamed of the sincerity of her desires.
“The delight of decadence,” he kissed her neck, “can be the most intoxicating elixir. A man can learn to control himself, to pleasure a woman without risking . . . unwanted consequences.” He leaned down and started kissing her back, his lips moving down slowly, one vertebrae at a time, until he reached her tail bone.
“That feels nice,” she whispered.
Bret ran his tongue down the crevice between the perfect cheeks of her buttock.
Rebecca shivered and squirmed down onto the sheets. She sighed as he slid his fingers down, in, out and around the moist curves of her flesh. Rebecca anticipated his desire and offered herself with uninhibited, carnal instinct. Everything about him now exuded a primitive, forbidden sensuality that she wanted to savor.
Relaxed now from the wine, her excitement mounted as he gently searched out her smooth, moist treasure with his finger.
With every stroke, he pressed deeper and deeper.
Rebecca tensed then quivered and relaxed, allowing her herself to flow with the current of their lovemaking. “Slower, Bret,” she moaned. “Mmm . . . yes, like that.”
Bret lay down in front of her on the mattress and formed the contour of his body into hers, releasing the constricted force in his muscles and letting his force surge toward her.
Placing one hand gently on her hip, he guided himself to the secluded entrance of her precious jewel. He reached over and lightly fingered the small tip of her ecstasy, then pushed himself into her slowly.
Rebecca gasped, then relaxed into slow, deep moaning.
Time drifted in erotic waves washing over Bret’s consciousness in a potent mixture of wine and his medicine. Held spellbound by wickedly delicious sensations, every passing second that he breathed in her exhilarating scent compelled him forward.
He wanted to speak, to say something before the echo of Rebecca’s song filled his thoughts once more.
“No . . . slower,” Rebecca urged, “like before.”
Bret only felt the gripping pressure of her thighs—the moist, warm flesh of her luscious center, pulling him in deeper.
“Oh Bret. I . . . I love you.”
There was an intense heat coiled in his groin. It surged through his body, sweeping him away in a dominating wave of power.
Rebecca’s muffled gasps coalesced into the melody of a song sung from fathoms below, seamless and smooth to call him out.
Bret’s mind swirled like a hurricane. Faces, sounds, and smells, every faded remembrance of the past imbued with the inarticulateness of sadness and yearning.
He groaned and gasped, withdrawing from her at the last moment with a final explosion of soul-wrenching release as the white light burst inside his skull.
Drained of all pressure, he loosened his hold on her, letting his arm drape over her perspiring, sighing body.
Rebecca snuggled deeper into the contour of Bret’s hot, sweaty body, pulling the stained white sheet over her body. “Did I do something wrong?” She clasped his hand and kissed it. “Or you don’t find me as desirable as—”
An expression of abandoned shame spread over her features. She dropped his hand and turned away toward the wall, concealing her face in the pillow.
Bret slowly touched her trembling shoulder but she jerked away from his touch. “No, Rebecca. It’s not you or another woman.” He leaned over and kissed the soft inside of her neck. “Please, you must know how beautiful, how desirable you are in my eyes. Perhaps . . . it’s this place.”
He cast his gaze around the plain walls and drab furnishings of the room. “Your uncle’s building . . . it’s made me feel uneasy from the first time I walked in.”
Rebecca turned back from the wall and touched his cheek. “Then next time we’ll be somewhere special, a place where we can be alone and nothing will intrude.” She kissed him sensuously on the lips. “Except our love.”
“I’d . . . I’d like that very much.”
She smiled and wiped the last of the tears from her eyes. “Oh Lord! The time!” Rebecca giggled. “We’ve got to dress and leave. We can’t be here when they return.”
Bret gazed at her averted head, at the generous line of her body under the coverlet; then, neither hasty nor hesitating, he stood and dressed.
The song was over now and his mind was empty of every sound, of everything he thought he was feeling before he walked into this room.
Rebecca savored the late afternoon with her new, handsome lover, arm in arm, strolling down the boardwalk. The balmy Gulf breeze rustled through her pinned-up hair, making her long to let it down again so that Bret might run his fingers through it as he did back in the privacy of her bedroom.
She was unaffected by the judgmental frowns and raised eyebrows of Bret’s acquaintances. Not even the snickers behind her back as they walked away could spoil the joy of each moment her arm rested on his.
They lunched together at a beach café on fresh lobster and seafood salad. Bret ordered a bottle of expensive white wine and raised a glass in her honor.
“To a most beautiful and wonderful woman. Not a fairer one has this city ever seen, nor can she hope to match while breath is drawn from your enchanting red lips.”
Rebecca brought her napkin to her lips and tried to hide the flush she felt tingling up her cheeks. “Bret.” She looked away from him for a moment, feeling she might cry. “It’s you who’s so wonderful. I’m not afraid when I’m with you.”
He took a sip from his glass then placed it down on the coral pink tablecloth. “I’m flattered, Rebecca. But what in the world do you have to be afraid of?”
“Everything can change so quickly . . .” she glanced away “. . . in a flash.” She tried her best to hold back the tears welling in the corner of her eyes. “I would die rather than cause you a moment’s pain, if only I knew that you would forgive me.”
“My dearest love.” Bret raised her hand and kissed it openly in front of all the patrons. “You cause me nothing but the most sincere joy and pleasure. Forgive me, but I don’t understand what—”
“Please, let’s speak no more about it” she insisted, conscious of the flushed heat in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Bret.” she tittered. “Sometimes a woman’s thoughts are best kept in silence rather than chattering away like a school girl.”
He leaned his chin on his cupped hand. “But, as young as you are, you’re not a school girl. I mean no disrespect, Rebecca, on the contrary. You know something of the world too, what impulses and passions are always waiting to tempt us.”
Bret smiled affectionately and raised his head from his hand. “I hope you don’t think I’m lecturing. I only wish for you to be happy and enjoy those feelings you have for me when we’re together.”
Rebecca reached across the tablecloth and squeezed his hands. “I do, I do, but . . .” She looked away from him for a few moments. “And I want to help you with your business.”
Bret sat up straight in his chair, his expression suddenly alert as if waking from a dream. Rebecca swallowed. Uncle Cade had been right, and although saddened by the realization, it did little to diminish the surging intensity of her feelings for Bret.
She sipped her lemonade. “But I still have other responsibilities that make it difficult, that pull me in ways different from what I feel in my heart.”
Little by little he removed his warm hands from her entwined, cool fingers. “That’s a burden we all carry,” he answered, his voice sounding more distant. “There is always something in the past holding us back, weighing us down like a shackle, and you wonder when you’ll ever find the strength to finally break free of it. And that’s part of the reason I believe so strongly in what we’re doing in Beaumont . . .”
Whispered conversations rose and died like the Gulf breeze around Rebecca. She sighed and listened to Bret’s polite request to be introduced to some of the more affluent Society members, preferably from out of state.
Bret sounded like Uncle Cade in many ways—giving the appearance of command and control, but underneath, there were wounds that had never healed. Would her love only prove to be another torment to him?
Rebecca brightened her expression and made a conscious effort to ignore the probing glances of unconcealed contempt directed toward her. “I was thinking of buying a new hat. One of those stylish French ones all the ladies are wearing. Tell me, what’s your favorite flower?”
The sound of her voice seemed to draw Bret back to the moment. “Roses. I’ve always loved roses.”
“Why?”
He turned his tired eyes to hers and ran his index finger lightly across the open palm of her hand. “The flower of love and life, and also of their passing. We carry a bouquet while its color still courses through our veins and its petals we scatter when our ashes are carried on the wind.”
“Bret, how can you be so gloomy after—” A flock of squawking gulls flapped their wings and took flight from the sandy beach.
“My lovely lady.” Bret reached across the table and held her cool, quivering hand. “I would lay fresh garlands of roses at your feet every day if I could find one that deserved to share the sunlight next to you.”
Rebecca hung her head for a few moments. If she thought about the tender sweetness of his words long enough, perhaps it would cover the acrid bite of her uncle’s threats so that they might dissolve, leaving nothing but an unpleasant taste that she could wash away with one more sip of wine.
She gazed at the perfect blue of the sky and lifted the glass to her lips wishing for all the amorous exhilaration of the day, having risen to this wonderfully serene hour by the beach, to remain and not fly away with the careening scavengers overhead.