The whole situation was surreal—that he, Jason Redlander, his aunt, and his child, were guests in Kinkaid House, actually eating dinner here.
He played with his carrots—because he sure as hell wasn’t going to eat them—and studied the portrait of Laurel on the wall behind her. The artist had captured not only her likeness, but also her nature: Posed in a pinkish dress and sitting in a rose arbor, which must be somewhere on the property, she was serenity itself, a lady, as she had always been and still was. Laurel had grown up with tradition and taste and elegance. He, on the other hand—well, everyone knew how he’d grown up. Sure, he’d fought his way to the top of the dung heap, but she’d been born on a plane far above him.
He forced himself to take a polite bite of carrots, then put down his fork. Next came dessert—cheesecake—which, strangely enough, tasted exactly like Sara Lee. Then Laurel moved everyone to the comfortable den for coffee and conversation. Laurel and Maxie took the couch, leaving the big recliner to him.
He half closed his eyes and studied Laurel as she talked with Maxie.
As Laurel leaned forward to look at picture of Sir Frederick, Maxie’s long-haired dachshund, her blouse fell open, revealing shadowed cleavage. He took an audible breath and she looked up to meet his eyes, blushed, then licked her upper lip nervously.
The air conditioner was grinding away, but the room suddenly seemed too hot for comfort.
*
It was sixteen years ago, but he still remembered the warm weight of those pink-crested adolescent breasts in his hands.
He’d been groggy with sleep, when he heard someone call out his name. At first he’d thought she was his father finally coming in or maybe Aunt Maxie stopping by to check on him. Then Laurel had said something he was too sleepy to understand, and started to cry. He’d tried to give her brotherly comfort, patting her and making soothing noises, all the time aware that he had a boner the size of the Texas Panhandle.
“I love you so. Please kiss me, Jase,” she’d whispered, her eyes bright with tears, her soft breath fanning across his bare chest.
It was the request of a child, he’d thought, a child concerned about the welfare of a good friend, because he was sure everyone in Bosque Bend knew by then that he was in a shitload of trouble.
He aimed for her cheek, but somehow her lips were under his and her full breasts flattened against him. She was Reverend Ed’s daughter, but she was also young, soft, and female, and he was not only male, but totally aroused as well. His body demanded action. He moved his mouth over hers slowly, lingeringly, as Marguerite had taught him, all the time trying to control the wildfire that was raging through him.
He’d tried to maintain the pure, Knight-of-the-Round-Table sort of love he thought he felt toward her, all the time knowing he was fighting a losing battle. He’d been awakened by a seasoned voluptuary to far more sexual awareness than any sixteen-year-old could control, no matter how good his intentions. He also had more sexual skills than other sixteen-year-olds, even the sexually active ones, because Marguerite was a very good teacher.
But somehow, with Laurel, it was all new and wonderful. For the first time, he was making love to a girl he really cared about, not performing like a trained seal for Marguerite. Laurel’s skin was tender and firm, her mouth sweet and generous. He kissed her warm young breasts, tipped with dusky pink rosettes, so different from Marguerite’s large orangish nipples.
And Laurel was passionate, even without knowing, her face flushed from his kisses and her wide gray eyes dilated with desire. Unpracticed she may have been, but her ardor more than made up for it.
Then he went too far and she froze up on him.
He also remembered the aftermath. He’d been a real asshole, lighting up and trying to act like a tough guy, but he’d been embarrassed and ashamed and—well—frustrated. He loved her, but knew she was too young and innocent, too good for him.
And he still loved her, and she was still too good for him—so good that despite everything, she’d admitted him to her house yesterday, taken care of his daughter, and was now hosting him and his family for dinner.
Maxie’s voice cut through his reverie.
“Look at the time! Lolly and I have to be at the airport in thirty minutes! Our flight leaves at nine, and Pastor Richter expects us to help with early communion tomorrow morning!”
Lolly sprang up and headed for the front hall. “I’ll be just a second, Aunt Maxie. My backpack and purse are upstairs.”
Laurel started after her. “I’ll help.”
*
Lolly reached under the bed for her Luis Vuitton handbag while Laurel grabbed Lolly’s pink backpack from the side chair. It lifted far too easily.