Stuart Woods - Heat

“Strict father?”

“That’s it.”

“I had one of those, too. If he could see me now, sitting in my kitchen with a strange man who’s just moved into my house, sipping whiskey with him, he’d roll over in his grave.”

“You’ve always lived in St. Clair?”

She nodded. “Always.”

“Have you traveled much? Seen any of the country?”

“I’ve been to Boise half a dozen times,” she said, “and once I went to Seattle to visit my mother’s sister. That’s about it.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No, she died before my father did, when I was fifteen.”

“What did your father do?”

“He worked out at Wood Products, like everybody else.”

“That’s been here a long time, has it?”

“Sure has; all of my life and before. Herman Muller’s daddy came here from Germany to farm, and when he died, Herman sold the farm and started that business. It’s grown and grown. Soaked up just about all the farm boys around here.” She talked while gazing out the window into the middle distance.

Jesse took in her fine profile and the gray in her hair, and he wanted her. “Girls as beautiful as you are don’t usually stay in small towns,” he said.

“Why, thank you sir,” she said, raising her glass to him. “I haven’t heard anything that nice for a long while.” She sighed. “Once, when I was twenty-one or twenty-two, I was putting some gas in my car and a fellow in a Mercedes pulled into the filling station, got out and gave me his card. He was with Paramount Pictures, he said, and he wanted to put me in the movies.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Jesse said. “What did you say to him?”

“Shoot, I didn’t say anything. I just paid for my gas and got out of there!”

Jesse laughed aloud, and it suddenly occurred to him that he had not laughed in at least two years. A rush of well-being came with the laugh.

“I think I’ve still got his card somewhere,” she said, blushing.

Jesse laughed again.

“I like the way you talk,” she said.

“You mean, my hillbilly accent?”

“Yes. There’s nothing like it in St. Clair. Everything has a sort of sameness about it around here.”

“Seems like a beautiful part of the country.”

“I guess it is. You tend not to notice when it’s all you’ve seen all your life. What’s it like where you come from?”

“We’ve got mountains, too, but smaller ones, with lots of pine trees.”

“How about the town?”

“Not very different from this one, but not so neat. I think most American small towns are alike.”

She started to say something, but stopped.

They ate in the dining room — roast beef, Idaho potatoes and fresh green beans. Jesse and Jenny both had another drink with their dinner. Afterward, she put Carey to bed, and then they went into the living room, where Jesse was surprised to find a piano, and even more surprised to hear her play it well. She played a Chopin etude without referring to the music and something else she said was Mendelssohn that he had never heard before.

“Where did you learn to play so well?” he asked.

“My mother was the piano teacher,” she said. “It would have looked bad for her if I hadn’t learned to play. I always enjoyed it, and I still don’t let a day go by without playing.”

His mother had taught piano, too, but he couldn’t mention that.

She fixed them another bourbon, then switched on the record player and sat down in a chair facing his. Symphonic strains filled the room.

“Beethoven’s Sixth,” Jesse said. “The Pastoral Symphony.”

“It’s my favorite,” she said.

“I have it on tape in my truck; listened to it all the way across the country. It seemed to fit the landscape.”

“I can’t think of a landscape it wouldn’t fit,” she said, then laughed. “Even if I’ve never seen much landscape.”

“One of these days,” Jesse said, and he found himself meaning it.

She finished off her drink. “One of these days.”

She seemed to mean it, too, or was that his imagination. Jesse finished his drink, and they walked upstairs, pausing on the landing.

“It was a wonderful dinner,” he said. “A fine welcome to St. Clair.”

Again she started to speak, then stopped.

“What?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “Good night, Jesse.”

“Good night, Jenny.”

Jesse lay in bed and tried to sleep, but couldn’t. He replayed every part of the evening in his head — the bourbon, the beef, the little girl and, most of all, Jenny. It had been like having a date, and he had given up hope that he would ever again have an evening like that. His breathing was shallow, and his heartbeat rapid. In his whole life, so far, he had slept with only one woman: Beth. Certainly, he was no seducer, but an hour before, on the landing, he had thought for a moment she might say something that would allow him to take her in his arms. A presumptuous, foolish thought. An arrogant thought. This was not a perfect world, he knew that.

There was a tiny creak, and the door to his room opened. He lifted his head from the pillow and looked, but the darkness was too thick, he could see nothing. He could hear, though, and feel.

A rustle of fabric and the covers were pulled back, and she was in bed beside him, in his arms. They kissed eagerly, then struggled from their night clothes.

There was no foreplay, just the immediate, ecstatic joining of two hungry human beings, taking each other quickly and, astonishing to him, because he was so quick, finishing together, muffling their cries so as not to wake Carey.

They lay together, panting. Jesse turned to her. “Jenny, I—”

“I guess you think I’m pretty bold,” she said, interrupting.

“Bolder than I am, anyway,” he said, laughing.

“I got the impression that if I’d waited for you to make the first move it might have been months.”

He laughed again. “You read me well.”

“I don’t know what made me do it,” she said. “I guess I was lonely and thought that you were, too. I may be brazen, but it seemed like the right thing to do. You won’t hold it against me, will you?”

He lay back and hugged her to him. “I’ll just hold you against me.”

“Mmmm,” she moaned. “I like it here.”

“I like it here, too.” He had been in St. Clair for little more than twenty-four hours. What a difference a day made!

When Jesse woke there was a gray light in the room, and she was gone. For a moment he was sure he had dreamed too well, but her scent was still in the sheets, arousing him again. He heard her bedroom door open and close and her steps on the stairs; it was five-thirty A.M. by his bedside clock.

Jesse rose, showered, shaved, dressed in work clothes and went downstairs, not knowing what to expect from her. All seemed normal; Carey was eating her cereal while reading a schoolbook, and Jenny was at the stove, her back to him.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Jesse,” Carey said. “Mama’s fixing your breakfast.”

Jenny did not speak, but turned and looked at him, and there was uncertainty in her face.

“Good morning, Jenny,” he said with the warmest smile he could muster.

She blushed, then smiled. “Good morning, Jesse. You’re timing’s good; your eggs will be ready in ten seconds.”

A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice awaited him, and he sat down and drank it. The eggs were perfectly cooked, and the sausage was wonderful. “The sausage must be local,” he said.

She nodded, eating her own eggs. “I get it from one of our few remaining farmers.”

He finished his eggs, then glanced at his watch. “I think I should be a little early on my first day,” he said. “Can I drop Carey at school?”