Gwynne Forster - After the Loving

He could feel both of his eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes seemed twice their size. “Does Alexis feel this way, too?”

“Alexis is a Quaker. She thinks in terms of a peaceful, serene present and doesn’t worry about the past. Furthermore, I’m older than she is, and I understood better what I heard and saw. But let’s not end this lovely day talking about my parents.”

“Then we won’t.” He took her hand and walked with her into the kitchen. They drank the orange juice, and he remembered that they would ascend the stairs together to go to their separate rooms. From the expression on her face, he knew she had already thought of it, and that her nerves were on edge.

“Come on,” he said, deciding to make light of what was becoming an embarrassing situation. “We can be trusted to walk up those stairs together.”

“Speak for yourself.” When she glanced up at him, heat roared through his body. Blatant vulnerability spread across her face. He wanted her. He’d wanted her all evening, from the minute she reached the altar. He reached out to gather her into his arms.

“I… Sorry. I shouldn’t have come with you. Good night.”

“Wait a minute. You can’t. Look here, Velma. You’re beautiful, intelligent and you’ve got a wonderful, outrageous sense of humor. Why are you—”

“Thanks for trying to prop up my ego. What happened to all that honesty everybody says you have?”

He stepped back. “Thanks for the reality check. From time to time I need those. Good night.”

He went into the den and dropped himself into the big overstuffed leather chair. In another second, he would have kissed her senseless. He didn’t remember ever enjoying a woman’s company so thoroughly. In the space of two hours, she taught him a lot about himself, and he liked all of it. But he wasn’t going to tie himself to a woman who didn’t know and appreciate her own assets.

Velma strolled up the stairs as casually as if the pain she felt wasn’t eating a hole in her. He’d opened his arms and taken her into them, but he couldn’t lock her to him the way she wanted him to, needed him to. No matter what he said, he had to notice her size and the way her dress fitted. Alexis’s gown covered a work of art, but hers covered rolls of flesh, and he didn’t need 20/20 vision to see it.

“I’m sick of being miserable,” she said aloud, “and I’m tired of being embarrassed about the way my dresses fit. If I wear them loose, I look as if I’m middle-aged. If I wear them fitted…” She didn’t finish the thought. “I’m going on a diet.”

With that comfort, she made her ablutions and got into bed, but sleep evaded her. She heard every creak, the grandfather clock in the living room and the engine of an automobile in the distance, all the time aware that she waited for the sound of Russ’s footsteps on the stairs.

The next morning she awoke early, showered, dressed in a green paisley caftan and went downstairs.

“I thought you’d sleep half a day,” Henry said when she walked into the kitchen. “What you want for breakfast?”

“Whatever. Thanks. Where’s Tara?”

“Over at Grant Roundtree’s house. They’re inseparable.”

Velma picked up a grape and put it in her mouth. She didn’t want to ask Henry, but she knew he’d force her to do it, so she said, “Am I the first one down?”

Henry put a pan of biscuits in the oven, dusted his flour-filled hands on his apron and looked hard at her. “Since you asked, Russ ain’t ever the first one to come downstairs.” He ran his fingers through the few strands of hair remaining on his head and glared at her. “Today’s Sunday. If you’re not going to church, you don’t come down all dressed up. Go put on some jeans and a sweater.”

She sat down in one of the Moroccan chairs at the little kitchen table. “Henry, please don’t get on my case. I don’t own any jeans, because they don’t look right on me.”

“They will so. Whatever you’re trying to hide in that dress is all in your head. I saw you and Russ last night. He liked what he saw, but he ain’t gonna like that thing you got on.”

“Too bad. I don’t have anything else to put on. I’ll set the table.”

She’d hardly begun before she heard Drake’s voice. “Who’s here other than you and me, Henry?”

“Russ and Velma. Tara’s visiting her boyfriend.”

“This early? Weren’t they something to see yesterday? Great-looking kids. That was the best-looking wedding party I’ve seen. Did you see Velma in that dress? I could hardly believe my eyes. She ought to wear more dresses of that type.”

Velma stopped setting the table and leaned against the wall. Hadn’t Russ said the same thing about her dress? Maybe… She shook herself out of it. No more debates and personal recriminations, she was going to take hold of her life and run it; she’d had enough of taking what came. She pasted a smile on her face and returned to the kitchen.

“All finished, Henry. Hi, Drake. Do you realize my sister did not tell me where she was going?”

“Hi. You’re assuming she knew. She was told only to prepare for a warm climate,” Drake said.

“I’ll bet you know how to reach Telford in an emergency.”

“I don’t, but Russ does. Give him a secret and it’s safer than if you stored it in Fort Knox. Where is he?”

The quick rise and fall of her right shoulder gave him the answer, but not wanting to seem disinterested, she said, “I don’t know. When I went upstairs last night, he was headed for the den.” Drake’s whistle was barely audible, but she heard it and understood its meaning.

“I say let’s eat. Old sourpuss has been known to sleep till three o’clock.”

She turned to face him. “Oh, Drake. Is it nice to call him that awful name? Wouldn’t you think it makes him feel badly?”

Drake gazed hard at her. “I never thought of it that way—it’s always been a joke. I’m sorry.”

“’Morning. Is Henry on strike or something? Where’s the food?” Russ walked over to her. “I hope you slept well. Thanks for taking my part, but it gives Drake so much pleasure to call me old sourpuss that I wouldn’t deprive him of it.”

“How long were you standing there?”

“I walked in when Drake said, ‘Let’s eat.’” His gaze seemed to penetrate her. “I place a high value on loyalty.”

“Serve yourselves at the stove, and let’s eat in the breakfast room,” Henry said. “If we break one of Alexis’s rules, she’ll know it even if she’s not here.”

Velma began piling biscuits, sausage and grits on her plate as she usually did, and stopped. She kept the grits, put half a pat of butter on it instead of the usual three pats and got a bowl of mixed fruits from the kitchen counter.

“You not eating my biscuits?” Henry asked.

“I will, if I’m still hungry after I finish this.”

Russ eyed her with a frown on his face. “You feel okay?”

She assured him that she did, but she ate as slowly as she could hoping she wouldn’t be hungry when she finished. She concentrated on eating, dreading the moment when she would swallow that last spoonful of grits. “I may be hungry,” she told herself, “but I’ll be happy.”

“Ain’t nobody talking this morning?” Henry asked.

“I’m eating,” Drake said. “You knocked yourself out with these biscuits, Henry. I imagine Telford would put away half a dozen of ’em.”

That was the old man’s joy in life, Velma realized, when he smiled and passed the plate of biscuits to Russ. “You ain’t eating much, either. Alexis found some special flour, and it’s right good, if I do say so myself.”

When she glanced at Russ, her heart skittered in her chest. The expression on his face, open and—there was no other word for it—adoring as he gazed at her, shook her to the core. She tried to shift her glance, but his eyes, dark and slumberous, trapped her. From their silence, she realized that Henry and Drake watched them and, with effort, she lowered her gaze. But he had stirred her as thoroughly as a spinning bottle mixes what it contains.