Gayle Wilson - Wednesday's Child

He seemed amused by her scrutiny rather than annoyed. For the first time the hard line of his mouth was relaxed.

“Just the one.”

“First room on the right,” he said. “I’ll bring the suitcase up, but you don’t have to wait.”

She wasn’t sure why, but the instructions felt like a reprieve. At least a concession. As if she had just passed some kind of test and earned a grudging acceptance.

“Thank you.”

“You want me to move your car around back?”

She hesitated, wondering if she’d missed a sign indicating that’s where guests were supposed to park.

“Don’t worry,” he said when she didn’t answer immediately. “As long as it’s an automatic, I shouldn’t be able to do too much damage.”

“I’d be very grateful,” she said, ignoring the attempt to intimidate her with the blatant reminder of his disability. “And it is an automatic. I never learned to drive a stick.”

There was a slight upward movement at one corner of his mouth. “Somehow I was sure you hadn’t.”

She didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t matter. Without giving her a chance at a parting shot, he allowed the screen door to slam behind him, leaving her alone in the wide hall. She drew an unsteady breath, wondering if she had made a mistake in coming out here.

She had sworn she would never trust officialdom again, and yet, because of what the sheriff had told her, she was in an isolated house with a rude stranger who carried an outsized chip on his shoulder. And she had just agreed to rent, sight unseen, a room in that house, never having met her hostess.

If the accommodations were truly awful, she could always leave in the morning. She’d been vague enough about her intentions to allow for that.

At least then she wouldn’t have to pretend she wasn’t aware of the absolute masculinity of the man who had gone out to retrieve her luggage. Sexual awareness this potent was a feeling she’d almost forgotten. And one she wasn’t sure she was ready to experience again. Especially not now.

She turned, looking up the narrow stairs once more. Whatever the room at the top of them was like, it was hers for the night. Everything would probably look different in the morning. As for right now…

Right now she needed a hot shower and a bed with clean sheets, even if it had a feather mattress. If Lorena Bedford’s house could provide either of those, she’d deal with everything else. Including Miz Lorena’s arrogant nephew.

“MY GOODNESS,” Lorena said. “I’d been thinking about that poor man’s family. Wondering how they must feel to finally know what happened to him. I knew some of them would come to Linton, but I never dreamed they might end up staying here. I’ll have to thank Wayne the next time I’m in town. What’s she like?”

Jeb wasn’t sure his impression would be the kind of information his aunt was looking for. Since he’d been wounded, his reaction to people was too frequently measured by their response to his physical condition. It was a fault he was aware of, but unable to entirely suppress.

When he had turned around tonight and found Susan Chandler watching him, resentment that his limp now seemed to be the most interesting thing about him had resurfaced. In the past, before Iraq, his relationships with women had been based on any number of things: mutual sexual attraction, shared interests, even simple proximity. Now he seemed to be defined by only one thing.

He wasn’t sure at what point during the course of his rehabilitation he’d become aware of that. Certainly not in the beginning. He’d been too focused on his own adjustment to his new physical limitations to notice how others reacted to them.

Maybe it had been coming back to Linton, where he’d spent a large part of his adolescence, that had made him aware of how differently the people he’d known then treated him now. Some were openly curious, which he’d been surprised to discover didn’t bother him. Others pretended not to notice, as Mrs. Chandler had done tonight when he’d opened the door for her.

Some—and those were the ones he detested—were determined to be “helpful.” There was nothing more certain to set his teeth on edge than solicitude. Especially from a woman to whom he was physically attracted.

In that respect, he would have to give his great-aunt’s guest credit. In a matter of minutes, she had been able to conceal, if not destroy, any tendency to try to protect him. She hadn’t wanted him to climb the stairs to show her the room, which had been a strike against her. She hadn’t tried to circumvent his determination to retrieve her suitcase or move her car, however, and thank God she hadn’t met him halfway up the stairs to take her bag from him. Despite that ridiculous announcement that she didn’t need to see the room she was about to rent, he grudgingly gave her full marks for the rest.

“Exhausted,” he said aloud in answer to Lorena’s question. “And obviously still stunned.”

“Why, I should say so. Bless her heart. What a thing to have happened. I swear they ought to close that bridge, as many people as have gone off into the river through the years.”

“Maybe between the train wreck and this, they will.”

He was leaning against the kitchen counter watching Lorena take things out of the refrigerator. Although she was almost ninety, she moved exactly as she had when he’d spent those long-ago summers down here. Her motions were quick, almost birdlike, an impression that was magnified by her size and her thinness.

“I didn’t promise her supper,” he said when she pulled a loaf of homemade bread out of the bread box and began unwrapping it. “Actually, I didn’t promise her anything but the use of the room. You don’t have to fix her a meal.”

“You think she’s already eaten?” Gnarled fingers paused over the loaf she had baked this morning, she looked up at him, faded blue eyes questioning.

“I doubt it,” he said, reluctant to add hunger to the many problems Susan Chandler faced. “She’s probably used to eating later than we do.”

Most nights Lorena had supper on the table by six. Of course, since they both began the day shortly after five, Jeb wasn’t complaining. The timing had been an adjustment, however. As he imagined it would be for Mrs. Chandler.

“From Atlanta, you say?”

“That’s what her tag says.”

“That poor woman.” Lorena’s eyes and hands had returned to her task. “I can’t even imagine what she must be feeling.”

“According to the paper, her husband’s car had been submerged for years. She’s had a long time to come to terms with his disappearance.”

Maybe this was only a welcome closure for something she had dealt with long ago.

“Still…” Lorena said. “I mean she was married to the man. She must have loved him. And then…I guess he just disappeared, and she never knew what happened to him. It breaks my heart to think about that.”

Jeb watched as she laid the two thick slices she’d cut off the loaf on a plate she had taken from the cabinet. After she’d spread mayonnaise thickly on both, she began piling ham on one.

“Did you like her?”

His great-aunt’s question caught him off guard. For one thing, he wasn’t sure whether he had or not. There was no denying that he’d found her attractive. And he had also admired her. Despite the day she’d had, she hadn’t backed down when he’d challenged her about the car. And even as much as she obviously wanted the room, she hadn’t been willing to cater to his rudeness. More pluses than minuses.

“Well enough to offer her a room.”

“You knew I’d want you to do that,” Lorena said.

“Still, I wouldn’t have. Not unless I thought she was someone we could share the place with. At least for the night.”