Страница 71 из 85
“How can you say that? Faulkner is—”
“He’s a man, and I have a limited patience with dead white male writers. Or even living ones for that matter, you and Mr. Conroy being notable exceptions. Now Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Alice Walker, their books deal with things women care about.” She let herself rattle on. “Margaret Mitchell isn’t p.c. anymore, but that was one heck of a page-turner. Then there’s Mary Stewart, Daphne du Maurier, LaVyrle Spencer, Georgette Heyer, Helen Fielding—but only the first Bridget Jones. Nope, Faulkner just doesn’t make my final cut.”
“Your list is a little heavy on romance for my tastes.”
“You try spending six months sitting at somebody’s bedside waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn’t one of God’s good gifts.”
He planted a quick kiss on her forehead, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly undid her. “Let’s go inside.”
He opened the door for her, and as they entered the empty house, she gazed at the foyer, where a set of stairs led to the second floor. “Can you get me into George Clooney’s place, too?”
“Some other time.”
They wandered through the hallways of Faulkner’s home, gazing into each room but not entering. She couldn’t resist pointing out the stack of paperback potboilers on display in Faulkner’s bedside bookshelves, but Colin was more fascinated by his office. As he took in the old Underwood typewriter, he contemplated how modern word processing might have changed Faulkner’s writing. Sugar Beth refrained from pointing out that Microsoft wasn’t doing a thing for Colin’s output, and the only work being done at Frenchman’s Bride these days involved stone.
They left the house and walked around the grounds. Dusk was settling in, but she could still see the forsythia and wild plum blooming in Bailey’s Woods behind the house. Before long, the dogwood would be in flower. Gordon waddled at Colin’s side, occasionally stopping to investigate a shrub or sniff at a clump of grass. As they returned to the house, Colin took her hand. “I’ve missed you this week.”
She felt the hard ridge of calluses on his palm and didn’t want to draw away, but what was the point in torturing herself. “You’re just horny.”
He stopped walking and ran his finger along her cheek, regarding her with such tenderness that her heart missed a beat. “I want more from you than sex, Sugar Beth.”
She had a saucy comeback all loaded and ready to fire, but she fumbled with the trigger. “You . . . you know I don’t do windows.”
“Please stop it, darling.” The request was gently uttered, and the endearment, which would have sounded pompous coming from anyone else, fell over her like cherry blossoms.
She swatted an imaginary bug to give herself an excuse to move a few steps away. “What do you want?”
“I want you to give us time. Is that too much to ask?”
“Time for what? I’m a three-time loser, Colin. Four if you count Ryan.” She tried to sound saucy, but she was afraid she’d merely sounded sad. “I feed off men. I lure them with my sexual tricks, then bite off their heads while they sleep.”
“Is that how Emmett felt about you?”
“He was the exception that proved the rule.”
“I’m not too worried about my untimely decapitation, so I don’t see why you should be.”
“Okay, I finally understand why you’re being so persistent about this. You want to make me fall so desperately in love with you that I can’t think of anything else. Then, when I’ve turned into a big bowl of mush, and I’m begging for a few crumbs of your affection, you’ll laugh in my face and walk away. This is what you’ve been pla
He sighed. “Sugar Beth. The romance novels . . .”
“Well, it’s not going to happen, bucko, because I’ve spent way too much class time in the school of hard knocks. I’m past my obsessive need to center my life around another piece of beefcake.”
“As much as I appreciate the description, I think you’re just afraid.”
Something snapped inside her. “Of course I’m afraid! Relationships do bad things to me.” He started to respond, but the pain had gone on long enough, and she didn’t want to hear it. “You know what I want? I want peace. I want a good job and a decent place to live. I want to read books and listen to music and have time to make some female friendships that are going to last. When I wake up in the morning, I want to know that I have a decent shot at being happy. And here’s what’s really sad. Until I met you, I was almost there.”
His face set in hard lines. She knew she’d hurt him, but better this sharp, quick pain than a dull ache that never stopped. “I’m sick of this,” she forced herself to say. “I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore, but you wouldn’t listen. Well, it’s time to pay attention. I’m tired of you stalking me. Now get the message and leave me alone.”
His face paled, and his eyes emptied of all expression. “My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to stalk.” He snatched up a manila envelope from behind one of the columns and thrust it at her. “I know you’ve been looking for this, and now you have your very own copy.”
She watched him walk away, proud and haughty, his powerful stride devouring Faulkner’s lawn. “Gordon! Come back here,” she cried.
But her dog had a new master, and he paid no attention.
She heard the sound of his car driving away. Finally, she gazed down at the envelope and drew out what he’d brought her.
A copy of Reflections.
Colin was thirty miles outside Oxford when he heard the siren. He glanced at his speedometer and saw he was going eighty. Brilliant. He backed off and pulled over. Gordon sat up on the seat. The perfect ending to a miserable day.
A stalker. Was that how she saw him?
As he handed over his license, he thought about how much differently the evening had unfolded than what he’d pla
“You’re the author,” the trooper said, gazing at Colin’s license. “The one who wrote that book about Parrish.”
Colin nodded but didn’t try to strike up a conversation. He saw no honor in attempting to talk himself out of a ticket he deserved. But the trooper had a book-loving wife and a basset hound, and he sent him on with only a warning.
Colin reached the edge of town, but instead of heading directly for Frenchman’s Bride, he drove aimlessly through the quiet streets. There’d been a fierceness about her tonight that scared him. She wasn’t playing games. She’d meant every word she’d said. And he’d fallen in love with her.
The knowledge felt old and familiar, as though it had been part of him for a very long time. With his lifelong appreciation of the ironic, he should be amused, but he couldn’t find a laugh anywhere. He’d misjudged, misplayed, and misbehaved. In the process, he’d lost something unbearably precious.
Sugar Beth wanted to be alone when she read Reflections, so she declined Wi