Man From Tennessee

felt his desire to possess.

She held herself stiffly when his hand forced her cheek to the soft silk of his shirt, her lashes low on her cheeks in an effort to hide the raw fear in the pit of her stomach. If he was trying to punish her for her coolness, or to prove for the sake of old revenge that she could no longer control her emotions around him-he was succeeding. The brush of a beard grazed her forehead; she found her arms encouraged tighter around his waist; and thighs grazing together in the motion of rhythm. The stroke of his fingers on the nape of her neck was deliberately soothing, gentling to her defenses. It was a painfully old love song the pianist kept playing, half love and half irretrievable loss, the melody suddenly aching inside of her.

Her body was finally molded pliant for him, just as he wanted. Almost despairingly she told herself that it didn’t matter, that there was nothing that could happen on a dance floor. But it did matter-his lips pressed on her forehead and his arms tightened possessively around her as he felt her defenses falter. One hand slowly swept up and down her spine, molding her even closer. It was an embrace, not a dance; they both knew it. Yet she could not seem to move quite yet, with eyes closed absorbing the feel of his chest, his thighs in fluid movement against hers, his arousal alive between them…

And the pianist had his secrets, a way of cradling the words he sang with his tongue before he reluctantly set them free. There was no mike, only a throaty low voice not really trying to compete with the piano, just slowly measuring out a lingering poem of helpless longing…

Should I stay?

Would it be so wrong…

If I can’t help

Falling in love with you…

The song she’d never heard before, but the rhythm seemed so old, so hypnotic, that she gave in finally. Like a drug she couldn’t fight, her hips moved against his, feeling a sweet rush like champagne in her head. When she glanced up at his dark hooded eyes there was a sweet exultation in her own. Long ago she’d shied away from the fierce dominating passion she’d seen in Kern. His eyes seemed like black fire, and the feminine in her felt as potent as too much wine. Yearning ached through her in almost a feverish rush; a need to increase the look of desire in his eyes surged through her until there was no going back. Her hands escaped slowly from his waist to ripple gently over his chest, fingers climbing until they found flesh, circled around to the nape of his neck and threading in his hair. Her hips were cradled in his if she moved just so, the rhythm like the music, a frictionlike danger building between them as her swelling breasts rubbed against his, as her thighs courted pressure…

She heard a harsh odd sound from the base of his throat and looked up. There was almost a smile on his lips. “Not here,” he scolded chidingly.

“Only here, Kern,” she corrected softly.

He shook his head. “You know better.” He drew apart from her! She was suddenly curiously aware that the song was ended, and that it was not the same song they had started out dancing to. Julia was looking their way, a gentle smile on her mouth for the two of them. This was a restaurant after all, other people… Then a disquieting sense of deja vu, of dancing with Kern and being bewitched beyond all rhyme or reason came to mind.

Kern had a message from the camp when the three of them got home, and for a short time he had to go out. Trisha spent an hour settling Julia in and from there wandered outside in the back. The grass was squeaky with dew beneath her feet, and she slipped off her sandals, swinging them with one hand, feeling the damp carpet curling around her bare toes. Stars peppered the cloudless, breezeless night.

Her head ached just a little from the unaccustomed wine. This time drinking in the clear mountain air, she stood pensively for a long time. The mood from their evening was suddenly erased. The feeling of vulnerability seemed to be assaulting her from all sides-from the look of her face in the mirror when she was brushing her hair, from her every response around Kern, from each time she looked at the mist-swirling mountains and felt small and insignificant. Vulnerability was something she’d never wanted to feel again. It was an unwelcomed emotion.

Finally she heard the click of the door behind her. There was no reason to turn to know who it was. She’d been waiting for Kern. “I’m going to need some money,” she said quietly.

“Fine.”

She half turned then. His answer was almost humorously indifferent. Kern rarely smoked, and from where he was leaning against the house, the glow of ash sent up a whisper of smoke.

“Not for me,” she said by way of qualification. “For your mother. I want to redo that room downstairs, Kern, in a style that would suit her. She thought it foolish at first, but I just reminded her that you had lots of space and you wanted her to have her own personal room when she came down for other visits. It might be a beginning, if she becomes attached to it.” Trisha hesitated when he didn’t comment. “She has expensive tastes, but I wouldn’t overdo. I know what I’m doing with fabrics, Kern, and I know exactly what would appeal to her…”

“Don’t be absurd, Tish. You know damn well there’s money for whatever she wants-or you want,” he said impatiently. “It bothered the hell out of me when I knew you were working and attending night school at the same time-”

“That was four years ago.”

“And the checks I sent you all came back. Now are we done with that subject?” She could hear his heel crush the cigarette butt.

“Yes.”

“And we suddenly have nothing else to talk about, do we, Tish?”

“Nothing.” She shivered then, though there was no reason for it in the still-warm night, and she moved forward to go inside. Barefoot when she came up the slope to Kern, to her he seemed taller than life, his head towering over hers. Her hand was on the doorknob when he reached out to stop her with an unexpectedly gentle hand. His fingers brushed back a strand of hair from her face and then his palm rested like a warm caress on her cheek.

“You’re a giver, Tish. I’d expect you to come up with an idea for my mother. You’ve been there for her for years when you didn’t need to be. She wasn’t your responsibility. And you were there for me at one of the roughest times in my life-”

“Kern.” Her fingers curled at his wrist, trying to dislodge the sensual palm.

“You haven’t really changed. The look’s very different, but you’re still afraid to reach out and take, Tish, to take what’s yours. I don’t understand what you’re afraid of. I never have,” he admitted bluntly. “There’s just…life. If you don’t reach out and take what you want, there’s nothing.”

His fingers smoothed down her cheek, caressed her throat, and let go. She was still for a moment, feeling a sudden rush of confusion. Her image of herself had been the opposite of a “giver.” She had failed to give him the response he needed in a wife. And what was he trying to tell her now? To seize this moment? Make love with him because the chemistry was there, as if there were no consequences? Was he even aware of how loud the words were that he hadn’t said? There was no mention of her staying here beyond a short time. She had been the one who insisted on staying, for Julia. She hesitated, then said, “You find it easy to go after what you want, no holds barred, Kern. But I can’t just-”

“You can. But if you don’t, Tish, I will. I want you and I’ll wait. But not long. Not anymore.”

The clipped phrases seemed to emphasize the threat. Threat? It was a promise he was delivering in gentle tones that echoed in the night.

Trisha was doing her best not to punish the Mercedes on the deplorable little dirt road. Potholes polka-dotted every few feet of the narrow path, and dust sprayed behind them in thin sandy clouds. Oblivious to both the bouncing and the early morning heat, Julia beside her had a hand shading her eyes as she peered out the window. It was not the first time in the past four days that their goal was an antique shop, and Julia by the hour was thriving on every little adventure Trisha had thought up for her.

“…what I want is one of those big iron kettles,” Julia continued. “You know, the kind they used to hang in the fireplace. I thought I’d put it out on the front steps and plant it with flowers.”

“We’ve seen a half dozen of them,” Trisha remarked.