'Mrs. Dinsmore?' he called.
'Yes, Mr. Parker?' she called from the opposite end of the barn.
'You mind my asking how old you are?'
'Be twenty-five on November tenth. How about you?'
'Thirty or so.'
Silence, while she digested his answer. 'Or so?'
'Somebody left me on the steps of an orphanage when I was little.' Will hadn’t told that to many people in his life. He waited uncertainly for her reaction.
'You mean you don’t know when your birthday is?'
'Well… no.'
The barn grew silent. Outside a whippoorwill called and the frogs sang discordantly. Eleanor paused with her hand on the latch. Will knelt, gripping his thighs.
'We’ll have to pick you out a birthday if you decide to stay. A man should have a birthday.'
Will smiled, imagining it.
'G’night, Mr. Parker.'
'G’night, Mrs. Dinsmore.' He heard the barn door squeak open and called again, 'Mrs. Dinsmore?'
The squeaking stopped. 'What?'
Five seconds of silence, then, 'Much obliged for the supper. You’re a good cook.' His heart thumped gladly after the words were out. It hadn’t been so hard after all.
In the dark below she smiled. It had been good to see a man at her table again.
She made her way to the house, prepared for bed and eased into it with a sigh. As she straightened, a faint cramp caught her low across the stomach. She cradled it, rolling to her side. She had chopped wood today, though she knew she shouldn’t have. But Glendon had scarcely managed to get the day-to-day tasks done, let alone stockpiling for tomorrow. The seasoned wood needed splitting, and next year’s supply should be cut so it could start to dry. Besides the wood, there was always water to carry. So much. And there’d be more when the new baby came and she’d have two of them in diapers.
She stretched out on her back and rested a wrist on her forehead, picturing the veins along the inside of Will Parker’s arms, the cluster of wiry muscles. She remembered how hard his legs had been when she’d touched them as he hung on the ladder.
In the hayloft, Will sank his head into a pillow made of real feathers and stretched out on a soft handmade quilt. His belly was full, his teeth were clean, his skin smelled of soap. And somewhere out there was a mule, and beehives and chickens and a house with possibilities. A place where a man could make a go of it with a little hard work. Hell, hard work came easy.
Just give me a chance, Eleanor Dinsmore, and I’ll show you.
He remembered her standing barefoot in the yard with her two boys, her stomach round as a watermelon, eyeing him warily. He remembered the detached look on her face when she’d questioned him and the momentary flash of shock when he told her about Huntsville. She was probably mulling it over right now, having second thoughts about keeping a jailbird around. And by morning she’d have decided he was too much of a risk. But in the morning he’d show her. First thing, before she had a chance to put him off the place he’d show her he intended to earn his keep.
Chapter 3
Lula Peak lived in the tiny bungalow on Pecan Street where she’d grown up. While her mother was alive the furnishings had been adequate, if old. Now, however, the kitchen sported a spanking new Frigidaire electric refrigerator, a bathroom with hot and cold running water and in the living room a new Philco radio.
At eight o’clock that night the Philco and Lula were both tuned to Atlanta, both blasting out 'Oh, Johnny, Oh.' Dressed in a slinky red-orange wrapper, Lula tilted toward the bathroom mirror, scavenging with the tips of a tweezer for any wayward hair with the audacity to be growing beyond the periphery of her pencil-thin eyebrows.
She stopped her fruitless search and ran her palms up her silk-covered arms as she’d seen Betty Grable do in the movies.
She made a moue at her reflection in the mirror, then shimmied and dipped her knees, letting her palms brush the sides of her breasts. The satin rubbed seductively over her nipples and they popped up like balloons taking air. Lula loved getting hot, either by herself or with someone else-didn’t matter which. But to really cool down, she needed a man. Lula always needed a man, and Whitney didn’t have enough of them. When Lula itched, she needed scratching. And Lula itched all the time.
She plucked up a bottle of Evening in Paris cologne and spun twice while dabbing it on, watching her face flash across the bathroom mirror. After a third spin she balanced one high-heeled foot on the toilet seat, then touched some of the cologne to the thick thatch of blond hair revealed by the gaping gown. She dropped the foot to the floor, then ran her hand down her belly while giving the mirror a sultry kiss, leaving the imprint of vermilion lipstick on the cold glass.
'Lula, what the hell’s goin’ on in here?' Harley Overmire bellowed from her living room. 'Music’s so goddamn loud any bum coulda walked in here and you wouldnt’a even known it.'
'Harley-honey, is that you?' The music suddenly dimmed and Lula came flying out of the bathroom, pouting. 'Harley, turn that back up! That’s my favorite song!' She darted to the Philco-a flash of white limbs and flaming silk-and cranked it up.
Harley immediately turned it down. 'Lula-honey, I didn’t come over here to get my eardrums broke.'
'Oh, yeah? Then what did you come for, Harleykins?'
Lula turned the radio to a thunderous volume.
She swung toward him, her expression sultry as she pressed the sides of her ample breasts, accentuating the deep cleavage as she stalked him and slipped one white leg through the break in the garish satin wrapper. Her painted lips pouted voluptuously as she sidled close and rubbed herself against him, straddling one of his thighs.
Harley’s eyes became hooded, his lips dropped open with lascivious expectation as he lifted his knee against her.
'Ooh-hoo-hoo, Lula-baby, sugar-pie, you sure know how t’ do it to a man.'
'You bet I do, kiddo, and you’d like it right now, wouldn’t you?'
He gripped her hips with both hands. 'I’m here, ain’t I, baby?'
She took his hands and transferred them to her breasts. 'Feel that? I got gumdrops just thinkin’ about you. Wanna know what else happened when I thought about you, Harleykins?'
'Yeah,' Harley growled, low and lusty, manipulating her pelvis. 'What?'
They ground against each other in earnest. Harley’s root had sprung up like a mushroom after two weeks of rain. She grasped his neck and put her lips to his ear and whispered something coarse, for good measure.
He laughed gutturally and said, 'Oh, yeah? Let’s see,' then reached for the thatch of blond hair and slipped a finger inside her.
'Ooh-hoo-hoo, Lula-baby, you need your damper turned down, and how.'
She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off till it hung from his waist, all the while riding his hand, which was braced against his thigh. She looped both arms around his neck, nipped his ear, licked the inside of it and suggested, 'What I need is one of them new electric fans that turns back and forth. I seen one down in a hardware store in Atlanta last time I visited my sister Junie.' She eased down and ran her lips across his chest, then splayed
