He looked down at her, stroking, stroking. “And what if I don’t want to?” he said in a husky, uncertain voice.
She held very still. “Want to what?”
“Don’t want to come up with any more excuses.”
The tension between them was fragile, tentative, and unbelievably delicate. She almost didn’t dare breathe, for fear she’d shatter the possibility in his words. He leaned over and brushed her lips against her eyelids, first one, then the other. Feathered across her cheekbones, danced across her mouth, clung for a moment, then moved on. When he moved back she was dazed, so lost that she couldn’t move, couldn’t react as he grabbed a shirt and left the room.
He’d kissed her many ways, in many places during the nights she’d spent with him. He knew how to use his mouth, to arouse, to satisfy, to delight.
But he’d never kissed her with love before.
She put off going downstairs for as long as possible, using every speck of hot water the old house possessed, turning on her radio and humming loudly while she moved around her room. She didn’t want anything, any noise, any creature, to intrude on the burgeoning hope that was burning inside her. She didn’t want to face Patrick in front of Ermy and Willy’s knowing eyes, and she didn’t want to frighten Patrick away.
So she tried on half a dozen changes of clothing, finally ending up in a huge cotton sweater and faded jeans, put on makeup and then washed it off, tucked her hair in French braids and then ripped them out. It took all her concentration to wipe the smile off her face a mere second before she entered the kitchen.
The sight that met her eyes was enough to depress anyone. Willy was up early and sitting in the corner, looking even paler than his nightly imbibing usually made him, and the carrot-colored strands of hair were disarrayed on his balding skull. Mrs. Morse was slamming pots and pans around in a bad humor, causing Willy to wince dramatically.
“What’s wrong with everybody?” she demanded brightly. “It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining. What...?” she noticed that Aunt Ermy was snorting and snuffling and dabbing away at red-rimmed eyes. “What’s happened?” she continued in a lower voice.
Aunt Ermy looked up, dislike and disapproval emanating from her tiny, tear-filled eyes. “You’re a fine one to ask! Why should you care, spending the night romping around with that man while all the while...all the while... She dissolved into noisy tears.
Molly could feel the color flood her face as she struggled to remain impassive. “What are you talking about?”
Uncle Willy took over, a look of stern condemnation on bis ruddy face. “Your Aunt Ermy was referring to your behavior last night. You left your door standing wide open, my dear. There was no doubt in our minds where you’d gone. Besides which, his bed creaks.”
She could feel her color deepen. It had squeaked noisily, rhythmically, most of the night. There’d been other sounds as well, but at least Uncle Willy didn’t seem likely to mention them. “I spent the night with my husband,” she said, a little too loudly. “I don’t know what’s so shocking and immoral about that.” She poured herself a cup of coffee with a deceptive show of nonchalance. “Surely that’s not cause to make you burst into tears?”
“Sometime in the night, my dear Molly,” Willy began portentously, “while you were disporting yourself with your husband, Toby Pentick was murdered. Someone cut his throat.”
“What?” She sat down abruptly, feeling faint. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it’s not only possible, it happened, Molly,” Mrs. Morse broke in from her stance by the sink. “The police came by not half an hour ago and took Patrick with them. For questioning, they called it.” She snorted. “Seems like they found something of his by the body. What you might call circumstantial evidence.” She shook her iron-gray head. “And now God only knows what’s going to happen.”
For a moment Molly couldn’t move. It was as if a dark cloud had hovered over them all, and with the advent of the thunderstorm, disaster had broken free. She crossed the room and put her arms around Mrs. Morse’s spare figure, trying to still the sudden spurt of despair that had shot through her heart. “He’ll be all right, Mrs. Morse,” she said, not certain if she was trying to reassure the older woman or herself. “It’s all a stupid mistake, you’ll see. He was with me last night—there was no way he could have killed Toby. Why in the world should he want to do such a thing?”
“Jealousy, my dear,” Willy said from his seat in the corner in a firm voice. “He was mad with jealousy over you. Everybody knew it.”
“And you made sure that the police found that out too, didn’t you?” Mrs. Morse turned on him wildly. “You nasty, sponging drunk, ready to stab a man in the back when he’s not looking.”
“Now, now, my dear Mrs. Morse, I was only doing my duty,” Willy protested mildly, unmoved by her attack. He rose from his seat. “You don’t seem well today. This business has upset you—why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“I don’t have to discuss it with the likes of you if I do!” she flared back, turning to Molly. “As a matter of fact, I thought I might ask Ben to take me home after lunch. This has got me all upset—I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. You can manage, can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” she said soothingly, stilling her own doubts. “You leave whenever you feel like it, and I’ll give you a call as soon as Patrick gets back home.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time for that,” Willy said with a smirk, and Molly nearly threw a pan at him. Fortunately, there was nothing close at hand, so she had to be content with glaring at him fiercely.
“Willy and I were also planning on leaving this afternoon,” Ermy piped up in a watery voice. “A short round of visits with our friends the Sturbridges would get our minds off this distressing business. We should be back in a couple of days. Unless, of course, you’re afraid to stay alone?” she hinted slyly.
“I won’t be alone,” Molly shot back grimly. “My husband will be here.”
“Of course, he will,” Willy said in a soothing voice. “You could come with us, if you wish. I don’t think it’s really your thing though—nobody under fifty and all we do is play bridge. A dull party for a lively young thing like yourself. I’m sure if Patrick doesn’t get home you’ll find some other way to console yourself. After all, there are plenty of young men in town. All old friends of yours, I believe.”
“I’ll be just fine, thank you,” she answered coldly, pouring herself a cup of coffee with an unsteady hand. “Why don’t you leave as soon as you’re ready? I’d welcome some time alone in my own house.”
“Ungrateful bitch,” Ermy murmured malevolently, lifting her overdressed bulk majestically. “I need to get away from this depressing place and all the depressing people in it.” She paused and turned to Molly. “And when did you decide to take Patrick into your bed?” she demanded frostily.
Molly stared at her. Ermintrude used to frighten her, she realized. She’d lost her power over her, sometime in the last few days. “When I was sixteen,” she replied calmly, turning away.
