Sunburst Page 13

  A shotgun exploded, and then another and another. Erica’s eyes flew open. The other two lounge chairs creaked as Kyle and Morgan launched themselves out of them and took off at a dead run for the new building. There was another volley of gunshots and then a crazy, raucous hooting of horns-car horns, truck horns, hunters’ duck horns, whistles, cat calls-so absurdly grating on the ears that Erica covered hers as she started running, too. She had in mind bombs, robbers, terrorists…

  Suddenly, she saw Martha Calhoun coming toward her. Erica could hear Martha’s laughter even above all the other noises. “Come on!” she exhorted with a wild motioning of her hands.

  “What on earth is going on?” There were people everywhere suddenly: the boys Kyle had hired and their girlfriends, their parents, Martha’s family, vaguely remembered faces like Mr. Hendriks from the grocery and the mailman, a Mrs. Polanataz who had brought them a cake the day they had moved here, neighbors and customers… Fireworks were being set off in the yard, and the new building was still surrounded by men with guns. None of the people were empty-handed; they were carting everything from packaged potato chips to homemade potato salad. One pickup truck had been backed up to the front door of the new building and clearly held a keg of beer, the bed of the truck dripping with ice blocks to keep it cold. Kyle and Morgan were already there, laughing, their heads thrown back-and a roar of approval went up when they enthusiastically downed the first paper cupful of beer. Kyle caught sight of her and motioned her to his side, but it just wasn’t that easy to get through the people in an instant.

  Martha grabbed Erica’s arm and hugged her with excitement, shouting at the top of her lungs for her son to keep away from the beer. “It’s a belling,” she announced. “An old German custom-though, as you know, I haven’t a drop of German blood, but then the Irish were never ones to be prejudiced where a party was concerned. The idea is a surprise welcome to the newcomers in a neighborhood, usually honeymooners. Oh, well, I had to twist the rules a bit in other ways, too. A belling’s supposed to take place after dark, but Leonard has to be back for the milking by seven. And it’s hardly your first day in the neighborhood, but we thought that new building needed a christening and maybe we just all needed an excuse to support you two. Anyway, if you can picture how it’s supposed to be-the husband-to-be with his virgin bride; he’s finally got the lights out and her clothes off, and all of a sudden there’s an explosion of noise, and they’re expected to come down pronto, entertain perhaps fifty people who all bring food and drinks and are prepared to keep the couple from…uh…”

  Erica burst out laughing as Martha finally ran out of breath.

  “The idea died out around decades ago,” Martha admitted. “God knows why. Everybody jumped to take part when I called. It’s been on my mind for an age. You see, the last one I heard of was organized by Joel McCrery, and he did it up right, on the night my parents were married. I wasn’t, respectfully, born then-but I’ve heard about it for years. I’ve just been itching for an excuse-”

  “You sweetheart!” Erica said warmly.

  “You probably won’t say that later. Everyone’s supposed to bring their own refreshments, but a blind bat could see they’ve brought more bottles than food. I can just picture the mess a few hours from now!”

  Erica could see it with her own eyes, those few hours later. The noise and confusion and hilarity had just died a few minutes ago, and Kyle and Morgan were sprawled next to her with their backs propped up against packing crates. The litter in front of them included an incredible variety of debris-half-eaten cakes, half-empty bottles, enough crackers and cheese to last a year, an empty, dripping keg…and in one corner, an eighteen-year-old boy sleeping peacefully with his head cradled in his hands, snoring.

  “I’m going to have to take him home,” Kyle said ruefully, but he made no immediate movement to get up.

  “You know where he lives?” Morgan questioned.

  “On the other side of town.”

  “Naturally.”

  There was a definite hierarchy of intoxication in the room. The worst was obviously the boy, then Morgan and Erica, and last, Kyle. Morgan, who by nature livened up a party, was one of few this time who had not been in a celebratory mood. Though he’d drunk every toast to Kyle and the new venture, he’d offered none, and his head was bent down in moodiness now…or perhaps headache.

  Erica had joined the hilarity with gusto, quickly separating from Martha to take over as hostess. She’d glowed, showing people through both new building and old. The support and enthusiasm and warmth the people showed to Kyle warmed her inside, filling her with pride in her man for the respect he’d earned, and the way people just seemed naturally to like him made her want to gravitate toward him.

  She was not fond of beer, but it was hardly the time to be picky when her husband was being toasted. So she had drunk more than she wanted to, and now there was a slight cast of double vision everywhere she looked…but it was not the beer that had altered her mood three-quarters of the way through the party. Perhaps it was the way Morgan kept looking at her oddly every time she turned around; perhaps it was the moment Kyle’s arms were around her and they were cheered as a couple… Suddenly, as on the downgrade of a roller coaster ride, her heart had stopped for a single beat, and then she had heard the sound of her own laughter, high and joyous.

  The whole day had been upbeat, as if nothing were wrong…but of course, that was an illusion. She was bubbling on about Kyle’s plans as if she were a part of them; the whole boisterous welcome to the neighborhood included her…and yet it didn’t. For the past few days, Kyle had been so much the energetic, spirited, dynamic man she married that she had almost forgotten-or tried to forget-that she wasn’t sure how long she was going to be in this cozy small town in Wisconsin. How long did he want her there?

  Choices; we can’t go on the way we have been; there’s no love without active choice… Her laughter, so right and easy moments before, was suddenly a sham, and a hollow ache had wrenched inside as she saw herself as hostess to a celebration she had no right to.

  Kyle stood up abruptly and viewed the sleeping boy with hands on hips, wry smile on his face. “God knows I should have seen it coming. Johnny never was away from the keg, but I don’t know what I’m going to tell his parents.” He shook his head in rueful exasperation, glancing at Erica.

  She lurched up to a standing position, absently touching her fingertips to her temples at the unexpected dizziness, swearing off beer in the afternoon for the rest of her life. Silently. “I’ll help you get him to the truck, and then I’ll go after this mess.”

  “Hell-just relax, Erica; it isn’t going anywhere,” Morgan insisted. “I’ll help with the boy,” he said curtly to Kyle.

  The two men managed to half carry the boy to Kyle’s truck while Erica started trying to make sense of the chaos. The late afternoon sun faded in dusty shadows on the debris, not the best of mood-breakers. She started carting trash bags out to the back, each cumbersome but none heavy. She was in a hurry suddenly. She wanted the room cleared, back the way it was earlier that afternoon, when the scent of brand-newness had touched her: newness had hope in it.

  So had she. Kyle had been so loving the night before… She thought of the intricately carved vase, of the half-finished sunburst; she thought of that crazy moment when he had vaulted her up into the tree at Martha’s.

  But nothing was quite that simple. He cared; she had never believed he hated her. They were not enemies. Yet she knew in her heart that his feelings had changed for her since they moved here; he had excluded her from every decision that counted. He didn’t want to speak of his real feelings… It was a little too easy to make a lot out of shared passion on a single night. If the man didn’t love her, she couldn’t stay.

  An exasperating tear spilled onto her cheek as she battled with the last of the bags. Her head ached from the beer, and the late afternoon sun seemed curiously harsh, eye-blinkingly bright, showing up the emptiness of the rooms that had been fi
lled with dreams before.

  “Oh, Erica…”

  Morgan was next to her in long, swift strides. She had completely forgotten him, assuming he had gone with Kyle to help with the boy. The deep, husky sympathy in his voice was the last straw; not to mention being caught in the midst of tears, weariness, the wretched beer hangover. He had his arms around her in seconds, stroking her hair, listening to her cry. “I hate to see you so unhappy. And I hate to see you doing things like this!” He made a motion that encompassed her efforts to pick up after the party, which seemed relevant to absolutely nothing.

  “It was the stupid beer,” she tried to say, desperately trying to stop crying.

  “It wasn’t the beer. You deserve more than this, Erica. I know the life you were meant for, and it wasn’t this. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to see it…”

  She barely heard him as she snatched the handkerchief he offered, mopping at her face and taking great gulping breaths. It worked. The tears stopped, though her control was still shaky. She felt even shakier as she suddenly realized that Morgan’s arm was still possessively around her, and heard something disquieting in the tone of his voice. It occurred to her that Morgan was very, very drunk.

  “I need you, Erica. Surely you’ve known that for an age? And no more working yourself ragged, no more living on hamburger, no more being stuck in this little burg…”

  Suddenly, he sounded too much like Morgan and not enough like a drunk. Confused, she saw his eyes above hers, fever-bright, aimed like darts, and she felt every nerve ending in her body recoil…

  It was just too much. She couldn’t cope with the harshness of sunlight, much less instantly bounce back from the despair she felt as a result of the difficulties between herself and Kyle. The last thing on her mind was old lessons on how to treat a man as villain. And Morgan was no villain; he’d offered comfort so many times as a friend; he’d given Kyle his time and back-breaking work… She simply didn’t know how to begin a wrestling match with him now.

  “Morgan-”

  She felt a bleak helplessness inside when his lips pressed on hers, when he roughly tried to mold her stiff form closer. Almost detached, she realized what he was doing, noted that his fingers were frenetic in an effort to arouse her sexually. Arrogant hands, so full of confidence… In that single instant, she saw a thousand flashbacks: affection she had innocently invited, sexual innuendos she had unwittingly parried, touching allowed that could be interpreted as her wanting and needing Morgan. She had wanted him-for Kyle. Not for herself. Never in that way.

  “Please-”

  His mouth tasted like the beer he had had too much of. It was distasteful to her, smothering. Her own guilt almost numbed her…yet not enough. The shorts and top she wore were insufficient covering against the onslaught of his hands, determined on intimacy, claiming her breasts, twisting in her hair, sweeping over her stomach to her hips. Fear warred with a feeling of nausea, of panic. He was far stronger than she was, and his roughness caused her to shake. Her frantic breathing seemed to give him all the wrong messages.

  “Morgan!”

  “You’re trembling, Erica,” he hissed. “You didn’t think it would be that way only with Kyle, did you? I knew…I knew…”

  “Stop it! Let go!” She pushed desperately with her hands, wrenching away from him.

  Morgan took a step back, breathing heavily, his eyes black with arousal, running his fingers through his thick mat of blond hair. His shoulders arched back as he stared at her, seeing her arms locked protectively across her chest, her wild mane of hair, her blouse hanging open where a button had popped. Her eyes stared at him disbelievingly, waiting for the apology that didn’t come.

  He leaned back against the wall, lazily shifting his feet forward. “I think we can safely take it that you’re not in the mood,” he murmured wryly. His smile suddenly slid across his face like a shutter, masking that predatory look in his eyes, inviting her to be calm and make light of it.

  She didn’t smile. “Don’t…touch me again. Ever, Morgan,” she said in a low, menacing tone.

  He didn’t like that, and his dark eyes suddenly flickered with steel. He shook his head, still smiling. “Kyle and I go back a long time, Erica,” he said roughly. “But if you’re not with him, I have no obligation to hide my own feelings. The marriage isn’t working anymore-or do you want to try to tell me that everything’s fine between the two of you?” His tone was so heavily sarcastic that she flinched. “It’s obvious that it’s over.”

  She could feel the color drain from her face. Was it obvious that her marriage was over? She had thought it a well-guarded secret and still couldn’t believe it herself.

  “So you thought that gave you certain rights?” she demanded bitterly. “I don’t love you, Morgan; I could never love you that way.” He took a step forward, and she stiffened. “Just leave me alone. I thought you were Kyle’s friend-”

  “Friend! As if Kyle needed one! He’s always gotten every damned thing he went after.” Morgan took a rasping breath. “Don’t be a fool, Erica. You’re shook up, maybe, but you know I really care for you. You know what I can give you-”

  “Nothing,” she said tightly. “Ever.” She saw the cold black glint in his eyes again and felt a chill run through her body. “I want you to go home. Leave us alone.” She saw his eyes riveted below her neck and snatched shakily at the torn yellow fabric of her blouse. “Morgan, please. I don’t want to tell Kyle. I don’t want him to know. Please, just go away-”

  “Tell Kyle,” he suggested, very softly. “You think he’ll believe you, Erica? You’re so absolutely sure he wouldn’t believe something entirely different happened? That we’d both had our share to drink at the party…”

  With a sick sense of horror, Erica started backing away from him, edging toward the door of the shop. What would Kyle believe? Kyle had always trusted Morgan; it was only his wife he’d pushed out of his world lately, as if he could no longer trust her. Behind her, her fingers reached for the doorknob and curled around it, something solid in a very shaky world. “You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t suggest anything like that to Kyle-”

  “Are you asking me not to?”

  For a price, she thought bitterly. “I’m asking you to leave us both alone.”

  “And I will, Erica. I intended to leave in the morning, regardless. You know that. There isn’t any problem, unless you create one.”

  He smiled. She felt nauseated. She spun around and wrenched open the door, leaving it ajar as she stumbled out into the yard toward the house. She was halfway there when she heard the engine of Kyle’s truck.

  It was like a nightmare. She wanted so desperately to run to him, to throw her arms around him and be sheltered and soothed… Yet she stood stock-still for that instant, too terrified that Morgan would take his revenge, and that Kyle wouldn’t believe her.

  In the next instant, she lost that choice. Kyle was a statue, freezing halfway out of the truck when he spotted her. He didn’t so much as move, taking in the torn blouse, her tousled hair and tear-streaked face… She caught the deadly chill in his eyes before he averted his face and turned toward the open door of the new building where Morgan stood.

  The truck door slammed. In tears, she ran for the house.

  Chapter 12

  Erica sat at the small dressing table in the loft where she usually put on her makeup. For an hour, she had been waiting to hear Kyle enter the house. She’d all but thrown off the clothes she’d been wearing, listening. She’d showered, listening. She put on a simple white shift and sat down, still listening.

  It seemed unbearably warm and she threw her head forward, lacing her fingers behind her neck to lift off the heavy weight of hair. She ought to get it cut. When she’d first met Kyle it had been cap-curl short; he had coaxed her into letting it grow until haircuts had become trims, and finally only Kyle took the scissors to even it. Her mane, he called it on occasion. Hair! she shrieked silently. The last thing on her mind was hair…


  She kept waiting, ready to spring up the moment she heard his footsteps downstairs. She had a dozen speeches prepared…

  Kyle, I don’t care what it looked like. Please listen…

  Kyle, your best friend attacked me…

  Kyle, I wrecked that yellow blouse on a nail; the thing just ripped. Wasn’t that stupid?

  Kyle, I love you.

  Where was he? What was he thinking? Another half hour passed, and still he didn’t come. Restlessly, Erica got up and walked to the window. Dusk had already fallen. She couldn’t see Morgan’s trailer, but the truck was no longer parked in its customary spot, nor was Morgan’s car. She stood and stared until it was too dark to see, and then moved aimlessly to the bed. She didn’t often have headaches, but at the moment her temples were pounding so badly it hurt to move. She lay down and stared at the ceiling. Her whole body felt like a massive electrical system on overload. Anxiety overload. Only gradually did that emotion shift to anger.

  She’d be damned if she was going to lose Kyle because of Morgan. Problems between herself and Kyle…perhaps. But not Morgan. That man… She’d scrubbed and scrubbed in the shower, trying to get rid of the sensation of being forced, the humiliating horror of being helpless. Over and over, she’d relived her own guilt in the ugly morass. Could her own actions have led him to believe she was interested? The hugs she’d thought meant to be only affectionate… She played all of it over and over in her brain. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her actions, but she had intended only friendship. It mattered.

  But nothing mattered now except her own relationship with Kyle. She closed her eyes. Anger was soothing the terrible anxiety. Anger had always been missing before; she hated the emotion and gave it a wide berth. She shook at the first shouted word, would a thousand times prefer to turn the other cheek. Assertiveness was a nice buzzword, easier said than done.