The Green Lace Corset, стр. 72

She smiled at the compliment. She’d been working on it. Some day she might even become as good a cook as he was. She’d grown to enjoy it—chopping, mixing, and stirring. Even though she liked it, though, she didn’t want to have to do it every night. She was lucky because Cliff traded off making meals with her. What would those complaining housewife biddies in Missouri say about that?

After supper, she gazed at his handsome face and imagined what it might have been like if their beginnings had been different—no bank robbery, no dead men, no kidnapping. Maybe he’d be her beau and then her husband and they’d have a normal life, with children. They’d live near Mama, go to church, and have Sunday afternoon suppers together. No, she wouldn’t like that at all. She scrunched up her nose.

“Does your nose itch?” Cliff asked.

She scratched it.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” He grinned.

“No, what?”

“Means you’re gonna kiss a fool.”

“I guess it means I’m gonna kiss you, then.” She put a hand over her mouth. Did she just say that? That reply had just leaped out like a frog.

He laughed so hard, she thought he might get apoplexy. “Sally Sue, you’re a hoot. Let’s get this hoedown going.”

They stacked the dishes in the washbasin. He carried the table to the side of the room, arranged a chair in the middle, and proffered his hand. Nervous, she giggled and sat.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

He stood before her. “I sure wish I had my banjo.”

“You don’t play the banjo.”

“Yes, I do. I promise I’ll get one and play for you someday.” With gusto, his deep voice filling the cabin, he began to sing “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain”—the same song he’d sung that first night on the way to the homestead.

She clapped and sang along to the first verse.

On the second verse, he said, “Dance around me like I’m a mountain.”

As he continued to sing, she galloped around him in circles, holding the edges of her dress’s hem. He sang very fast on the last stanza, and she had a hard time keeping up with him, but she managed. Out of breath and laughing, she fell into the chair.

Next, he serenaded her, pronouncing every word in a twangy, exaggerated fashion:

Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementine

She was surprised he knew the words to all five verses. “Why do you think all the good songs are written about women?” she asked.

“Because you’re the fairer sex. Any requests?”

“‘Oh! Susanna’?”

He stomped his boots on the wood floor in time. “Oh! Susanna, oh don’t you cry for me . . . Come on, Sally Sue, give it your all.”

She couldn’t resist—she sang full out, hit a high soprano C with perfect pitch and then a low C, like she’d done at home in choir. No warbling in between.

Cliff yelled, “You can sure sing, girl. Dance, Sally Sue, dance!”

They danced around each other, her skirt twirling at her ankles as she spun around and around. His muscular body shook and wiggled. She copied his movements, the merriment exhilarating. At the end of the song, she sat again.

Then he was quite clever, making up his own impromptu words:

Oh! Sally Sue, oh won’t you cry for me

for I’ve brought you to Arizonee

with a banjo on my knee.

He extended his arms toward her and began to hum the “Blue Danube Waltz.” The notes flew straight into her heart like arrows. She shouldn’t let him hold her; she stepped back.

His eyes glowed deep blue—the color of the Danube, or maybe even the Pacific. Her body tingled for his touch. When he reached toward her, she allowed him to clasp her hand in his and guide the other around his firm waist.

As they hummed in unison, he led her in circles around the cabin, keeping them in a continuous rhythm. The intoxicating scent of sage filled the air. Candles sent dreamy shadows as they shimmered above them.

She shouldn’t let him hold her so tight, but she couldn’t pull back. She leaned into him and felt the strength of his body against hers.

At the end of the song, he whispered in her ear, “Ah, Sally Sue.”

When she looked up at him, he leaned down and kissed her. For a moment she hesitated, until a spark flickered and ignited inside her body and she returned his kiss with deep longing—a longing filled with sorrow for her own mixed-up feelings for him: fear, hatred, admiration, maybe even love.

He abruptly shook his head and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

In a daze, she stared up at him.

“You’re just so beautiful is all.” He turned away. “I’ll be in the barn.”

Sally Sue wanted to grab his arm and pull him to her again. Instead, she curtsied as if it had been any old town-hall dance. “Thank you for the hoedown.”

He closed the door on his way out. She removed the red dress and crawled into bed. Her mind relived the kiss over and over again. It took her ages to fall asleep.

In the night, a dream aroused her. Cliff was beside her in the big bed, his kisses plum soft, hers back juicy-sweet. Candles flickered like stars. The ceiling opened; they rotated, levitated together, into a blue velvet sky. Soft breezes twirled and swirled their bodies in circles toward the heavens. Even though she knew it was a dream, she held on to him for dear life, wanting God to make this bliss, not a sin, but real and divine.