Читать книгу The Book of Harlan - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 12

Chapter 6

Sam convinced Lucille to make peace with Emma, and eventually she did.

The night before her best friend left Macon forever, Emma asked her parents if she could spend the night with Lucille. It was a risky request because, best friend or not, sleepovers were not allowed on weeknights.

If Louisa knew that the pleading in her daughter’s eyes had less to do with the heartbreak of losing her longtime friend to Chicago and everything to do with the ache and throb of blossoming love—Louisa would have turned Emma down flat. But Louisa didn’t know and so she agreed.

* * *

After dinner, the two friends closed themselves away in Lucille’s room, climbed into bed, folded their arms around each other, reminisced about what was, and swooned over what could be. Before long, it was midnight, time for Emma to leave.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” Emma moaned, rubbing her wet eyes.

“Me too,” Lucille concurred.

“You’ll write, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, Emma.”

Emma climbed out of the bed, smoothed her dress, and finger-combed her hair back into place.

“How do I look?”

“Beautiful as always, Em.” Lucille raised herself up onto her elbow.

“I’ll stay here tonight if you want me to.”

“And hate me forever?” Lucille laughed. “No thank you.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “You promise to write?”

“As soon as I get there.”

Emma quietly opened the window and climbed out. She blew a kiss at Lucille and disappeared into the night.

Beneath a black sky strewn with stars, Emma hurried toward her destiny. When she reached the rooming house, Sam was on the porch waiting, just as he had promised.

In his bedroom, the flame of the kerosene lamp cast their shadows long and dark against the walls and lace curtains covering the window.

Sam thought sitting on the bed would seem suggestive or presumptuous so he offered Emma the only chair in the room, while he remained standing.

“I-I got us some Coca-Cola,” he said, pointing at the two bottles perspiring on the dresser.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Emma said, nervously wringing her hands.

Her eyes darted between Sam and the door, certain that at any moment her father would come bursting in, swinging his belt like a lasso.

Sensing her uneasiness, Sam said, “If you wanna go, I’ll understand.”

Emma shook her head and exhaled. “No, I want to stay.”

He handed Emma a bottle of Coke.

“So,” Sam started, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, “is Lucille all packed?”

“Pretty much.”

“I guess you’re really going to miss her, huh?”

“Yeah,” Emma sighed.

Silence pulsed between them.

Sam finished his soda and set the empty bottle on the dresser. “Emma?”

She looked at him expectantly. “Yes, Sam?”

“I, um, I just want to say that I really, really like you.”

Emma’s face flushed. “I like you too, Sam.”

He took a measured step toward her. “I know you probably don’t think I’m good enough for you—”

“I think you’re a fine man, Sam. As good as any out there.”

It was Sam’s turn to blush. “Well, thank you, Emma.”

Feeling warm, Emma leaned toward the window, hoping to catch a breeze.

“I want you to know that I ain’t never felt about no woman the way I feel about you.”

Emma shot him a bashful look.

“Emma Robinson, I’d—”

“Yes, Sam?”

“I don’t want you to think me too forward, okay?”

“Okay, Sam.”

“Emma, may I kiss you?”

All she knew of kissing were the brush of lips against cheeks and the modest pecks newlyweds bestowed one another after her father pronounced them man and wife. Although there was that one time when she was walking with her mother and, out of the corner of her eye, she spied a couple in the alleyway that separated the feed store from the barbershop. The woman’s back was against the wall, the man pressed against her, their lips tightly locked; Emma wondered how in the world they were able to breathe. The scene never left her and every time she thought of it, her intestines wiggled in her gut.

“I would very much like you to kiss me, Sam Elliott,” she uttered breathlessly.

The kissing quickly escalated and before Emma knew it, she was on the bed, skirt rolled up to her brassiere, bloomers dangling from her ankles, Sam on top of her panting like a racehorse.

It was over as quickly as it had begun.

Afterward, they lay very still, listening to each other breathe.

Sam touched her waist. “Emma?”

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

He pulled her to his chest, brushed the hair from her face, and kissed her wet cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

“I can’t say. It’s so stupid.”

“Are you sorry we did this?”

“N-no.”

“Then what?”

“I’m just worried that people will know.”

“How would they?”

“I heard that people can tell by looking at the back of your knees.”

Sam chuckled. “I think that’s an old wives’ tale, Emma.”

“Maybe.”

“The only way people will know is if you tell them.”

“Well, I’m not gonna tell a soul—are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, then we don’t have anything at all to worry about.”

Sam kissed her again. “Not one thing.”