Sugar Beth stroked Delilah’s hair as they said good-bye. “I’ll call you on Sunday. And I’ll think about you every day.”
“I know you will, my Sugar Beth. Because you love me so much.”
“You got that right, ace,” she replied, which made Delilah giggle.
On the flight back, Sugar Beth gazed out the window and fought the lump in her throat. How many people were lucky enough to have someone in their lives who loved them so unconditionally?
As she drove home in the dark, she tried to figure out how she could thank Colin. In the end, she took the coward’s way out and wrote him a note. Her first three attempts revealed too much and ended up in the wastebasket, but the version she stuck in his mailbox as she left for work on Friday morning did the job without the sentiment.
Dear Colin,
I saw Delilah yesterday. Thank you. Being with her meant everything to me, and I take back nearly every bad thing I’ve said about you.
Gratefully,
Sugar Beth
(Please do not mark for spelling and punctuation.)
Colin crumpled the letter in his fist and tossed it on the ground next to the wheelbarrow. He didn’t want her gratitude, damn it, he wanted her company, her smiles. He wanted her body—he couldn’t deny that—but also her quirky point of view, that irreverent humor, those sideways glances she gave him when she didn’t think he was looking.
He threw down his shovel. Ever since Sunday, he’d been tense and irritable. He couldn’t write, couldn’t sleep. No big mystery why. Guilt wasn’t a comfortable companion, and it was time he did something about it.
The phone call came at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, an hour before the bookstore closed. “Gemima’s Books,” Sugar Beth said.
“If you want to see your dog alive again, be at Rowan Oak at five o’clock. And come alone.”
“Rowan Oak?”
“If you call the police, the dog’s . . . dog meat.”
“I dumped you!”
But he’d already hung up.
She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t let him manipulate her. But not long after the store closed, she found herself on the highway heading toward William Faulkner’s legendary home in Oxford. Colin had made it possible for her to see Delilah, and she owed him this. Still, she wished he didn’t have to make everything so hard.
The house and grounds closed to the public at four o’clock, but someone obviously had important connections because a burgundy Lexus sat in the otherwise empty parking lot and the wooden gate was open. Having grown up in northeastern Mississippi, Sugar Beth had been to Rowan Oak many times—with a Girl Scout troop, church youth groups, the Seawillows, and during senior year, in a big yellow bus with Mr. Byrne’s English classes. William Faulkner had bought the decrepit Greek Revival plantation in the early 1930s. At the time the house had no indoor plumbing or electricity, and Faulkner’s wife was rumored to have spent her days sitting on the stoop crying while her husband began making the house livable. Until his death in 1962, Faulkner had lived here, gotten drunk here, frightened his children with stories of a ghost he invented, and written the novels that had eventually won him the Nobel Prize for literature. In the early 1970s, his daughter had sold the house and grounds to the University of Mississippi, and since then, visitors from all over the world had come to see the state’s most famous literary landmark.
She approached the two-story white frame house through the imposing avenue of cedars that had been planted during the nineteenth century. Long before she reached the end of the old brick walk, she saw Colin leaning against one of the house’s square columns with Gordon lying at his feet.
“Pat Conroy called Oxford the Vatican City of Southern letters,” he said as he stepped off the porch.
“I didn’t know that, but I do love the man’s books.” She scratched Gordon’s head. “My dog’s still alive, I see.”
“I’m nothing if not merciful.”
He wore a white sweater and an immaculate pair of gray slacks. The outdoor work had left him tan, and she was once again struck by the contrast between his masculinity and his elegance. He was a mass of contradictions, haughty and cynical, but also tender and a lot more sentimental than he let anyone see. How his wife’s suicide must have devastated him. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“I have something I want to give you.”
“You’ve given me more than enough. That plane ticket—”
“Faulkner has always been my favorite American writer,” he said, cutting her off.
“Not surprising. You share a fascination for the same literary landscape.”
“We don’t, however, share the same facility with language. The man was a genius.”
“I suppose.”
“Don’t even contemplate saying anything disrespectful about William Faulkner.”
“As long as I don’t have to read another one of his books, I’ll be completely respectful.”
“How can you say that? Faulkner is—”
“He’s a man, and I have a limited patience with dead white male writers. Or even living ones for that matter, you and Mr. Conroy being notable exceptions. Now Jane Austen, Harper Lee, Alice Walker, their books deal with things women care about.” She let herself rattle on. “Margaret Mitchell isn’t p.c. anymore, but that was one heck of a page-turner. Then there’s Mary Stewart, Daphne du Maurier, LaVyrle Spencer, Georgette Heyer, Helen Fielding—but only the first Bridget Jones. Nope, Faulkner just doesn’t make my final cut.”
“Your list is a little heavy on romance for my tastes.”
“You try spending six months sitting at somebody’s bedside waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn’t one of God’s good gifts.”
He planted a quick kiss on her forehead, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly undid her. “Let’s go inside.”
He opened the door for her, and as they entered the empty house, she gazed at the foyer, where a set of stairs led to the second floor. “Can you get me into George Clooney’s place, too?”
“Some other time.”
They wandered through the hallways of Faulkner’s home, gazing into each room but not entering. She couldn’t resist pointing out the stack of paperback potboilers on display in Faulkner’s bedside bookshelves, but Colin was more fascinated by his office. As he took in the old Underwood typewriter, he contemplated how modern word processing might have changed Faulkner’s writing. Sugar Beth refrained from pointing out that Microsoft wasn’t doing a thing for Colin’s output, and the only work being done at Frenchman’s Bride these days involved stone.
They left the house and walked around the grounds. Dusk was settling in, but she could still see the forsythia and wild plum blooming in Bailey’s Woods behind the house. Before long, the dogwood would be in flower. Gordon waddled at Colin’s side, occasionally stopping to investigate a shrub or sniff at a clump of grass. As they returned to the house, Colin took her hand. “I’ve missed you this week.”
She felt the hard ridge of calluses on his palm and didn’t want to draw away, but what was the point in torturing herself. “You’re just horny.”
He stopped walking and ran his finger along her cheek, regarding her with such tenderness that her heart missed a beat. “I want more from you than sex, Sugar Beth.”
She had a saucy comeback all loaded and ready to fire, but she fumbled with the trigger. “You . . . you know I don’t do windows.”
“Please stop it, darling.” The request was gently uttered, and the endearment, which would have sounded pompous coming from anyone else, fell over her like cherry blossoms.
She swatted an imaginary bug to give herself an excuse to move a few steps away. “What do you want?”
“I want you to give us time. Is that too much to ask?”
“Time for what? I’m a three-time loser, Colin. Four if you count Ryan.” She tried to sound saucy, but she was afraid she’d merely sounded sad. “I feed off men. I lure them with my sexual tricks, then bite off their heads while they sleep.”