She took them, heart racing, skin tingling, anger filling her chest. “Who cares where it is? You want me and I need this.” She cupped the bulge at his zipper, biting her lip at the marvel of it.
“I care, Lindsay,” he said, his voice firm now. “Get dressed and go on home. I need some sleep.”
“We’re not done here,” she whispered, pulling him close once she had herself put together again. “Kiss me again. Please?”
He nodded and let his finger trace her lips once before doing as she asked. When he ended the kiss, she felt strangely close to tears. He cradled her face between his work-roughened palms.
“No, Lindsay. We are done here. You’re getting married, and I’m not gonna do this, much as I want to.” He dropped his arms and stepped away from her, his face a mask of neutrality.
But she knew better. She could practically read his mind now.
“You won’t let him take this,” she said, grabbing his hand and placing it between her legs while she draped her other arm around his neck, keeping him close. “Please, Anton. I want you to.” She licked his neck, loving the combination of flavors on his skin. He pressed his fingers against her before pushing her away gently, but with resolve.
“Don’t make this worse than it already is,” he said, before turning and running off into the gloom, leaving her breathless and needy, eager and unfulfilled and miserable, alone in the barn among the horses.
Chapter Eight
Lindsay went into shutdown mode the week before her wedding. After a week in which she had begged, pleaded, screamed, cried, slammed doors, and broken perfectly good china from her hordes of gifts, the path of least resistance seemed her only alternative. Everything she’d done had only hardened her mother further, made her determined to not only get Lindsay married off, but also to get “those Italians” off her property.
Lindsay’s father had remained mostly absent, unwilling to engage his wife’s increasingly vehement insistence on firing the best set of stable managers he’d had since his beloved Patrick turned seventy and claimed he couldn’t handle the workload anymore. Lindsay refused to eat with the family, so she went a solid week not seeing anyone but Nellie, who brought her meals, and her brothers, who brought her news.
By rehearsal day, the weather had turned oppressively hot and humid, with dark clouds roiling on the horizon every day, threatening violence but never producing. Lindsay lay under the turning ceiling fan, rigid with fury and barely contained restlessness. Her boycott of all things Halloran had, of course, meant she had to neglect her animals, which was making her nuts, especially since Frank had told her Daisy’s foot had lamed up bad and they’d called a vet.
“She’s pining for you, Linds,” he’d said to her as she lay on her side facing away from him. “You really need to at least come down and—”
“She’ll be fine,” Lindsay had said as tears rolled down her face. “I’ll see her in a few days.”
“Well, Zelda has lost her dang mind. I tried to take her out for exercise this morning, and she took a hunk out of my hat and nearly pinned me in the corner of her stall before Tony heard me yelling and calmed her.”
Lindsay had smiled at that, for more reasons that one. “So they’re still here? Lorenzo and … um … Tony?”
“Not for much longer,” he said. “I gotta go. Want me to take your food?”
“I don’t care.” She’d pulled the cover over her head until he left.
Only Nellie—one of the few adults in her life she actually respected—had been able to get her up, into a shower and her rehearsal dinner dress, stockings and shoes.
“Here, drink this,” she said after she’d arranged Lindsay’s thick auburn hair into an appropriately fancy up-do. Lindsay stared at herself in the mirror, touching her bright red lips, her exposed shoulders, the nape of her neck. “Go on, quick, before your mama sees me giving you liquor.” Nellie was holding a thimbleful of amber liquid and glancing nervously over her shoulder.
Lindsay grabbed the heavy crystal decanter she recognized from her father’s supply in his study from Nellie’s other hand. Without a word, she removed the top and swallowed a mouthful, then another, straight from the decanter. Nellie watched, her dark eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a disapproving line. Lindsay wiped her fingers across her mouth, forgetting she would smear her lipstick until it was too late. With a shrug, Nellie downed the small portion she’d poured, grabbed tissues, and began repairing Lindsay’s makeup.
An hour later, Lindsay sat in the massive formal living room of her childhood home, warmed from the inside thanks to two more healthy pulls from her daddy’s bourbon. Frozen in place, rendered immobile, and disoriented by the past days’ worth of hunger strike and isolation, she kept her fingers interlaced tight in her lap while she waited for her brother to drive her to the Methodist Church where, in less than twenty hours’ time, she’d become Missus William Scott. Her mother had already gone ahead. Any excuse, Lindsay knew, to avoid her. She assumed her father would be there at some point. He did have giving away duties to perform.
A tear slid down her cheek. She let it drop onto her lap. When she heard the car horn, she got up, smoothed the skirt of the deep violet shantung dress, and walked out the front door. The heat smacked in her in the face like a wet towel. Sweat prickled along her upper lip. Frank got out and opened the passenger’s side door with a courtly flourish. She stood, staring at him, her heart pounding so loud she figured they could hear it.
“Come on baby sister,” JR called from behind the wheel. He kept his eyes trained on the windshield. “Doesn’t pay to be late to your wedding rehearsal.”
Once they arrived, Lindsay got out of her brother’s car and ascended the long flight of marble steps to the church door. The usual sights and sounds seemed distant, muffled, as she joined her passel of giggly girlfriends, led by Kathy. They threw open the doors and pulled her inside, handing her a fake bouquet created from a paper plate and the bows off of her bridal tea gifts. Lindsay let herself be dragged into the fray, told what to do, where to stand, how to walk.
By the time her father showed up, he reeked of whiskey, and his face was flushed in a way that made her mother’s lips turn down even farther. Lindsay barely acknowledged his boozy smell, thanks to the fact that Frank had sneaked into the bridal room with a fifth of bourbon that she allowed him to pass around to the girls, most of whom refused it with prim blushes and fingers pressed to their lips. She’d grabbed it and sucked down a huge swallow, coughing and spluttering when it hit her throat, then taking another one, much to everyone’s consternation
“What’re you staring at?” she’d muttered to Kathy as she stood there, wobbly, dizzy, hungry and miserable.
Kathy had grabbed her right elbow and motioned for another friend to take her left and they’d guided her out into the large, echoing vestibule where her father stood. He wasn’t alone. Her mother was there, in mid-stream about the whole Italian “barn help thing.”
“Give it a rest, Mama,” Lindsay said, coming up behind her and smiling at her daddy, who seemed relieved to see her. “Go on now, mothers process first.”
She turned to see Will’s mama, glaring at their little tableau. “Oh, hello, Mama Scott. I was telling my Daddy how very happy I am to be so close to my weddin’ night. You know what I mean.” She winked. The woman’s face flushed so red Lindsay thought she might have sent her into heart-attack territory.
Her father grabbed her arm. “Knock it off, young lady.” His words sent a boozy rush of air into her face. She jerked her arm out of his grip.
“Let’s get this over with,” she declared, taking her gift-bow bouquet and nodding at Kathy. After Frank and JR escorted the mothers down the aisle, her friends did their processing. She stood, gripping her father’s elbow, sweaty, and well on her way to being roaring drunk.