The scene changed, and he wilted, pulling his elbow against his side as if only now realizing what he’d been doing. Her elbow actually hurt from the pressure he’d been applying. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, crossed an ankle over a knee and negligently dropped his laced fingers over the zipper of his corduroy pants.
Considering what had happened within her own body, Theresa had little doubt the same had happened to Brian. The remainder of the film was lost on her. She was too aware of the man on her right, and she found herself wondering who he’d been thinking of while the pressure on her elbow increased. She found herself wondering things about the male anatomy that the screen had carefully hidden. She recalled pictures she’d seen in the bolder magazines, but they seemed as flat, cold and lifeless as the paper upon which they’d been printed. For the first time in her life, she ached to know what the real thing was like.
When the film ended, she took refuge in chattering with Patricia, making certain she walked far enough ahead of Brian that their elbows didn’t touch or their eyes meet.
“Anybody hungry?” Jeff inquired when they were back in the station wagon.
Theresa felt slightly queasy, sitting once again with Brian only a foot away. If she tried eating anything, she wasn’t sure it would stay down.
“No!” she exclaimed, before anybody else could agree.
“Yeah, I—” Brian spoke at the same time, then politely changed course. “I’ve been thinking about a piece of your mother’s German chocolate cake all through the movie.”
In a pig’s eye, thought Theresa.
Oddly enough, nobody talked about the film as they drove back to Patricia’s house. Nobody said much of anything. Patricia was snuggled up with her shoulder behind Jeff’s. Now and then he’d turn and smile down at her with the dash lights clearly outlining the ardent expression on his face. Patricia’s shoulder moved slightly, and Theresa conjured up the possibility of where her hand might be. Theresa gazed out her window and blushed for perhaps the tenth time that day.
When they pulled up in Patricia’s driveway, Jeff turned off all the lights and gathered Patricia into his arms without a moment’s hesitation. Behind the couple, another man and woman sat like two bumps on a log.
Kisses, Theresa discovered, have more sound than you’d think. From the front seat came the distinct rush of hastened breathing, the faint suggestive sounds of lips parting, positions changing, the rustle of hands moving softly. The rasp of a zipper sizzled through the dark confines of the car, and Theresa jumped, but immediately wished she hadn’t, for it was only Jeff’s jacket.
“Come on, Theresa, what do you say we go for a little walk?” Brian suggested. The overhead light flashed on, and she hustled out his door, so relieved she wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him out of sheer gratitude.
When the door slammed behind them, Theresa surprised herself by releasing a pent-up breath and bursting out with the last words she expected to say. “Thank you.”
He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and chuckled. “No need to thank me. I was getting a little uncomfortable myself.”
His admission surprised her, but the frankness definitely relieved some of the tension.
“I can see I’ll have to talk with my little brother about decorum. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do!”
“What did you used to do when that happened on double dates?”
She was embarrassed to have to admit, “I’ve never been on a double date bef—” She stopped herself just in time and amended, “I’ve never been on one.”
“Aw, think nothing of it. They’re both adults. He loves her—he’s told me so more than once—and he intends to marry her soon after his hitch is done.”
“You amaze me. I mean, you take it all in stride.” Heavens, thought Theresa, do couples do things like that in the same car with as little compunction as her brother showed and think nothing of it? She realized suddenly how very, very naive she must seem to Brian Scanlon.
“He’s my friend. I don’t judge my friends.”
“Well, he’s my brother, and I’m afraid I do.”
“Why? He’s twenty-one years old.”
“I know, I know.” Theresa threw up her hands, exasperated with herself and uncomfortable with the subject.
“How old are you, Theresa? Twenty-five, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I take it you haven’t done a lot of that sort of thing.”
“No.” Because every time I got in a car with a boy, he went after only the most obvious two things, never caring about the person behind them. “I was busy studying when I was in high school and college, and since then. ..well, I don’t go out much.”
They were ambling down a snowy street, feet lifting lazily as the streetlights made the surface snow glitter. Her coat was still buttoned high, and her hands were buried in its pockets. Their breaths created white clouds, and their soles pressed brittle ice that crunched with each step.
“So, what did you think of the movie?” Brian asked.
“It embarrassed me,” she admitted.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s Jeff’s. He’s the one who picked it.”
“Next time we’ll be sure to ask before we blindly follow him, okay?”
Next time? Theresa glanced up to find Brian smiling down at her with an easy laziness that was meant to put her at ease, but that lifted her heart in a strange, weightless way. She should have answered, “There won’t be a next time,” but instead smiled in return and concurred. “Agreed.”
They turned around and were heading toward the Gluek driveway when Jeff backed the station wagon onto the street and its lights arced around, caught them in the glare, and he pulled up beside them.
“Would you two mind if we took you home?” Jeff asked when Theresa and Brian were settled in the back seat again.
“Not at all,” Brian answered for both of them.
“Thanks for understanding, Bry. And Treat, you’ll take good care of him, won’t you?”
She wanted to smack her brother on the side of the head. Jeffrey Brubaker certainly took a lot for granted!
“Sure.” What else could she have answered?
When they pulled up at home, Brian opened his door and the light flashed on. Patricia Gluek turned around and hooked an elbow over the back of the seat.
“Listen, a group of us are getting together at the Rusty Scupper on New Year’s Eve, and you’re both invited to join us. We plan to have dinner there and stay for the dancing afterward. It’ll be a lot of the old gang—you’ve met them all before, Theresa—so what do you say?”
Damn it, does the whole world think it has to line up escorts for the wimpy little Theresa Brubaker who never gets asked out on dates? But she knew in her heart that Patricia was only being cordial and thinking about Brian, too, who was Jeff’s houseguest and couldn’t very well be excluded. He had one foot on the driveway, but this time instead of putting Theresa on the spot, he answered, “We’ll talk it over and let you know, okay?”
“Some people from school are having a party in their home, and I told them I might go.” The manufactured tale came glibly to Theresa’s lips while she was still puzzling out where it had come from.
“Oh.” Patricia sounded genuinely disappointed. “Well, in that case, you’ll come, won’t you, Brian? We have to make dinner reservations in advance.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Fine.”
Brian swiveled toward the open door, but Jeff reached out and caught his arm. “Listen, Scan, thanks. I mean, I guess I ought to come in with you and play the host, but I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”
“Go on. Have a good time and don’t worry about me.”
When the car pulled away, Theresa and Brian stood on the back step while she dug in her purse for the house keys. When she found them and opened the door, they stepped into a dim kitchen where only a single bulb shone down on top of the white stove. It
was silent—no stereo, no guitar, no voices.
They were both excruciatingly aware of what Jeff and Patricia were probably going off to do, and it created a corresponding sexual tension between them.
Seeking a diversion, Theresa whispered, “You said you were hungry for cake. There’s plenty of it left.”
He wasn’t, really, but Brian wasn’t at all averse to spending a little more time with Theresa, and the cake offered an excuse.
“I will if you will.”
“It sounds good.”
She moved toward the front hall, which was in total shadow, and made no move to turn on the light while removing her coat. Again, Brian was behind her to help her out of the garment, then hang it up. She left him there with a murmured thanks and returned to the kitchen to find two plates, forks and glasses of milk, taking them to the table where the cake still sat.
He joined her, choosing a chair at a right angle to hers, and they sat for a long time eating, saying nothing. The rafters of the house creaked in the December cold, and though it was very dark with only the small hood light illuminating the blotch of stove beneath it, she sensed Brian Scanlon studying her while he downed gulps of milk that sounded clearly in the silence.
“So, you’re going to a party with someone from school on New Year’s Eve?”
“No, I made that up.”
His chin came up in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yes. I don’t like people arranging dates for me, and furthermore, you don’t need to be saddled with me on New Year’s Eve. You go with Jeff and meet his friends. He’s got some really nice—”
“Saddled with you?” he interrupted in that smooth, deep, unnerving voice that sent shivers up her nape.
“Yes.”
“Did I give you the impression tonight that I resented being with you?”
“You know what I mean. You didn’t come home with Jeff to have to haul me around every place you go.”
“How do you know?”
She was stunned, she could only stammer. “You ... I....”
“Would it surprise you to know that you’re a big part of why I wanted to meet Jeff’s family?”
“I ...” But once again, she was struck dumb.
“He’s told me a lot about you, Theresa. A lot.”
Oh, Lord, how much? How much? Jeff, who knows my innermost fears. Jeff, who understands. Jeff, who can’t keep anything to himself.
“What has he told you?” She tried to control the panic, but it crept into her voice, creating a vibrato that could not be disguised.
He made himself more comfortable, stretching his long legs somewhere beneath the table to find the seat of a chair as he leaned back to study her shadowed face speculatively. His eyes held points of light as he caught an elbow on the table edge and braced one jaw on his knuckles, tipping his head.
“About how you looked out for him when he was a kid. About your music. The violin and piano. How you used to sing duets for your family reunions and pass the hat for nickels afterward, then, as soon as you had enough, go to the store to buy your favorite forty-fives.” His lips lifted in a slow half smile, and his free hand moved the milk glass in circles against the tabletop.
“Oh, is that all?” Her shoulders wilted with relief, but in the dimness she had crossed her elbows on the tabletop and took refuge behind them as best she could.
“You always sounded as if you’d be someone I could get along with. And maybe I liked you even before I met you because he likes you so much, and you’re his sister and I also like him very much.”
Theresa was unused to being told she was liked. In her lifetime a few of the opposite sex had overtly tried to demonstrate what they “liked” about her, in the groping, insulting way she’d come to despise. But Brian seemed to have come to admire something deeper, her little-exposed self, her musicality, her familial relations. All this before he had ever laid eyes on her.
But those eyes were on her now, and though she could not make out their color in the veiling shadows, she caught the sparkle as he continued perusing her freely, the tip of his little finger now resting in the hollow beneath his full lower lip. She seemed unable to draw her eyes away from it as he went on quietly.
“I’d love to go to that party with you on New Year’s Eve.”
Their eyes met, hers wide with surprise, his carefully unflirtatious.
“But you’re ... you’re two years younger than I am.” Once she’d said it, she wanted to eat the words.
But he asked undauntedly, “Does that bother you?”
“Yes. I ...” She blew out a huge breath of air and leaned her forehead on the heel of one hand. “I can’t believe this conversation.”
“It doesn’t bother me in the least. And I sure as hell don’t want to go to that kind of a thing alone. Everybody’ll be paired off, and I won’t have anybody to dance with.”
“I don’t dance.” That was the understatement of the night. Dancing was a pleasure she’d abandoned when her breasts grew too large to make fast dancing comfortable, their sway and bob not only hurting, but making Theresa feel sure they must appear obscene from the sidelines. And chest-to-chest dancing was even worse—being that close to men, she’d found, only gave them ideas.
“A musical woman like you?”
“Music and dancing are two different things. I’ve just never cared for—”
“There’s time before New Year’s Eve to learn. Maybe we can change your mind.”
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“Sure.” He got to his feet, and the chair scraped back, then he carried their two plates across the room and set them in the sink with a soft chink.
She opened the basement door and snapped on the light above the steps. “Well, I’m not sure if mother made your bed down here or not.”
She heard his steps following her down the carpeted incline, and prayed she’d find his bed all decked out, ready for him, so she could simply wish him good-night and escape to her own room upstairs.
Unfortunately, the davenport wasn’t either opened or made up, so Theresa had little choice but to cross the room and begin the chore. She tossed the cushions aside, conscious now that Brian had snapped on the lamp, and it flooded the area with mellow light that revealed her clearly while she tugged on the folded mattress and brought it springing out into the room.
“I’ll get the bedding,” she explained, and hustled into the laundry room to find clean sheets and blankets on a shelf there. He had turned on the television set when she came back out to the family room, and a late movie was glimmering on the screen in black and white. The volume was only a murmur as she shook out a mattress pad, concentrating fully on it when Brian stepped to the opposite side of the davenport to help her.
His long fingers smoothed the quilted surface with the expertise of a soldier who’s been trained to keep his bunk in inspection-ready order. A sheet snapped and billowed in the air between them, and above it their glances met, then dropped. Images of the movie’s love scene came back to titillate Theresa, while they tucked the corners of the sheets in, and Brian’s hands pulled it far more expertly than hers, for hers were shaking and seemed nearly inept.
“Tight enough to bounce a coin,” he approved.
She glanced up to find him looking at her instead of the sheet, and wondered what this man was doing to her. She had never in her life been as sexually aware of a male as she was of him. Men had brought her nothing but shame and intimidation, and she’d avoided them. Yet here she stood, gazing into the green eyes of Brian Scanlon over his half-prepared bed, wondering what it would be like to do with him the things she’d seen on a movie screen.
Redheads look ugly when they blush, she thought.
“The other sheet,” he reminded her, and abashed, she turned to find it.
When the bed was finally done, she found her pulses leaping like Mexican jumping beans. But there still remained one duty she, as hostess, must perform.
“If you’ll come upstairs, I’ll give you c
lean towels and washcloths, and show you where the bathroom is.”
“Jeff showed me after supper.”
“Oh. Oh ... good. Well, feel free to shower or ... or whatever, anytime. You can hang your wet towels over the sink in the laundry room.”
“Thank you.”
They stood one on either side of the bed, and she suddenly realized she was facing him fully for the first time without shielding her breasts. Not once since she’d met him had she noticed him looking at them. His eyes were fastened on the freckled cheeks, then they moved up to her detestable red hair, and she realized she’d been standing without moving for a full thirty seconds.
“Well ... good night then.” Her voice was soft and shaky.
“Good night, Theresa.” His was deep and quiet.
She scuttled away, racing up the stairs as if he were chasing her with ill intent. When she was settled into bed with the lights out, she heard him come upstairs and use the bathroom.
Put a pillow over your ears, Theresa Brubaker! But she listened to all the sounds coming from beyond her bedroom wall, and two closed doors, and envisioned Brian Scanlon performing his bedtime rituals and wondered for the first time in her life how a husband and wife ever made it through the intimacies of the first week of marriage.
Chapter Three
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Theresa was awakened by the thump-thump-thump of Amy’s stereo reverberating through the floor. Rolling over, she squinted at the alarm clock, then shot out of bed as if it was on fire. Ten o’clock! She should have been up two hours ago to fix breakfast for Brian and Jeff!
Within minutes she was washed, combed, dressed in blue jeans and a loose white blouse with a black cardigan slung across her shoulders and buttoned beneath the blouse collar.
Her parents had gone to work long ago. Jeff’s door was closed, and the sound of his snoring came from beyond. It appeared Amy was still in her room, torturing her hair with a curling iron while Theresa tried to tame her springing curls by smoothing a hand over the infamous tail that bounced on her shoulders.
She crept down the hall to the kitchen but found it empty. The basement door was open—it appeared Brian was up. She was filling the coffeepot when he, slipped silently to the doorway leading directly to the kitchen from one side of the living room.