Chapter 11: Stay

On Wednesday night I went to his house, and for once I did not carry a pot.

"No gumbo," Reuben said, opening the door.

"No gumbo."

"Good. I wanted to see your hands."

His house sat at the bottom of Silver Street, a narrow frame cottage with a porch that leaned toward the river.

There was a candle burning in the front room, and an old record turning on a player, a trumpet so soft it was hardly there.

He had cleaned, which I could tell, because there was a sharp smell of lemon soap.

I stood in the doorway and laughed.

"What?" he said.

"You vacuumed for me."

"I vacuumed for you twice."

I walked into his arms.

He held me against him for a long moment, his chin on my hair, and neither of us said a word about the florist.

I had made up my mind on the drive.

Tonight there would be no tent, no chairs, no Priscilla.

On Friday I would call every one of those vendors, and on Monday I would deal with them.

Tonight was for him.

"Take me to bed," I said into his shirt. "I want to do it right."

"You did it right Friday."

"I want to do it slower."

His arms tightened.

He took my hand and led me down a short hall.

His bedroom held a wide iron bed and the patchwork quilt I had glimpsed before, and a window open to the river sounds.

A single lamp burned on the dresser.

I turned to him and unbuttoned his shirt myself, one button at a time, while he stood still and let me.

"Do you know what you do when I touch you?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"You hold your breath."

"I do not," Reuben said.

I pressed my palm to his stomach, and the breath went out of him in a rush.

"You're a liar, Mr. Falk."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pushed the shirt off his shoulders.

I kissed his chest, and the scar along his ribs, and the hard line of his collarbone.

He stood trembling under my mouth with his hands open at his sides.

"You can touch me," I said.

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