First Thrills - Lee Child [100]
I had grown up with Brent as well. He was lean and tall like Johnny, dark haired, handsome, light eyed, and he’d been bred with the same ethics. I couldn’t understand him being so bitter and churlish, not about Johnny coming home. I knew he’d taken some hard hits. He’d married a girl in Virginia, and she’d died before any of the family had even managed to meet her. To be sad and even bitter seemed to be one thing; to be so cold to his cousin seemed quite another.
Brent studied me. I couldn’t help but think that his eyes were green—not the beautiful blue Johnny’s had once been. And yet today . . .
They were alive. Deep set and steady, and somehow, wise beyond all that I had seen before.
“I loved Johnny like a brother,” he told me.
I frowned. “Then give him a hug and a real welcome, and be happy that he is home!” I told him.
He gripped my hands tightly. “Jules,” he said, his voice suddenly heated and passionate, “be careful. Be very careful, please.”
I jerked away from him, staring at him. “Be careful—of Johnny? Brent, you have lost your mind.”
I swept on into the dining room.
Mable, the cook, had gone all out. Johnny’s favorites were all on the table. There was ham, chicken, roasted lamb, cornbread, turnip greens, summer squash, tomatoes, fresh berries, and for dessert, sweet-potato-pecan pie.
Johnny barely touched his food. He thanked Mable and told her how delicious everything on the table tasted.
But he didn’t really eat. He simply pushed his food around the plate.
When the meal had ended, Janey Sue and I gave the gentlemen a few minutes alone in the study for brandy and cigars. She and I were both chafing. Johnny had just come home. And so much that was innocent and traditional had already been lost—why were we delegated to the ladies’ room?
“Time enough!” I said firmly. Janey Sue smiled, and she and I headed to the study.
Johnny was seated in his father’s huge old leatherback chair behind the desk. Brent was at the settee, and my father was standing by the mantle, perplexed as he watched Johnny. “What’s done is done. How would we change anything now?” My father was asking.
Brent seemed to be looking out the window, paying no mind to what was going on.
“Maybe the world needs a clean sweep,” Johnny said. “A mighty flood to rise up, and clear us all out, those who were greedy and made their fortunes on the backs of other men, and those who will sweep down now to make their fortunes on the broken backs of those trying to come to terms with the war. What has been . . . the past is gone. It can never be relived.”
He stood up. “My dear friends, and family,” Johnny said, glancing tenderly at his sister, glancing at Brent, “I am exhausted. Forgive me.”
Everyone agreed that he must rest. But I raced out into the hall after him. He didn’t mean me, of course. He would need me. Naturally, a Southern lady did not sleep with her beau until they were married.
But such myths had gone away in the river of bloodshed that had been the war. I had lain with Johnny many times. I did not shout it from the rooftops, nor did other Southern women, well aware that their opportunities for intimacy with their loved ones might be limited and quickly ended by a volley of cannon fire.
“Johnny!” I said, stopping, laying my head against his chest. “I will come up later, once we’ve settled for the night. Father will understand that I am staying with Janey Sue, and Janey Sue has long known that I stay with you.”
He pulled away and stared at me, frowning. He shook his head. “No, no, you must go home tonight.”
“Johnny—”
“Tonight, please. You must.” His hands cupped my face. “You must go home, far from here. You are not . . . you must. I love you as I have always loved you. But tonight, go home.”
He walked away from me. I stared after him, incredulous. I had missed our nights together. I had dreamed about them time and time again