Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [154]
The years with his wife had been vivid, alive with her music and her voice’s melody. The Christmas after she died, he’d been at her mother’s house for dinner. Washing his hands before carving turkey, Steve had been attracted to a familiar crystal shape on the bathroom counter.
A perfume bottle identical to one Susan had kept on her dressing table.
He lifted the stopper. The marriage of citrus with the earthy scent of iris was the same that Susan had dabbed behind her ears and in the hollow of her elbows, so that it floated behind her like an aura. It nearly brought him to his knees.
He fought it until he folded down onto the rim of the tub. Chill from the porcelain seeped into the backs of his legs. The tile was cold, too, where he leaned his head against the wall and wept.
Lying with Clare, Steve finally said good-bye to Susan.
He marveled that he did it without pain, as if he were suddenly made light. He could no longer summon Susan’s music, because Clare’s husky voice haunted his dreams, no longer smell Susan’s perfume, for the faint spicy smell of Clare’s skin excited him beyond belief.
She shifted and burrowed her head more deeply into the hollow of his shoulder. He smoothed her bare thigh where the shirt had ridden up, but she did not awaken.
Tonight was a moment snatched in time, while the clock on his bookshelf ticked toward tomorrow. He wanted Clare with everything in him, to make a new life for himself with her in it. The hell of it was that she did not seem the type of woman to drop her plans and take up with an alcoholic whose job was in jeopardy. He’d bought two bottles of wine today, more than he needed for cooking, only partially because he thought Clare might like some.
He’d managed to stay out of it tonight, but what about another day? And what would happen when he struggled with the depression that was bound to descend after he put Clare on a plane to Houston?
From outside the house came an odd sound, not loud, like the crackling of Rice Krispies, or . . .
Fire!
Steve eased himself out from under Clare, trying not to disturb her and yet move quickly at the same time. When he got up, he found that the pain had settled back into his knees. On the front porch, the crackling was louder and the wind whipped his pant legs. Less than two miles away, the near shoulder of Bunsen Peak was ablaze.
Clare awoke alone on Steve’s couch. A current of moving air attracted her attention to the front door standing open. Beyond the checkered lattice, Steve was in the yard.
Down the single step, her bare feet found grass, cool and soft. She said Steve’s name softly and slid her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back. He put his hands over hers, pressing her palms against his bare chest.
They stood together for a long moment until he said, “Take a look at this.”
She loosed her grip and stepped from behind him. The red glow in the south suffused the sky. “Good God,” she breathed. Her heart set up a tripping as she gauged the wind and the distance between the town and the fire. She was glad that Garrett was here, for he would know when an evacuation should be called.
“It’s beautiful,” Steve said. Clare stared at the crimson underbelly of the clouds. “Part of the forest’s life, and yet it can be so deadly.”
How many times this summer had she both shuddered and thrilled to that splendor? When she and Deering had watched the Mink Creek come down Turret Mountain even the sky had seemed aflame. When the Hellroaring had crowned and chased them to earth in their shelters, she’d felt its elemental fury. Driving away from Old Faithful, they’d passed through the North Fork’s undulating scarlet drapery.
Together, she and Steve watched the advance of the North Fork, smelling and tasting