Page 63 of Upstate
“How am I being punished?” I asked, stepping out of the tub.
You wrapped me in a towel, your soft expression turning serious. “I can’t marry you, Hazel. The best I can do is leave you this house when I die. Until then, you’ve got nothing of your own, do you? Your brother’s a straight, white man with a good education and political connections. He can make his own way in the world with or without your parents’ help. You’re a spinster living on a librarian’s salary. You won’t get another chance at this kind of security.”
My brain found your argument convincing, but my heart rejected it outright. “I could never do that to Billy.”
You changed tack. “Tell me this, then. Why does your brother deserve to inherit more than you?”
“Because it’s up to the son to carry on the family legacy, I suppose.”
“Well, your dad made it pretty clear he doesn’t want Billy to do that, and your name’s McIntyre, too.”
We didn’t talk about it anymore that night. I figured we’d never need to again. Daddy would wake up in his right mind. He and Mother would come around. The threats of the day would soon be forgotten.
I was wrong about that, like I was wrong about so many things. Because Daddy didn’t forget, did he? Sometimes I envy you for being able to.
I am, as always, forever yours. Love, Hazel
Chapter 30
At one o’clock, an announcement from the organizer marks the end of the Homestead Festival. The stage is broken down, cans of food collected, goods gathered, and tables stashed in trailers and trucks. Sam folds the camp chairs and helps me pack up my books. Once the boxes are loaded into the van, he lingers, shuffling his sandaled feet.
“I’m glad you came today, Audrey.” He takes off his sunglasses and lets them dangle from the string around his neck.
“So am I.” I take off David’s cap and shake out my hair. “Thanks for inviting me to this.”
“I liked your poem,” he says, stuffing his floppy hat into a pocket.
“It wasn’t any good,” I say, too harshly. “I mean, it still needs work.”
Cocking his head, he says softly, “It worked on me.”
Sam holds my gaze until I decode the wordless message he’s sending. Oh, I think. He likes me. The realization triggers a surge of heat, thawing the ice that’s numbed my senses since David’s death. Like a fire banked in ash, it seems an ember burns inside me yet.
“How’s your scar?” I ask Sam, stepping closer.
He pulls down his mask. “Take a look.”
I don’t intend to touch the tip of my index finger to the pink cleft in his chin, but I do. Sam reaches out, too, tracing each of my ears in turn to release the elastic bands of my mask. A subtext of danger heightens the thrill of exposure. My mouth opens, the better to breathe it in.
My fingertip is still on Sam’s chin. He takes my face in his two hands. I don’t pull away. Sam leans in, the gold-flecked circles of his brown eyes blotting out the blue sky. His mouth is so close to mine, his exhalation becomes my inhalation. My spine goes soft. My eyes drift closed. Our parted lips meet, tongue tips touching.
Suddenly, my consciousness pierces the fog of desire with the blared warning that I’m kissing a man who isn’t my husband. I jump back as if bitten.
“I—I’m sorry, Audrey,” Sam stammers. “I guess I got carried away.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I refit my mask, the flap of fabric a flimsy shield. People around us are saying their goodbyes. Engines rumble to life as farmers head back to their farms, homesteaders to their homes, animals to their pens and pastures. “I better get going, though.”
“Hey, listen.” Sam clears his throat. “I was wondering, maybe I should come by tomorrow, to help you with the goats?”
A cloud of dust from a passing pickup settles. The air clears. I’m too confused to know how I’ll feel about all this tomorrow. “I’ll text you after Maeve drops them off, okay?”
“Great. Good idea. The bookshop’s closed for the season?”
I nod. “I’m still selling online, but I’m teaching now, too, so I’ve got a lot to do.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll let you get back to it, then.”
I hold up my hand in a Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Sam Rensselaer.”
