Carolina Moon

it’s more like. Here, let me see what I can do.” She plucked at it, tugged, twisted.
    “Don’t fuss. It doesn’t matter.”
    “Not if you want to go out looking like you’ve got a black goiter under your chin. My great-aunt Harriet had goiters, and they were not attractive. Just hold still a minute, I’ve nearly got it.”
    “Just let it be, Faith.” He turned away from her to pick up his suit jacket. “I want you to stay here. There’s no point in your going out in this, or in both of us being wet and miserable for the next couple of hours. You’ve been through enough as it is.”
    She set down the purse she’d just picked up. “You don’t want me with you?”
    “You should go on home.”
    She glanced at him, then around the room. Her perfume was on his dresser, her robe on the hook behind the door. “Funny, here I was thinking that’s just where I was. Is that my mistake?”
    He took his wallet off the dresser, stuffed it in his back pocket, scooped up the loose change. “My aunt’s funeral is the last place you should be.”
    “That doesn’t answer my question, but I’ll pose another. Why is your aunt’s funeral the last place I should be?”
    “For Christ’s sake, Faith, put it together. My aunt was married to the man who killed your sister, and who might have killed you just two days ago. If you’ve forgotten that, I haven’t.”
    “No, I haven’t forgotten it.” She turned to the mirror and to keep her hands busy picked up her brush. With every appearance of calm, she ran it over her hair. “You know, a lot of people, probably most, believe I don’t have much more sense than a turnip green. That I’m flighty and foolish and too shallow to stick to anything for longer than it takes to file my nails. That’s all right.”
    She set the brush down, picked up her bottle of perfume and dabbed scent on her collarbone. “That’s all right,” she repeated. “For most people. But the funny thing is, I expect you to think better of me. I expect you to think better of me than I do myself.”
    “I think considerable of you.”
    “Do you, Wade?” Her eyes shifted and met his in the mirror. “Do you really? And at the same time you think you can put on that irritable attitude and buzz me off today. Maybe I should just go get my hair done while you’re at your aunt’s funeral. Then the next time you have to deal with something difficult or uncomfortable, I’ll go shopping. And the time after that,” she continued, her voice rising, hardening, “I’ll just have moved on anyway so it won’t be an issue.”
    “This is different, Faith.”
    “I thought it was.” She set the bottle down, turned. “I hoped it was. But if you don’t want me with you today, if you don’t think I want to be with you today, or have the belly for it, then this is no different than what I’ve already done. I’m not interested in repeating myself.”
    Emotion stormed into his eyes, raged through him until his hands were fists. “I hate this. I hate seeing my father torn to pieces this way. I hate knowing your family’s been ripped again, and that mine had a part in it. I hate knowing you were in the same room with Bodeen, imagining what could have happened.”
    “That’s good, because I hate all those things, too. And I’ll tell you something maybe you don’t know. As soon as it was over that day, as soon as I started thinking again, I wanted you. You were the one person I needed with me. I knew you’d take care of me, and hold on to me, and everything would be all right. If you don’t need the same from me, then I won’t let myself need you, either. I’m selfish enough to stop. I’ll go with you today, and stand with you and try to be some comfort to you. Or I’ll go back to Beaux Reves and start working on getting over you.”
    “You could do it, too,” he said quietly. “Why is it I admire that? Flighty? Foolish?” He shook his head as he walked to her. “You’re the strongest woman I know. Stay with me.” He lowered his forehead to hers. “Stay with me.”
    “That’s my plan.” She slipped her arms around him, ran her hands up and down his back. “I want to be there for you. That’s new for me. It’s your own fault. You just kept at me till I was in love with you. First time I haven’t aimed and shot first. I kinda like it.”
    She held him, felt him lean on her. She liked that, too, she realized. No one had ever leaned on her before. “Now, come on.” She spoke