Fern sat up, pulled on her robe, and peeped into the darkened kitchen. Cal stood at the back door, visible through the window glass. Her heart swelled with relief and thrill, her hands practically shaking as she unlocked the door and let him in.
He doffed his hat. “I bet you’d like to give me a good smack for leaving you hanging all day. I’m sorry, princess.”
He kept his voice low, a whisper just between them.
“I was a little worried,” she admitted. But now, she could barely recall what that agitation had felt like. With him there, she could breathe easier.
“I couldn’t get away.” He got out of his coat and hung it and his hat on a peg next to the door. Cal ran his hand through his hair. He seemed wound up.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
He went to a cupboard, took out a glass, and then opened the monitor-top Frigidaire. Cal poured himself a glass of milk and downed it.
“Rod’s got something planned for the Jacky Boys,” he said, still standing next to the refrigerator. “He wants to hit back, hard, for the ambush at Tom’s place.”
Fern’s stomach plummeted. “When?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled out a chair at the table and slid down into it, as though he’d been on his feet all day. “He’s being cagey about it and keeping me out of the loop.”
That’s what was agitating him. Barefoot, Fern took a few steps across the dark kitchen toward him. She thought about turning on the light. Helen’s room was far enough away that she wouldn’t see it. But something about the dark was comforting.
“Is it because of me?” she asked. His brother had seen the flower in her hair and knew that Cal had gone out of his way to pick her up in Zionsville. Rod despised Fern’s brother, and for good reason. Cal did too. But only Rod had extended that revulsion toward Fern.
Cal leaned back in the chair and held his hand out to her, yet again. Slowly, she lowered herself onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her hips, but they didn’t stay there long. Cal’s hand wandered to the collar of her robe, then the sleeve. He rubbed the rose-colored silk between his thumb and forefinger, and Fern remembered what she wore underneath: a lightweight, nainsook cotton nightgown. Cal’s legs shifted as he sat forward, jostling her closer. He slid his hand up her robe’s sleeve, touching skin.
“I got an interview,” Fern blurted, nearly breathless.
He pulled back, his mouth quirking up into a small grin. “How?”
“I answered some want ads today, and then I dialed up the library.”
He sighed and sat back, his hand slipping from her wrist. “Fern, I’m sorry. I said I’d take you. I just didn’t want to leave Rod, not with him acting secretive.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” She hated to see him deflate like that. It wasn’t like him. Whatever had happened with Rod was weighing on him. “I wanted to do it on my own, and I did.”
His arms tightened around her again, and she thrilled at the rare, full smile showing his teeth. “Look at that. You didn’t need me after all.”
Getting the interview on her own merit did feel good. Better than just good. She felt…proud. Of herself.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing something change in her expression.
“The truth is, I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for you.” He’d drawn her out of her turret and into the world—the real world. Each time he’d reached his hand out to her, she’d taken it.
Fern’s fingers wove between his, brushing first over his calloused palms, his strong fingers and knuckles. He’d gone quiet, though she could somehow still hear his mind whirring. There was nothing restful about the silence.
“You did it all yourself,” he finally said. There was more he wanted to say, she could feel it, and she kept her lips pinned, waiting for him to speak. His whisper turned husky and thick. “I meant what I said: You don’t need me, Fern. Not the way…not the way I need you.”
Sharp, sudden heatflared in the very center of her chest. Not quite pain, but close to it. Cal’s vulnerability felt nearly too fragile to exist.
“I might not have needed you to call up the library and ask for an interview,” Fern said, “but that doesn’t mean that I don’t need you. That I don’twantyou. I do.”
How could she explain what he made her feel inside, even when he just stepped into a room? Or when her eyes would meet his, and she somehow managed to feel both safe and set free? What Fern struggled to understand was how she could possibly make him feel anything similar.
Cal touched her chin, her cheek. The streetlamp outside cast its yellow glow inside the kitchen, lighting up half his face. His eyes, usually so solemn, looked at her with an intensity she didn’t recognize.
“I want you too.”
The air, already warm from the late August night, thickened in her throat. There was nothing in those four words to decode or interpret. Fern knew what he wanted. And whatshewanted, even if it did frighten her a little.
