Lucas feels like he is under attack. And despite the fact that he is a warrior, he has lain down his shield and spread his arms to embrace the death of his former self. He's changing; he's becoming a man of compromise, a man of peace. He recognizes love by the gravity of its force and demands, the way love claws at him even in his sleep. A man doesn't change himself for lust; he takes but never gives anything. Lucas has given everything; he would give his life if he had to - a warrior always knows when his number's up. So he doesn't fight the long hours, the tedious tasks that pile up before he gets off on Friday, or the crowds of weekend travelers on the interstate and at the airport. He takes on the burden of waiting; he bears it with him on the plane like an additional piece of luggage. The weight of love feels good on; it makes him more substantial, more real.
When he emerges from the plane, Lucas powers through the line and sidesteps the small group that congregates around the stewardess to ask about connecting flights. He feels let down the way everyone does who remembers what it was like to see their loved ones waiting behind the extendable cords that mark off the gate. There was a time when a man could have privacy in a public space; he could indulge in a personal moment without worrying about his security, without looking over his shoulder. But everything changes. He zips down the escalator, weaving his way through men with oversized briefcases and mothers with baby strollers. He hangs a right and strides toward baggage claim number two.
The sight of Marlowe makes his heart hammer in his chest. Love is too terribly great to be confined to phone calls and memories. Lucas walks right up and grabs her as if drawing her out of a dream. This is real, he thinks, brushing his lips over her soft hair, drinking in her scent. This is permanent.
"Ease up; you're squashing me," Marlowe mumbles against his chest.
Lucas allows her an inch of space before moving in for a kiss. The first taste only whets his appetite; it is too brief - she pulls away from him.
"Dang, boy," Marlowe chortles. "Chill out; we're in the airport."
"I missed you bad."
"I missed you too." The eyes he focuses on her are too bright, too intense, too telling; her gaze flits around anxiously as she thrusts her fingers into her hair and swipes it back. "What does your bag look like?"
"I'll get it," Lucas replies, turning as the baggage claim squeals into action. He sticks his hands in his pockets, waiting. The airport is a public space; it isn't safe. But he's patient. There are only fifty feet between the inside of the airport and outside.
Marlowe precedes him out of the sliding doors, digging in her pocket for her car keys. Lucas strikes without warning; he shifts his bag to his right hand and sticks his left in her back pocket, squeezing. Marlowe drops her keys; when she bends over to pick them up, he squeezes again.
"Lucas!" she snaps. "Quit!"
"We're not in the airport anymore," he murmurs, moving his hand to the small of her back to guide her over the crosswalk. He all but pushes her toward the parking lot. "Where's your car?" he asks impatiently.
"Over there," Marlowe replies, pointing to the left. She hustles along trying to match his long strides. "You in a hurry or something?"
"Yes." He doesn't know what her car looks like, but he stops at the first sedan with D.C. plates. "Here?"
"Yeah." Marlowe hits the remote lock; headlights flash and the trunk pops open.
Lucas releases her and moves forward; he slings his bag into the trunk and slams it shut. He turns to find that Marlowe has stopped a few feet away; she's watching him with an apprehensive little crinkle between her brows. He perches on the fender of the car and shucks his head at her, affecting what he hopes is a fetching 'come hither' look. He snickers at himself under his breath, but then he grins. Many a man before him has been a fool for love.
Marlowe laughs outright, her eyes bright with amusement. She's never seen him like this: unguarded, electric, and . . . fun. That's what it is - Lucas Klein is playing with her, teasing her. "Who do you think you are, Sean Connery?"
Lucas' intent doesn't waver. He hams it up, winking at her, beckoning her with one finger. He flashes a toothy smile as inviting as a shark's.
Marlowe slaps her thigh and doubles over, wheezing with laughter. "Woo!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes as she catches her breath. She shuffles towards the car, chuckling, and circles around to the driver's side. "Get in the car, boy."
Lucas heaves a small sigh as he opens the passenger side door. He isn't known for his sense of humor. "For obvious reasons," he mumbles under the roar of the ignition as he climbs into the car. No one thinks he's funny when he tries to be, and of course he isn't taken seriously. He sobers as he sits down, switching tactics. When Marlowe pulls down her seatbelt, he quickly reaches out and turns off the engine.
Marlowe eyeballs him. "Quit playing. We have to go get food; we're already late because of your flight."
"I'm not hungry," Lucas replies, placing his hand on her bare leg. Thank God for shorts, he muses as his fingertips creep up her inner thigh.
"Lucas," Marlowe protests faintly. He's too quick; he's already pulling her thighs apart. He's already leaning over her, kissing her forehead, and then her cheekbones, and then her lips. She knows from experience the incredible things that he can do with his mouth. The secret of his kiss is that he doesn't attack; he tastes her, he licks her like a popsicle, almost too slowly, elongating the grainy friction of tongue against tongue. Eating me alive, Marlowe thinks deliriously.
She wraps her hand around the smooth tanned skin on the back of his neck and rubs the base of his spine with her fingertips. Lucas moans and breaks the kiss, dropping his head on her shoulder. He closes his eyes against the sharp exquisite pleasure of that possessive touch. When her hand begins to slide away, he grabs her wrist and moves it back. He rubs his cheek against hers, breathing deeply. "I missed you so bad," he says hoarsely against her earlobe.
Marlowe clenches her jaw, half pleased and half alarmed. This man has become her man, her burden. She turns her face into his neck and kisses the tense muscles there, reassuring him of her willingness to take him on. "I'm here," she murmurs.
Lucas kisses her cheek and then falls back into his seat. He sighs and then simply stares at her, pressing his lips together. "I missed you," he repeats almost anxiously.
Marlowe feels tears behind her eyes. He needs me, she realizes, the thought bright and bold in her mind like a headline. I need him and he needs me; that's just how it is. There is no turning back. "Let's go," she says, quickly swiping at her eyes. She puts the car in reverse and backs out, turning the wheel. She shifts into first, straightens out, and then she reaches over to his lap and grabs his hand.
"You're crying."
"No," Marlowe protests, sniffing.
"Yes."
"Maybe." She pulls to a stop at the parking booth, pulls her dollars and her ticket from the dashboard, and places them in the tray. The orange and white arm swings up; she drives forward. "Maybe I love you and I just figured it out."
Lucas doesn't look at her. He's mesmerized by the palm of her hand, focused on the message that he is writing there. L-U-C-A-S. Mine, he thinks. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it. "I love you too, slow Mo."
She is slow. She's careful. She holds on forever. That is the real Marlowe Ross; that will be her real story. "I'm gonna do right by you," she murmurs. "It's gonna work out." She glances at him, snickering, squeezing his hand. "You're a turtle too. Look at you trying to come out of your shell," she says proudly. "Trying to be funny."
"Trying," Lucas repeats dismally. "Don't know what got in to me." His eyes sparkle and darken as he studies her. "I know what I'd like to get into though." He links his fingers with her and squeezes back.
"Nuh uh. We have to go get this food."
"What food?"
"For the party," Marlowe says, putting on her indicator and moving into the right lane. "The restaurant's catering most of it. Tamara's just doing the desserts and drinks and stuff."
"No barbeque?"
"No. She'd be grilling all day trying to feed this crowd."
"How many people?"
Marlowe frowns. "I don't know, but a lot," she replies, sighing. "There were folks at the house when I left."
"Tonight?" He frowns slightly.
"Yeah. Pre-partying," she quips. "Everybody's looking for Roderick."
"He's still at work?"
Marlowe nods. "I saw him two times this week for a total of five minutes. 'Hi' and 'Bye'." Again there is a hint of guilt in her voice. "They're working him hard. He might not even make it tomorrow." Guilt turns to anxiety; her brows draw together.
"Don't worry."
She can't help it. Once again, different lines of concern are converging on one point, one night. Bloodshed is coming - she can smell it. But she's ready now; whatever happens, she can't afford to fail. "Here we go," Marlowe says, pulling into the restaurant parking lot. "Let's get this over with."
After they retrieve the food, they pass the half hour to the house in silence, both of them anticipating future events. But their thoughts couldn't be farther apart: Marlowe speculates on the probability of problems while Lucas meditates on the possibility of pleasure. He never lets go of her hand; he idly slides his fingers between hers, making a bridge.
Marlowe's anxiety doubles on itself as they round the corner into the cul de sac. The driveway is clogged with cars; she has to pull up on the grass so that they can unload. She takes a deep breath, bracing herself. "Let's get this over with," she says again before jumping out of the car.
Lucas frowns as he gets out. He circles around to the back and stares at her as she stacks aluminum pans on the edge of the trunk. "You alright?"
"Yep." Her tone is as short as the glance she spares him. The stack grows to six wobbly pans, a weight too great for her to carry. "I got it," she says when he reaches out to help her. "Get that stuff out of the back seat."
"It's too much, Marlowe," Lucas insists, placing his hand on her forearm.
"I got it," she repeats, thrusting her arms under the stack and clinching the top pan under her chin. She turns and looks at him, fixing her goal in her mind. "Back seat," she says, staggering towards the house.
The front door is open. The television blares over the raucous conversations of seven different people; the noise scrapes Marlowe's eardrums like a raw potato scraped over a cheese grater. No one hears her come in, and even when they notice her, no one offers to help. "Food," someone shouts.
"Alright. I feel like doing some taste testing."
Marlowe hustles past the living room to the kitchen. She drops the pans on the kitchen table, grunting.
"I was just about to call you," Tamara says. "You got the potato salad?"
"It's in the car."
"What does it look like? Last time it was too runny; too much mayo."
"I don't know, Tamara," Marlowe replies shortly. "I didn't look at it."
"Oh," Tamara replies absently. She's peeling the lid off of the first pan, examining its contents. "These wings look good though. That's good. Hey Lucas!"
Marlowe turns to see Lucas approaching with a stack of pans the same size as hers; he places them onto the table beside the others.
His eyes fix on her, examining her, before he turns to Tamara. "Hi Tamara. Good to see you."
"You too, boo," Tamara says warmly, drawing him into her arms. "I was looking at the clock wondering what happened to ya'll."
"My flight was delayed," Lucas explains, bending over to return her hug. "Sorry."
Tamara releases him and waves off his apology. "What else you got out there?"
"Not much. I think we can manage," he says, glancing at Marlowe. He smiles at Tamara a bit uneasily, waiting for her to dig into him as she did to Marlowe.
She doesn't. "Okay. Good." Tamara turns and walks to the counter where her electric mixer is beating a bowl of egg whites. "I'm trying to get these cakes in the oven, and then I gotta go to the store and get some rock salt for the ice cream. Forgot that. And ice; I need some more ice," she mumbles to herself, rewriting her task list in her head.
Lucas bites his bottom lip, confused but relieved. He nods at Marlowe; she precedes him out of the kitchen and out to the car. He glances at the people crowded together on the living room furniture: Tamara's parents, two sturdy young college men who are Roderick's cousins from Florida, a slender young woman perched on the arm of the sofa like a neglected girlfriend, and another couple that Lucas doesn't recognize. Family, he thinks, people who came from out of town a day early to extend their visit.
His smile fades when he turns his attention back to Marlowe. Each step she takes is as heavy as a falling block; her shoulders are tense. "What's wrong?" he asks, coming up behind her.
She's bent over in the rear passenger door, gathering up large white paper sacks full of Styrofoam containers. "Nothing," she calls out over her shoulder. When she straightens and turns around, Lucas is there blocking her way, staring at her. "Nothing," she repeats airily, forcing her lips to curve into a half smile.
"Liar."
"No. I'm saying 'nothing' because that's what I want it to be: nothing. No problems." Her voice is sharp and heavy like a declaration of war.
Lucas nods, taking in her tightly pinched lips and strained expression with a long sweep of his charcoal colored eyes. "Wait here." He circles around to the trunk. Marlowe hears the clink of metal and the snag of a zipper. And then Lucas returns with his hands in his pockets and a glitter in his eyes despite the grim lines of his face. Without preamble, he reaches his hands around and strings a cool thin rope of gold around her neck.
Marlowe's lips bob uselessly until she finds her voice. "A necklace?" she stammers.
"Yes." He fastens the clasp and then slides his fingers along the chain down to the cold pendant nestled in the v neck of her shirt. He raises the pendant up to her eyes.
It's a turtle, a little green turtle fashioned of creamy mint jade. Marlowe's lips twitch; she smirks and then breaks into a smile that carves the first little lines in the corners of her eyes.
"Don't worry," Lucas says for what seems like the hundredth time. "Be happy."
Marlowe chokes on a laugh. "Please stop. You are not funny. At all."
"You're laughing," he accuses. His eyes linger on her mouth, but he deposits a soft kiss on her forehead like a promise. "I'm here," he says, echoing the words that she said to him earlier.
"Thanks. Thank you," she repeats, glancing down at the pendant.
Lucas drops his hands to her hips and pulls her against him; the oversized sacks thump against his thighs. "Let's make love," he suggests, nuzzling her ear and digging his fingertips into the fabric of her shorts.
"In the car?"
"No," Lucas says with a twinge of disgust. Nothing that happens in the back of a car can be called making love. Fun, perhaps, but not what he has in mind. "Let's go to bed."
Marlowe bites down on her lip. She would like nothing better than a private moment with him. But the house is a public space, a judgment hall. And the judgment so far has been harsh. Marlowe plants a soft kiss on Lucas' mouth; she brushes her lips over his and then pulls back. "Can you wait?"
"Until when?"
"Sunday." She will have an ending for her story on Sunday. "We made a deal, remember?"
"The party's tomorrow. This is today."
"It's already started," she replies dismally. She means more than just the party. She's been walking on thin ice with Tamara all week, tagging along on hair appointments, shopping excursions, trips to the dry cleaner, all in an effort to repair the weak links. Penance - that's what she's been doing, offering up her time and cooperation in an effort to pave the way for her and Lucas, to create a safe road where there is none. Maybe it's working, but she won't know that until tomorrow. Everything converges tomorrow. "Please, Lucas. I don't want anything else to get messed up."
"Messed up?"
"Yeah. This could have been different, with Roderick and Tamara. This whole thing could have been different. But I put that on me, and I'm gonna make it right." She sighs wearily before thrusting the sacks at him. "Help me out. I don't want to fuck up again, know what I'm saying?"
Lucas nods. He understands how you can say too much or too little and change the course of a situation. He doesn't quite understand the purpose of waiting, but he understands fucking up. "Okay," he replies simply, closing his hands over hers and taking the bags.
"Gimme a kiss," Marlowe says. He does. "It's gonna work out." She smiles at him and turns back to the car.
Frowning slightly, Lucas takes the bags and returns to the trunk; he grabs his duffle before following her into the house. They sweep past the living room without commentary from the crowd and deposit the last of the party goods in the kitchen.
"Okay, good. Great," Tamara chirps. She's standing over the stove, spooning batter into four eight inch glass cake pans. There is a long metal tray of brownies on the counter next to her, six pies, and a huge sealed plastic container full of cookies. She's been baking all day and even though it's ten o'clock, she's far from finished. "Okay," she repeats, licking batter from one finger. "Yeah; that's good. Uh, Lucas - Mo's in your room so now you're upstairs. I already changed the sheets so you're good to go. Need your help in the morning, though; you too, Mo. Folks probably gonna start coming around noon."
"Sure," Lucas replies, smiling.
Tamara doesn't acknowledge him. She's too absorbed in her preparations; she doesn't have any thoughts to spare. "Mo, get me that cooking spray out of the cabinet."
Marlowe retrieves the spray and steps between Tamara and Lucas to hand it over.
"I'm going to bed," Lucas announces, staring at Marlowe. "See you in the morning."
"Okay boo," Tamara replies absently. "Dang! Mo - hold this right quick."
"I got it." Marlowe leans in and grabs a spatula dripping with batter. "Good night," she murmurs to Lucas.
There is nothing he can do but wait. Lucas spins around, strides across the living room, and hangs a right at the stairs. As he bounds up the staircase, he contemplates sneaking down to the guest room tonight after Tamara goes to sleep. "No," he mumbles, frowning. If Roderick were to come home and find them - game over. His thoughts shift to the people downstairs; it's ten o'clock and they don't seem to be leaving. Some or all of them may be spending the night.
As he pushes open the door to the nursery and turns on the light, Lucas goes still, frowning slightly, his thoughts still turned to the family. He nodded, they nodded, but he neither spoke nor was he spoken to. That's how it always is. He is scrutinized but basically ignored until Roderick introduces him, vouches for him, explains his presence year after year. His startling realization is that Marlowe was also ignored. She passed by without even a word of greeting, much less an offer of assistance. Tamara's parents can be excused; they are a quiet feeble couple in their sixties. But the young men are Roderick's cousins and therefore Marlowe's cousins too. Yet they ignored her, neglected her even more than the young woman perched on the sofa.
It's already started - that's what she said. She's already walking in silence like a leper draped in a shroud. Something's going on, Lucas thinks, dropping his bag and settling on the mattress with a huff. In the South, it's a cardinal sin not to speak. Silence is an offense, a kind of insult, or a public judgment. Exceptions are made only for those who don't belong, those who are outsiders. People like Lucas and, apparently, people like Marlowe.
