The Long Hot Summer. Wendy Rosnau

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СКАЧАТЬ her neck to see what was going on. He’d said don’t move, but my God, he was licking the bottom of her foot!

      She tried to sit up while at the same time pulling her foot away. He looked up. “I said, don’t move. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

      He went back to work, and Nicole felt his tongue glide slowly over her foot once more. She decided to give him exactly one minute, and if he didn’t—

      “Ou-ouch!” Nicole jerked her foot away from him with such force that it sent her falling onto her back. She closed her eyes for a second, the pain momentarily stealing her breath. It had felt as if he’d sent the sliver clean through the top of her foot.

      “You all right?”

      Nicole slowly opened her eyes. Johnny was kneeling over her, the ends of his black hair almost tickling her face, those unnerving eyes smiling down at her. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. And there it was—the wicked-looking sliver.

      “It’s huge,” Nicole gasped.

      He turned his head away from her and spit the splinter into the thick brush, then sat back on his heels. “When I was a kid, my mama used to take slivers out that way. We never owned a pair of tweezers.” He reached for his knife and slipped it back into his pocket, then stood and held out his hand to help her up.

      Nicole took his offered hand, and he easily pulled her up. She tested out her foot, the pain only slight now. “Thank you,” she said softly.

      “You’re welcome.”

      Now that her crisis was past, Nicole once again became fully aware of Johnny Bernard. They were standing close, his chest gleaming and hard, his half-zipped fly exposing an appealing dark navel. Yes, she’d noticed his attributes yesterday and again this morning in her bedroom, but that didn’t mean she wanted anything from him, because she most definitely did not.

      “I need to get back,” she announced quickly.

      “Yeah, me, too. I’ve been invited to supper.”

      Nicole reached for her shoes and slipped them on. “I thought you said you didn’t have many friends.”

      “That’s right. Just so you know, cherie, the old lady invited me to join the two of you for supper. See you at seven.”

      Chapter 4

      “A little warning would have been nice,” Nicole insisted.

      “Warning? Why would you need to be warned?” Mae asked. “You don’t have to do any cooking. Clair will take care of that like she always does. All you have to do is show up. You don’t even have to change your clothes or comb your hair if you don’t want to. You look fine.”

      Gran had completely missed the point. She wasn’t talking about her clothes, for heaven’s sake, or the menu. She simply saw no reason for Johnny Bernard to share meals with them. He had a kitchen in his apartment above the boathouse. Wasn’t that good enough?

      “I still can’t believe how much he’s changed,” Mae mused. “I tell you, Nicki, when Johnny stepped into the garden today, and I got my first look at him after fifteen years, I couldn’t believe it was the same scrawny youngster. Oh, I knew it was him—he’s got his daddy’s eyes and his grandpa Carl’s mouth.” Mae plucked another wilted blossom off the azalea in the corner and dropped it into her lap, then focused her attention on Nicole once more. “Did you say it was at the swimming hole you ran into him?”

      Nicole sat a little straighter in the white wicker chair on the front porch. “Yes. I went to cool off.”

      “Ninety-eight in the shade today,” Mae confirmed. “Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter.”

      “Oh, goodie.”

      Mae chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, dear. Now then, down to business. Over supper, I think we should discuss our remodeling ideas with Johnny—the first being the attic. I know there are other things that seem more important, but it would make such a lovely studio for you, Nicki.”

      “I know you think so.” Nicole did, too. It was a wonderful idea; that is, it would have been if she felt at all creative and focused these days. Only, she hadn’t been able to do much of anything but feel sorry for herself the past three months. She wanted to return to work, she really did—but just thinking about painting caused her palms to sweat.

      She stood and crossed to the porch railing, unwilling to let her grandmother see her anxiety. “I’ve been thinking about taking the summer off,” she said, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. “I haven’t had a vacation away from my career since I sold my first painting four years ago. I’m tired and—”

      “The entire summer?” Mae gave a hollow whistle. “Do you think that’s smart? You love your work, and the galleries…won’t they be anxious to get something new on their walls?”

      “I’ve taken that into consideration,” Nicole assured, leaning against the support post. But she wasn’t worried about the galleries; what she wanted most of all was the fever back. She wanted to wake up tomorrow morning with a driving need to create something alive and beautiful. But what if she never felt the fever again? What if she had lost her talent? What if it had vanished along with everything else? She couldn’t begin to describe the fear that daily clawed at her insides. And if she tried to explain it to Gran, she would have to reveal everything. And right now she simply couldn’t do that.

      She closed her eyes and willed herself to think of something else. She was successful in putting it out of her mind, but, in the trade-off, the topic circled back to another unpleasant topic. Her grandmother asked, “Did you see Johnny got rid of that old dead tree in the yard?”

      Nicole concentrated on growing a nasty headache, the kind that drained your complexion and dulled your eyes. The kind that would excuse her from the supper table.

      “Nicki, did you hear? The tree’s gone.”

      Nicole opened her eyes and glanced out into the front yard. “Yes, I noticed,” she said without emotion.

      “Make sure you comment on it at supper. Say he’s done a fine job, or something to that effect. A little praise is what he needs to hear right now. It will boost his confidence.”

      “I think I’m coming down with a headache,” she primed.

      “Well, take something before it gets out of hand, dear. You wouldn’t want it to spoil supper.”

      “No,” she agreed, “that would be unfortunate.”

      A stingy breeze, slow and barely evident, drifted onto the porch. Like a greedy beggar, Nicole raised her chin in an attempt to cool her warm cheeks. She could smell the potted azalea in the corner, the fried chicken Clair Arden was preparing for supper. “Will it rain tonight?”

      “No, but maybe tomorrow. So did we decide on green or gray shingles, Nicki? I think you said green, right?”

      Nicole felt a tug on the uneven hem of her orange tank top. She glanced down to see that Gran had wheeled up close.

      “The shingles, Nicki. What color? I can’t remember what we agreed on.”

      “We СКАЧАТЬ