Free A Dark and Lonely Place by Edna Buchanan Page A

his face, tickling his cheeks and ears. He smelled her skin, her hair, and the warm, fertile earth beneath them.
    “All right,” she said, and rose slowly to her feet. “But remember, you promised not to look.”
    “Nothing I ain’t seen before.” He sounded bored, but his heart pounded.
    “Oh really,” she teased from behind the oak tree. “You ain’t seen nothing.”
    “I live with four sisters and my mother.”
    He looked, of course. Saw her cotton skirt drop in a graceful circle around her tanned bare feet. She was nothing like his mother or sisters.
    He closed his eyes until he heard her splash into the river, then sprang to his feet, peeled off his clothes and followed.
    She watched him from gleaming waist-deep water, her arms shielding her breasts.
    “Hey,” he protested. “You weren’t ’sposed to look either.”
    “I never promised.” She laughed and swam off, eluding him among a dozen sausage-shaped manatees, some with their calves. They played together and with the gentle, giant creatures so homely that they were beautiful.
    He watched her tread water, nose to snout with a huge flat-tailed, bewhiskered sea cow that rolled over so Laura, her hair streaming inthe current, could scratch its belly. He could almost see the creature smile. A great blue heron, at least four feet tall, squawked, croaked, and watched from shore as dozens of pelicans flew overhead in formation, their distorted reflections skimming across the water. John ached to paint like Winslow Homer, so he could preserve the moment forever.
    They finally clambered ashore, laughing and out of breath. She eluded him again and snatched up her skirt to wrap around her before they embraced. Then he kissed her, really kissed her, for the first time.
    She wrapped her warm, naked arms around his neck and drew his face down to hers as the skirt slipped to the ground. They followed it. Her breath came in little gasps as he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her mouth, chin, and the hollow of her throat. Her wet skin was smooth, slippery, and soft, and her eyes took on the color of the river.
    “We can’t,” she finally said.
    “I know. But can we just—”
    “No,” she said firmly, and disengaged, then began to gather up her clothes.
    He lay on his back staring in bleak frustration at the sky. “You’re killing me, Laura.”
    “You’ll be fine; take deep breaths,” she said, serenely content to lie beside him without touching.
    He sighed and closed his eyes until frogs began to croak in the reeds. The sun was nearly gone, yet the air seemed even warmer and more moist than ever. Their swim had not cooled him off at all.
    Sharing the water with the gentle river creatures as birds darkened the sky above brought one of the Bible stories his mother read aloud after supper vividly to life for the first time. This, he thought, is how it was for Adam and Eve in the Garden.
    He gazed at the girl beside him and knew he would always remember the brightness of her body, the water’s reflection in her eyes, and would forever think of her and the river together.
    Both caught hell from their parents for coming home late that night. John felt the imprint of her lips on his for days and was sure everyone could see it.
    For weeks they found it difficult to be alone together. John’s brothers, sisters, and friends clamored for his company, while Laura’s watchful mother, vigilant siblings, and protective half brother surrounded her.
    John and his brothers often played music for dances and church socials. He had adamantly rejected Laura’s offers to teach him to dance until he watched her do the two-step and the Virginia reel with Duncan Moody. Later that night he demanded that his favorite sister, Daisy, teach him immediately. They practiced every day for weeks.
    He and Laura danced together for the first time at the next church social, the night their lives changed forever.
    That was the night Joe Ashley arrived home late, grim and smelling of