Free Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) by Joseph Monninger Page B

her.

Chapter Six
    O
h,
she heard herself say when he lifted his lips away from hers.
    She moved her forehead against his shoulder.
Oh, my,
she thought. The oddest memory came to her at that moment. She recalled the game they played as kids, something about cracking the egg over your head, then feeling the yolk running down your back and shoulders and then cracking the egg again, and feeling the yolk running down and down. . . .
    That was how the kiss had made her feel. She felt the kiss run like yolk down through her body and she had to concentrate not to shiver. How strange. She could not sort the many thoughts that rushed at her, especially because they became tangled in the warmth that suffused her body. She felt her hand on his arm, her head against the material of his dinner jacket. She liked his size. She liked the warmth of his skin on the cool spring night.
    â€œI’m sorry, Margaret,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry.”
    She shook her head against his shoulder.
    â€œThat was inexcusable,” he said. “I just . . . you’re very beautiful tonight and I got carried away, I’m afraid. Please forgive me.”
    She rose onto her toes and kissed him.
    She felt a momentary shame at the hunger her kiss revealed. What must he think? she wondered, but she was powerless to stop. She had intended, if she had intended anything at all, to kiss him lightly, to show goodwill, to let him know she was not a prude, she did not take offense at his kiss, and then, in the instant before her lips met his she felt herself turn to water. It seemed an entire sea had pushed her harder into his arms, and she kissed him with everything she had, her body pressing into him, and tears came to her eyes.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” she said when she released him. She turned and walked away.
    â€œAre you . . .”
    She didn’t hear what else he had to say. She walked quickly back into the ballroom, her eyes scanning for signs of the ladies’ room. She spotted it off to her left, partially behind the orchestra, and she went along the wall, dodging people when necessary. His kiss, Charlie’s kiss, still moved through her body. A giddy, girlish feeling inside her warred with bright tears that came from no place she understood. What in the world was she crying about? she wondered as she pushed into the ladies’ room and stepped behind a line of women at the vanity. She understood the tears’ source, of course, and she ducked into an empty stall and pushed the toilet lid down and sat for a moment, her breathing rough in her chest. She felt as if she might be sick; she felt also, she confessed, a sexual stirring that she had believed had been paralyzed when Thomas had been paralyzed. How could this be happening? she mused as she pulled toilet tissue from the roll and pressed it to her eyes. Was she really so desperately lonely that she would collapse at the first male attention she had received in a half decade? She decided she was a weak, horrible person. All her cheerfulness, and her laughter about farm life, it had all been a bluff. She felt herself a phony. She pressed the toilet tissue into her eyes for a second more, then sat straight and pulled her shoulders back. Poor Charlie, she thought and nearly laughed. He had chosen to kiss a nutcase.
    She stepped out to the vanity and found a faucet unoccupied and ran water on her wrists for a few moments. Then she bent carefully to the sink and dabbed at her face. The little makeup she had applied hadn’t been washed away. After she had examined her face one last time—not bad, none the worse for wear, really—she reached around a woman and grabbed a paper towel and dried herself. Then she pushed back through the door, dodging past two women as she went, and followed her trail back to Charlie. He stood where she had left him, two glasses of wine in his hands.
    â€œJust