Chapter Twenty-Two. Rose #3
“Well, I don’t remember nobody havin’ twins except the missus.
” Dovey Mae frowns. A red firework paints us all lurid.
“How’d you find me out, anyhow? Ma told everybody I was down in North Carolina helpin’ her cousin with cancer.
Maybe I should call Joe Harrow and ask him how come two girls are goin’ around askin’ questions about his patients. Bet the old crank wouldn’t like that.”
“No! You can’t do that!” Grace clutches me in a panic.
“We’d thank you not to mention it,” I say.
Dovey Mae gets a sly look. “You gonna thank me in cold hard cash?” I sigh and dig back into my pocketbook. I hand her two dollars this time. She mimes zipping her lips. “Pleasure doin’ business with you. Hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”
Gold crackles overhead like a bonfire. “It’s got to be her. Dessa Slaughter!” Grace says excitedly as we wind our way back through the maze of booths. “I know who could tell us for sure, though. Birdie O’Neill. The midwife. Are you free tomorrow, before the carnival?”
“Sure.” I don’t have the heart to remind her that Dovey Mae said the missus had twins. Maybe Birdie O’Neill can help put Grace’s theory to rest, one way or the other.
Coop’s leaning on one elbow, staring up at the sky as the last of the fireworks explodes in a riot of color. He looks rather dejected. Dare I hope that he missed me?
!
“Everything all right?” he asks.
I nod. “Feminine emergency.” That was the excuse Grace suggested, and—as promised—Coop blushes and doesn’t ask any follow-up questions.
We fold the blanket and join the crowd streaming back to their cars.
Coop takes my hand, but Grace was right; it’s a real press, so maybe that’s only practical.
As he drives, I don’t slide over on the bench seat.
The wind rushes through the open windows and tousles my hair, but I can’t feel any of the wild joy of a summer night.
There are too many secrets. Dessa Slaughter.
Is that the name of our ghost? Could it be the name of his birth mother?
Will he forgive me for keeping this secret, if it is?
Silly goose, I’m still thinking we could be more than friends. He didn’t even try to kiss me!
Only … as we chat about the high-wire artist, I catch him glancing over at me like … like he might be thinking about it?
Is that just my imagination?
When we get back to the hotel, Coop parks the car and practically sprints to open my door. “Thanks for coming out with me, Rose. I know it wasn’t as nice as what you’re used to—”
“Oh, shush,” I say, with a sort of irritated fondness. I put a hand on his chest. “You’re the nicest, all right? Confusing, but nice.”
His mouth opens. Closes. The way he looks at me, with those melting brown eyes—
I’ve wanted to touch him all night, and now his heart is hammering beneath my hand.
“Cooper, I’m going to kiss you,” I announce, bold as brass. “If you don’t want me to—”
He steps closer, vanishing the distance between us. I go up on my tiptoes, and he leans down, and my mouth captures his. His hands settle on my waist, warm through the thin blue cotton of my dress.
His mouth moves against mine, soft and warm and hungry.
He tastes like sweet tea. That’s Coop: sweet through and through.
Kissing him is like slipping into a warm bubble bath, or drinking a mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream, or taking a nap in a puddle of sunshine on a wintry day. I feel full of light.
And to think I’d been worried that I wouldn’t feel anything!
We pull back. Take a breath, smiling shyly at each other. Then he kisses me again, shifting me more firmly against him with a hand at the small of my back. His other hand slides into the curls at the nape of my neck and tugs a little, and I let out a shameless little sigh against his mouth.
He’s a fast learner, all right.
“Rose,” he whispers, and the way he says it—like he wants me—like not just any girl would do, it has to be me—that does things to me where other boys’ hands and lips have left me cold.
“I thought you didn’t want me like this,” I confess. “I thought—”
“I was trying to be respectful! I didn’t want to be—like Stan.”
“You could never be like him.” Dimly, I hear the rustle in the bushes along the side of the house and Frank Sinatra crooning on the radio through the open library window and crickets singing love songs in the dark.
Then I forget it all. I forget about the stars overhead and the dirt beneath my wedges and everything but Cooper Harrow’s lips on mine and his hands tangling in my hair and—
“Ahem.”
Someone clears their throat nearby. Very nearby. I leap away from Coop.
His father steps out of the overgrown bushes by the corner of the porch. “It’s late, son. Time for Miss Thorpe to get inside.”
Good Lord, how long has he been standing there, watching us?
Coop’s jaw tightens. “I was saying good night.”
“I can see that.” Mr. Harrow sounds disgusted. “Good night, Miss Thorpe.”
Sorry, Coop mouths. “Night, Rose.”
“Night.” I try for a smile but can’t quite manage it. My heart is racing. Why is Mr. Harrow prowling around the hotel so late at night?
Is there a reason he can’t sleep peacefully in his bed?