Page 92 of Always to Remember
“I sleep with the twins, and the little rascals snore.”
He held the door open for her, and she stepped back into the night. They walked in silence to the shed.
Meg crossed to the other side of the shed, and Clay snapped his head up, his brow furrowed. “Mama Warner fell asleep while we were waiting on you.”
Kneeling, Meg gently shook Mama Warner’s shoulder. “Mama Warner, you need to wake up now.”
Mama Warner squinted. “I saw Kirk.”
“No, ma’am. You saw his face carved in the stone.”
“Ah, yes. The monument. It’s not gonna be what you wanted, Meg.”
“I think it’s going to be exactly what I wanted. You wanted to touch Kirk, remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I’m old. I’m not forgetful.”
“Lucian, you hold Mama Warner,” Clay said. “I’ll stand on the stool, and you can hand her up to me.”
Standing, Meg moved aside, and Lucian took Mama Warner from Clay. Clay climbed on the stool and braced his legs. He lifted Mama Warner into his arms and held her toward the statue.
Mama Warner ran her gnarled fingers over Kirk’s carved features. Then she slumped against Clay’s shoulder. “You done good, Clayton. You done good.”
Leaning against the boulder, Meg watched as Clay spread the quilt on the ground. They’d taken Mama Warner home and then come to the swimming hole. With so little moon, the darkness hid most of Clay’s actions.
She’d tried to maintain a wall of hatred, but he’d chipped away at the wall little by little. He’d begun innocently the day she saw him playing with the naked twins in the river. She could recall each and every unselfish act that had served as his chisel, each kindness as his hammer.
Now she watched his silhouette stretch and pull the corners of the quilt across the grass. He knelt on the quilt and braced his hands on his thighs. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Would you rather I take you home?”
Meg walked across the small space separating them, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. “I’m not certain I want you to take me home at all tonight.”
She pressed her mouth to his, and he lifted his hands to her face, the only place he ever touched her. She slid her hand around and began to unbutton his shirt. He moved his mouth from hers with lightning speed.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I want to remove your shirt.”
“Why?”
She ran her hand along his shirt. “Because I want to touch your chest, your bare back.”
Clay looked at his hand touching her cheek. He could see the outline of her face, but he couldn’t make out the smooth unmarred surface. He hoped the shadows hid his imperfections as easily as they hid her perfection. He brushed his lips over hers, hoping she’d find the permission she needed.
She did.
She worked the buttons free on his shirt as he groaned and deepened the kiss. Easing his shirt free from his trousers, she lifted the ends.
Clay didn’t want to withdraw from the kiss, didn’t want to give her a clear view of his chest, but she tugged on the shirt, giving him no choice. He took one last taste of her with him before leaning away and lifting his arms. He felt the warm night air touch every inch of his chest and back as she slowly pulled his shirt over his head. He wondered if she was taking her time because she was considering covering him up again. The shirt had risen up to hide his face so he could no longer see Meg, and he didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.
He felt her curves brush against his chest as she worked the shirt free of his arms. He’d never realized how damn long his arms were. His hands gained their freedom, and he dropped them to his side. Then she whipped the shirt off his head, and he found himself staring at her face in the darkness. He couldn’t tell a damn thing about what she was thinking. He cursed the blessed darkness. He wished he could see her clearly without her seeing him.
With trembling fingers, she outlined his shoulders. “You feel just as I thought you would,” she said softly. “It gets so hot in the shed. I kept hoping you’d take your shirt off so I could watch you work. It’s as though when you shape the stone, it shapes you.”
She trailed her hands along to his back and pressed her fingers against every muscle and bone he had while he sat like a statue. She had such small hands, such gentle hands. He’d never in his life had someone touch him with such tenderness. He wanted to return the favor, but was afraid she’d stop if he moved.
“I never realized how incredibly strong you have to be to chip away at the stone. You move with such grace, showing so little effort, but I can see the strength in your hands, feel it in your shoulders and back. I could easily spend the rest of my life watching you cut into stone.”
He could easily have spent the rest of his life watching her watch him, having her sit in that chair, filling the shed with the scent of honeysuckle. If he slowed his pace on the monument, perhaps he could keep her with him for three years, but he knew once he finished the monument, the chair would remain empty, the honeysuckle would fade away, and all he’d have were memories of a woman who’d touched him one night as though she no longer hated him.
