Higher Ground (9 page)

“Sure.” I followed her in the same direction Oliver had gone, down the hall, and into his kitchen.

Celeste was leaning forward, blocking my view, and Oliver’s eyes caught mine the moment I stepped into the room. She glanced over her shoulder at me and then took a step back.

“Thanks, Oliver,” she said.

“No problem,” he answered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Troya moved past them to the fridge, threw open the door, and looked at me. “Sprite, Coke, or bottled water?”

“Water,” I said. Celeste turned to face me and studied my face as she began to walk toward my spot in the doorway. I turned my body to let her pass, and she paused to smile.

“I don’t think anyone introduced us today,” she said. “I’m Celeste Waters.”

“Violet Foster.”

“Pretty name.” She reached out to gently clasp a small lock of my hair between her fingers.

“Thanks.”

“Are we going to smoke or what?” Penn asked from behind me.

Celeste moved her hand from my hair to his arm and tugged him over to the back door. “I’m game.”

Troya tossed me a bottle of water and followed them out to the porch. “Sonny, Van, bring your asses,” she called. “Smoke break.”

The boys wandered in a few moments later but didn’t linger, which left me alone with Oliver for the first time all day. “So, what do you think? Did you have a good first day?”

“Good enough,” I said. “School’s school, I guess, no matter which one you go to.” All day, I’d been fighting sadness, mourning long summer days of just the two of us. As much as it unnerved me to be the center of his focus, the most important thing I’d learned that day was how much I didn’t like sharing him with others. I stepped forward to meet him in the center of the room, looking for any sign he felt the same things beginning to swirl in my chest every time he was near.

He turned my body so I was facing the door and placed his hands on my shoulders, rubbing them as we walked forward to join our friends on the porch. “Time to unwind,” he said.

He sat next to me on the patio and let his fingers touch mine each time he passed the joint to me. Penn sat on the other side of me and asked questions about Academy until Van finally had enough. Maybe the weed gave him courage, or maybe he was tired of hiding. Either way, he told them the whole story on the porch that first afternoon. When he finished, I held my breath and waited for someone to laugh or talk shit, ready to leave if it happened.

Sonny spoke first. “Fuck those assholes.”

Celeste turned to look at Van. “My mom hates my guts because I’m bi. According to her, I’m going to burn for being a whore and fucking women.” She shrugged. “She’s on her third husband, but
I’m
the one who’s fucked up?” She stood and walked over to the door. “I’m hungry. What do you have to eat, Oliver?”

“I don’t know. Shit. My mom went shopping this weekend.”

“I’m hungry, too,” Van said.

“Make some grilled cheese, dude.” Penn grabbed the end of Oliver’s pant leg and tugged.

“The stove and I are a bad idea right now, man.” Oliver leaned his head back against the house.

“Please?” Troya added.

“Fine, but if I burn this fucker down, I’m blaming you assholes,” Oliver said as he stood.

Troya stayed outside to smoke a cigarette, so I stayed with her while the others followed Oliver into the house. She moved to sit beside me on the outdoor couch.

“What’s the deal with Celeste?” I asked. “Are she and Oliver…?”

“Nah,” she said. “They had a quick thing last year, but that’s been over with. What you saw in the kitchen was just business.”

“Business?”

“Well, yeah.” She looked at me and then down at the roach in the ashtray in front of us. “She was buying weed.”

A ton of things clicked into place with that one little sentence: the money, the popularity, even the family discount remark. Mitchell. They were running a smooth family business. Mitchell took care of the college crowd, and Oliver was dealing to his high school classmates.

“Shit. I thought you knew. He was talking about it in front of you in the car the other night,” she said.

“It’s cool. I mean, him selling her weed is a much better option than her being his girlfriend.”

Troya laughed, a giggle at first that turned into a full belly chuckle. “Yeah, right. Oliver’s never had a girlfriend.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I looked through the window at Oliver standing next to the stove. “He’s so hot. How’s that even possible?”

The laughter stopped. “Oh, he gets plenty of action. He’s just not the boyfriend type. Commitment isn’t his thing.”

I let her words hang in the air between us with the smoke from her Marlboro, but it was too late at that point. My head had checked out, and my heart had already stopped listening to it.

Admitting an ex was a bona fide drug dealer takes a lot out of a girl. At first, Wade’s amused.

“He doesn’t sound like a typical rich kid,” he says.

“The Bergerons aren’t rich. Oliver’s parents made good money, but it wasn’t good enough for him to be throwing twenties around without blinking.” I sigh and sit down on the bed. “I was stupid and young.”

Wade joins me and threads his fingers through mine. “Young, yes, but not stupid, Violet.”

I laugh to keep from crying.

He has no idea.

“Come here,” he says, moving until we’re lying side by side and facing each other. He lifts his hand to push my hair away from my face and tuck it behind my ear. “You’re one of the smartest women I know. Your brain is one of the first things I fell in love with when I met you.”

“I thought you fell in love with my ass.”

“Yes,” he says, smoothing his hand down my back to grip my butt. He pulls my body closer and runs his nose along my neck. “That, too, but talking about Poe with you gave me a chub even before you turned around.”

“Ah.” Some of the first words he spoke to me, his favorite quote, were Poe’s. “You’re the only man who’s ever talked literature with me outside of a classroom.”

He grins, wide and wicked. “Does it turn you on?”

“You know it does.” I push his shirt up, and he helps me by sitting up. Once it’s off, he leans down to kiss me, unzipping my jeans at the same time.

“Can you be quiet?” he asks. “Everything echoes in this house.”

“I’ll try to keep it down.”

It’s hard to keep my word when his hand slips into my underwear, searching and teasing. My lips press together, though my chest is heaving. He hovers next to me, eyes on mine, watching my face as he works his fingers in and over me.

My eyes close, but before release comes, he jerks his fingers away. My hips buck against air, chasing what he offered, but he’s on his knees in a flash, tugging my pants down my legs. My panties follow, and then he’s on me. The soft, gray track pants don’t do much to conceal how hard and wanting his cock is behind the fabric. I catch his boxers with my thumbs and push them down over his hips with his pants.

Impatient, he thrusts into me without bothering to rid me of my sweater.

“Fuck,” he says. “Every time I get near your pussy, I lose my head like I’m a seventeen-fucking-year-old kid.” He braces himself with one arm and uses his other hand to push my sweater up over my tits. He pulls the silky material of my bra down, leans down to flatten his tongue over my nipple, and pulls my flesh between his teeth.

Staying quiet is hard when the orgasm he denied me moments ago crashes through me. Panting, shaking, and digging my nails into his back, I let go. Steady and pushing, he kisses my temple after my eyes close. Little puffs of air skim across my hair, and when he finally follows, it’s with a soft groan that leaves both of us smiling.

It takes a while for us to recover. He pulls his pants up and covers us with a quilt. Cuddled in his warmth, I feel better, grounded, and rest comes easily.

“Are you hungry?” Wade’s voice wakes me sometime later in the afternoon. The sun’s already started to sink, and the aroma of pot roast has made its way up the stairs and into his room. We’re on our sides, with him curled around me and his arm caging me against him.

My lips move against the soft skin of his neck. “I could eat.”

He finds my pants first and then changes into dark jeans and a white dress shirt. “What?” he asks, eyeing me with a grin as he buttons the cuff of his sleeve.

“Why are you dressing up for dinner?”

“I’m not. After we eat, I’d like to take you out for little while, if you feel up to it.”

“Sure,” I say, running a brush through my hair. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Because Wade loves to keep me guessing, I know better than to argue.

Dinner with his parents starts as a relaxing affair. “Did y’all have a nice nap this afternoon?” Patricia asks as soon as we take our seats at the dining room table.

Wade nods, reaches for the potatoes, and grins. “We did. Getting up early is hard on Saturdays. We’re spoiled and used to sleeping in on the weekends when I don’t have to work.”

“Uh-huh.” She nods as she passes a plate with a huge slice of roast to me with a wink. “If you want to, you can sleep late tomorrow. Your grandparents won’t be here until sometime around noon. We’ll have lunch and exchange gifts, and you can be on the road before dark.”

It’s an unintended, subtle reminder for me that the days are ticking by. In less than seventy-two hours, I have to board a plane to New Orleans alone. The real world, with all of its truth and consequences, is waiting for me. It’s becoming an ongoing invisible presence that’s hanging over my shoulder.

Wade’s a grown man who’s mad at a seventeen-year-old boy he’ll never meet or understand. I’ve had a decade, and I still haven’t figured out Oliver. I’ve given up trying. Now I have to see and talk to Troya. The last time we had words, they weren’t pretty.

“Tell me more about this reception, Violet,” Patricia says, calling me back to the here and now. “Is that your parents’ home in the picture for the event?”

“It is.”

“It’s beautiful. That stairwell’s amazing. How old is the house?”

“It was built in 1912. A hurricane nearly destroyed it in 1947. My grandfather bought it in the late sixties and did most of the repairs. He was a general contractor—a really good one, too.”

“Was there much damage from Katrina?” she asks.

Photos from Oliver’s book flip through a reel in my mind. Then the pictures change to my own memories of sitting in front of the TV in the common room at my dorm at Auburn, watching the large swirl of Katrina on the news, wondering if the people I love were going to get out of there in time. My mouth goes dry, tongue thick and heavy, with the taste of tears on the back of it. “Some. My dad and Van were able to fix most of it.”

A year of working closely together was what they’d needed to bond, or maybe, at that point, my father had realized both of his daughters were lost to him and decided not to waste his last chance. Either way, it opened my brother’s eyes and started him on a path that led to his career as a structural engineer.

“I guess we’re lucky here,” Patricia says. “We had Hurricane David back in ’79, but all it did was knock out the power for a couple of weeks. We’re losing our barrier islands, though, so I guess we might have to worry someday. Did y’all evacuate?”

“Katrina was the first time my family ever evacuated. I was a freshman at Auburn at the time.” When Miss Verity looked my father in the eye and said it was time to go, he didn’t ask questions. They packed and left.

“So you stayed put for Ivan the year before?” Jeff asks.

My fork drops to my plate with an embarrassing clatter. With a shaky hand, I reach for my glass and take a long sip of water before answering. “Uh, yes. My parents were out of town with my sister at the time, but the rest of us were home. Ivan was only rain and wind by the time it got to us.”

Ivan changed the way I’ll think about the sound of rain for the rest of my life. It was the kind of storm that settles in your heart and never leaves, no matter how much you want it to.

Wade’s gaze is heavy on my cheek. Once I have control of my silverware again, I chase peas with my fork instead of facing him. “We’re going out for a while after dinner, if that’s all right,” he says to Patricia. “There are a few last-minute gifts we need to pick up for Violet’s family.”

“Oh, sure, honey.” She pats her full belly. “We’re going to do the dishes and catch up on a few shows we fell behind on these last couple of weeks.”

“I can take care of the dishes before we go,” Wade offers.

“Hush. I said we’d do it, so get out of here before I change my mind.” She smiles, stands, and starts to stack empty plates.

“Have fun,” Jeff says.

Wade stops me when I try to change into my cute boots. “You don’t want to do that.”

I smile and reach for my sneakers instead. “Okay. Give me one little hint.”

“I just did.”

He’s quiet during the drive, letting Christmas music from one of the local stations fill the air between us. Occasionally, he sings along in perfect tenor, a product of years in a church youth choir. When his dad left, his mom did everything she could to keep them busy. Church provided activities several days a week and gave them a sort of extended family to rely on. It also led them to Jeff a few years later, when he moved from Macon to Savannah to accept a job offer.

The gig is up soon enough when the exits for Tybee Island start to appear. I’ve only been in the summer months, so it’s a nice surprise.

“This is great,” I say. “If the candy store’s still open, I’ll get my dad some of that taffy he loves.”

“It will be.” Wade glances over at me and gives me one of his killer grins. “All the shops stay open late this time of year. I need to get some for my dad, too.”

Because I grew up on the water, the ocean is a sight for sore eyes. It may have been the nasty, polluted, murky Mississippi, but it was mine and just down the street. I miss the trickle and flow more than I let on.

My head falls back against the headrest. “God… I miss the water.”

Wade reaches for my hand, pulls it to his lap, and rests our entwined fingers on his thigh. “I know.”

Christmas lights are everywhere, adorning houses, shop windows, doors, and streetlamps. Shoppers wearing red Santa hats and Cheshire smiles walk by as we park near the strip. I’m thankful for my comfortable shoes, knowing we’ll be shopping until the owners shut us down.

We stop at the candy store first. Despite the 6' 2" hunk holding my hand that’s giving him the evil eye, the kid working offers me a free sample of almost everything I look at and follows me from case to case. Wade shows him who’s boss by taking a chocolate-covered strawberry from him and feeding it to me. To eliminate any possible lingering doubt, he follows that with a kiss that resonates all the way down to my toes.

The strawberries are so good that we leave with a dozen to take back to Atlanta with us. We both get an assortment of taffy and other goodies to give as gifts. When we leave, the clerk calls out, “Merry Christmas! Come back soon.”

Wade laughs, tucks me in close to his side, and rests his hand on my waist. “Persistent little fucker,” he says once we’re out of earshot.

“I’ve got a decade on that kid.”

He leans down to kiss my temple. “Your age is the last thing on his mind. Trust me.”

“Price!”

Wade stops in his tracks at the sound of his surname being shouted from somewhere behind us. We turn, and his arm slips away from me as an unfamiliar guy rushes toward us with his arm outstretched. They clasp hands, shake, and greet each other happily as a woman catches up to Wade’s buddy.

“Sean, this is Violet,” Wade says, returning his arm to my middle. “Violet, this is my buddy, Sean McLean. We played basketball together. He graduated the year after I did.”

“Hi.” I smile and wave.

“Nice to meet you, Violet.” Sean steps back, wraps an arm around the woman, and pulls her forward. “This is my wife, Dana.” He waves at her extended midsection, beaming with pride. “And our daughter, Abby.”

“Congratulations,” Wade says. “When?”

“February,” Dana answers. “Valentine’s Day, if the doctor’s right.”

“That’s great.” It’s an automatic reply, one I’ve given in response to countless engagement and baby announcements thrown our way over the last few years.

Wade’s a master at small talk. He asks a few key questions to seem interested, promises to get in touch the next time we’re in town, and then excuses us so we can get our last-minute shopping done. They make plans for a future wing-and-basketball night that will more than likely never happen, and we part ways to carry on.

In a shop filled with Tybee Island bells and collector spoons, I find a small section of hand-crafted Christmas ornaments with personalization options. I choose a sand dollar with entwined silver rings painted on it and ask the shop owner to add Van and Corey’s names and the year. It’s small, somewhat tacky, and perfect, the exact opposite of what my mother would choose for them.

By the time the stores start to close, we’ve found gifts for Nick and a few of Wade’s co-workers. I’ve decided to wait to shop for my family until I get to New Orleans. I don’t want to haul a ton of luggage with me or worry about things being damaged during the trip. I’ll be able to fit Dad’s candy in my carry-on.

Our final stop is a small apothecary that sells Patricia’s favorite soy candles. I help Wade pick out a few scents I know she’s fond of and then wander around for a few minutes with him at my heels. We find tea, spices, and dip mixes to add to the picnic-style basket he’s carrying before the lights closest to the door flicker as a warning.

When Wade heads for the register, I hang back to check out a small section of books near the clearance wall. Most of them are home remedy, recipe, or local guide books. One in particular catches my attention. There’s a photo of an eerie house next to a graveyard on the cover, and a quick glance at the blurb on the back promises the revelation of the most haunted spots in Savannah.

Wade’s lips turn up in a grin when I set it next to his things on the checkout counter. “Why am I not surprised?”

I shrug. “It’s something to read on the plane.”

We carry our spoils to the parking lot and load them into his trunk. After closing the hatch, he hits the key fob to lock the car again.

“Come with me,” he says, reaching for my hand. He leads me down the path to the beach, and at the spot where the sidewalk ends, he takes his shoes and socks off. Then, he rolls up his pants to mid–calf. The sound of the water has me doing the same.

It isn’t crowded, so we leave our footwear there and step onto the cool sand with bare feet. Neither of us stops until we’re ankle deep in freezing cold water. We hop out of reach of the ocean quickly.

“Let’s walk instead,” he says.

The sound of cars, conversations, and Christmas music fades. Eventually, so does the light. Only the moon and water are left.