The Cure for Dreaming(56)
“No, I couldn’t kiss you if I wanted to.”
I peeked up at him. “Why not?”
“It’s not easy for me.”
“What do you mean? Is something wrong with your mouth?”
“No.” He gave a strained smile. “Ladies have a habit of saying the only reason they’re kissing me is because they’re under my spell. They especially say that if they seem to like it but feel guilty about liking it, and if they’re a bit older than me.”
“Oh.” I loosened my hand from his. “Is this a common problem?”
“No, but it’s happened twice. A hazard of the profession, I suppose, but it makes me nervous about kissing anybody.”
“Oh. Well”—my voice faltered; I tried not to stare at those red lips of his—“I certainly don’t want to complicate this odd relationship of ours even further.”
“No.” He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s for the best if we stick to simpler pleasures, like bicycle rides . . . and buggy outings.”
I laughed and brushed my hair out of my face. “Yes, that’s much simpler and far less intimate.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“And we don’t need any more transgressions going onto my long list of post-hypnosis sins,” I added.
“No, absolutely not. You don’t want—”
I placed my hand on his shoulder and kissed him, just to try it with someone who wasn’t drunk and Percy—and only because my heart was still thumping so rigorously from the bicycle ride—and because he fascinated me—and because it seemed as if we both desperately needed a kiss. His mouth felt so velvety soft that I let my lips linger. He tilted his head and held on to my waist and returned my kiss in such a way that lovely little prickles tingled across my stomach and down the backs of my legs.
Our lips parted, and I marveled at how hard I had to work to catch my breath. Henry brushed his thumb across the line of my jaw, but I stopped him by taking hold of his hand.
“I need to go home,” I said.
He withdrew his fingers from mine, and the absence of their pressure left my hand empty and cold. “All right.”
“Henry . . .”
“Yes?”
I smiled. “I had ridiculous amounts of fun on that bicycle ride, too.”
His face brightened clear up to the golden tips of his hair. “We’ll figure out a way to make Tuesday work,” he said. “I promise. Let me know if you concoct any ideas.”
I nodded and grabbed hold of the bike.
Without a single other word—or kiss—he slipped his hands back into his pockets and walked away into the shadows, whistling a song that sounded both sad and lovely, like a Pied Piper who pitied the children he was luring out of town.
FATE WAS KIND TO ME THAT NIGHT. DESPITE THE AWFUL creaks that accompanied my footsteps when I snuck up the staircase, Father’s bedroom door remained shut, the light within extinguished. I believed I’d made it safely back to my bedroom by the grace of the brandy swimming through his veins.
In the darkness of my room, I hurried to shed my day clothes, climbed into my long nightgown, and threw an extra quilt over the mirror to hide my reflection from myself. My plate of half-eaten supper still waited on my floor, so I hustled it down to the kitchen in fear of mice sneaking into my room to feast.
Back upstairs, I tucked myself beneath my cotton sheets and the piles of autumn blankets that warmed away the chill of the house. My legs still experienced the fluttery sensation of whooshing through the streets of the city, and my just-kissed lips spread into a smile.
On the brink of sleep, when my mind hovered in that strange off-balance twilight between wakefulness and dream, I envisioned a ballroom inhabited by anti-suffrage ladies with Whitehead gags silencing their mouths. Below the peculiar image, like the suffrage caricatures printed in the Oregonian most weeks of late, ran a caption:
A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE.
My eyes blinked back open.
A grin stretched to my ears.
A taste of their own medicine. The solution to the dilemma of our election-night performance.
ather distributed Sunday morning’s heaping spoonful of bad news, quite appropriately, in the kitchen.
“Now that Gerda is gone,” he said from behind me at the sizzling griddle, “you’ll need to manage the housework every day of the week.”
The flapjack I had been flipping dropped to the floor.
“What about school?” I asked.
“The house needs tending, and we have no one else.”
“But you said you worried about leaving me home on my own.”
“Your industriousness will keep you active and out of trouble, and the hypnosis will prohibit you from attending any unsavory rallies. But fear not”—he bent over and picked up the crumbling pieces of oatmeal from the floor—“I have a strong inkling you’re going to be in high demand Tuesday night. If we find you a young society gentleman, which I’m certain we will when those boys witness your demure personality, you may not ever need worry about cooking and cleaning again. You’ll likely acquire a maid and a cook with your future husband. You’ll be able to devote your full attention to my grandchildren.” He nodded with an optimistic arch of his eyebrows.