The Wedding Dress(79)

“In a manner of speaking. I met him.” Phillip removed his arm from around Emily. “Out on the town . . . you know how men do.”

“Phillip.” Emily slowed her step, touching his arm. “Might I ask a question and request a true, honest answer?”

“And risk your anger with a lie?”

“Once we are married . . .” Keeping her eyes averted, she brushed her hand over his jacket. The fine wool released the thin residue of a woman’s perfume. “There’ll be no more Emmeline. Right?”

“Emily!” Phillip jerked back, shoved aside his blazer, and tugged on his waistcoat. “What prompted this line of questioning? We’ve been over this. I feel lost how to answer. Why do you want to marry me if you believe me unfaithful? Was it him?” Phillip pointed to the door. “Did that cretin fill your head with lies?”

“Just be clear and honest, Phillip. Are you being unfaithful? Have you been with Emmeline?”

“Might I ask you a question?”

Emily exhaled. Phillip seemed to always answer her questions with a question. “Yes, what is it?”

“Will this be the last time I spring you from jail? I had a time settling Dad down once he heard the news. We phoned the paper to remove your name and paid a pretty sum to assure there will be no photograph. I don’t want our wedding to be overshadowed by the sight of you in a paddy wagon.”

“I never intended to be arrested in the first place. I merely went to Taffy’s for a fitting.”

“What did I say to you about going to the colored section of town?”

She held her answer, tired of arguing the same thing over and over.

“Emily, darling.” Phillip clasped her chin. “We are Saltonstalls. We do not go to people, they come to us. We do not do business with coloreds.”

“Ever?”

“There are plenty of white men and women in need of jobs. Any job I’d hire a colored to do I can find a poor white to do for the same price.”

“Except in the Saltonstall mines. How does your theory work there, Phillip? The colored convicts seem to get the job done. You don’t mind finding ways to extend their sentences so they can continue to work without pay, now do you? Then a colored worker is just fine for your needs.”

“We’re giving convicted criminals jobs and skills, so when they are released, at the proper time, they can get hired for pay.”

“When was the last time Saltonstall mines hired a colored ex-con for a paying job?”

Phillip bit his bottom lip and gazed at the ceiling. “Five minutes ago I could’ve made love to you in a jail cell. You were a rose in my palm.” He peered down at her. “Now you’re a thorn in my flesh.”

“Then shall we return to the original question?”

Phillip scooped Emily into his arms and, bending his lips to hers, kissed her with passion and fire, leaving her breathless and nimble. When he raised his head, she swallowed a moaning yearn for more.

“Would a man who kissed you like that be burning away his desires with another woman?”

“I reckon not.” Truthfully, Emily had no idea. She had much to learn about men. Her man. But for the moment, the heat of his ardor was enough to convince her. Phillip Saltonstall belonged to her. And her alone.





Chapter Twenty



Tim

He’d wrecked before. Crashed and burned. Broken bones. Cracked ribs. Knocked his noggin. But never broken his own heart. No sir, he was careful about that precious beating thing.

The image of Charlotte backing out of his hospital room as Kim hovered over him sped around in his mind without stopping. Without mercy. Tim winced. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But to save Charlotte would have meant humiliating Kim, and she’d done nothing wrong—her attentiveness was in response to his own overtures.

Tim tugged on his jeans, jammed his feet into his Nike slides, then slowly slung his shirt over his shoulders. Ten days after the accident, he still hurt. Pain beginning in his waist, shot up his torso and down his arm. Sometimes at night he could feel the bone moving under the skin. Or so it seemed.

The bruising, still evident on his neck, chest, and arms, made showering and dressing a pain and taxed him like a five-mile run. Uphill.

His entire body was covered with deep tissue bruises. The doctor ordered him home only if he promised to lay low, rest, stay away from work. No driving. And well, no racing. As if he needed to be told. But praise heaven, he could live on his own.

“Tim?” The kitchen door slammed. “I brought breakfast.” The beams of the remodeled ’20s cottage creaked as if responding to Kim’s familiar voice. “Sugar, are you up?”

“Yeah, yeah, coming down the hall.” Tim slipped his phone into his pocket and moved slow and steady down the wide passage.

“You should’ve seen the line at Starbucks,” she called.

“Yeah? Not surprised. Popular place.” Tim detoured into his office. Since he’d been home, he had more time than was comfortable to think about his life. His choices. His self-wounded heart.

“But if anyone knows how to work the line, baby, it’s me, Kim Defario.” Each syllable of her name was accented with her snapping fingers.

“So true. Doesn’t need to be said twice,” Tim called, breathing deep. It hurt to talk loud. He lowered down to his drawing table stool, wincing. He still liked to draw his first ideas and designs by hand. He liked the creative feel of pencil to paper.