Beneath the Apple Leaves(58)

“All right,” she consented haughtily. The woman brushed past and sat at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed high on the thigh of the other, her garter belt visible above her stockings.

Andrew paced. He was sweating. “It’s nothing personal, miss.”

“Francine,” she interjected.

“Francine.” He walked back and forth, turned in short circles. “Look, it’s not that I’m not flattered or appreciative of what you . . . do. But I’m not going to do this. Not this way. Just doesn’t feel right.” A hurt look flashed in her eyes. “Nothing against you. I’m not judging you, miss—I mean, Francine. It’s just, I’d rather do this with my own girl, in my own time.”

Francine studied him and her demeanor changed, turned from sultry and forced to warm. When she smiled this time, the tiredness left her eyes as if she was relieved of some duty or expectation. She became pretty then, in a worn way. And he saw the effects of what the profession had taken from what must have been a very sweet and beautiful girl.

Andrew sat next to her on the bed, the anxiety, the threat, now subdued. “I’m not sure why my uncle brought me here. It doesn’t seem like him.”

“He feels bad.” Her eyes softened, rounded in kindness. “He blames himself for what happened to you. This is his way of making amends.”

Andrew glanced at his missing arm, the fabric sewn shut at the shoulder. “You mean he feels sorry for me.” The wind knocked out of his chest left him hollow and angry. “Didn’t think any girl would be with me. So he paid for one.” The clearness of the pity, the hanging thought, stung more than the amputation.

She touched his knee for a moment. “It’s his own guilt that’s shaming him, Andrew. In his mind, this was a gift to you, an atonement maybe.”

He squeezed his fist, the hurt raw and deep. His uncle’s insult worse than the one delivered in the barn.

Francine tilted her head as she watched him. “You’re a handsome man, Andrew. Nearly took my breath away when I saw you, and trust me, I see a lot of men walk through these doors. But you’re different. The guys come in here looking to feel like a man and here you are, already being one, not needing anyone to show you how.

“That arm being gone ain’t nothing. Any girl be blessed and honored to spend a night or a life with you. Can see that without hardly knowing you at all. You got kind eyes, honest eyes. Any girl be lucky to be with you.”

She smiled but then looked mischievous, glanced over his shoulder at the clock next to the bed. “Listen, we still got over an hour and it’s all paid for. I think I can still do something for you, young man. If you’re open to it.”

He blushed again and shook his head. “I told you, I wouldn’t feel right being with you. Hardly knowing you at all as it is.”

She laughed. “I know. That’s not what I’m talking about, love. I’m talking more about a”—she searched the ceiling for the right word—“a lesson.”

Francine stood before him. “Think of me as a teacher,” she said as she began to undo the buttons on her dress. “One day you’re going to meet the girl of your dreams and it’ll be a good idea if you know how to please her.” She stripped the dress off her shoulders, remained there half-naked in her corset. Andrew grew hard again, stared in wonder at the body, fascinated by the pale skin and the feminine curves. She unsnapped the corset methodically, dropped it to the floor. He gulped.

“Most men don’t know how to touch a woman, Andrew. Come to think of it, most don’t care, either. But you do what I say and you’ll have your woman screaming out your name to the rooftops.”

Francine jumped on the bed and leaned back on the pillows. She spread her thighs, the hair between her legs opening to reveal the pink flesh between. He stared, couldn’t have stopped staring if he had a gun pointed to his head.

She squirmed comfortably, slid her fingers to her crotch. “Now, watch carefully. . . .”

*

When her paid hour finished, Francine walked Andrew to the door, whispered instructions as if he were taking notes. “Now remember what I showed you. You can do that just as well with the tongue, too. Lick like a cat drinks water, not the way a hound dog does.” She grimaced for emphasis. “And remember to take your time with a woman, make her want it and make her wait. Kiss her softly with not too much tongue; keep it dry, you know? Not too wet. Kiss the neck, too.”

Wilhelm waited for them on the porch, did not meet Andrew’s face and only acknowledged Francine, his manner much more self-conscious than before. She wiped her brow dramatically. “Sugar wore me out!”

Awkwardly, Wilhelm pulled bills from his wallet and handed them to Francine. “Thanks, Frannie.”

“Was my pleasure.” She winked at Andrew. “My pleasure indeed.”

The men rode in the car, the endless churn of the engine rattling along the map of roads. Andrew glanced at his uncle’s face, the absent and distant focus, as he drove before saying, “I need to ask you something.”

Wilhelm stiffened with the tone. “What is it?”

“Have you been there before?” He tapped his foot on the floor of the Ford. The thought of a betrayal to Aunt Eveline flattened his frame against the seat—the woman had become a second mother to him. “Have you been with those women?” he accused.