In Harmony(55)

And then it came again, Isaac’s hand out to me, strong and sure, offering to be there while I crossed the great black chasm.

“I drew it out, but I didn’t put it there to begin with,” he asked. “Did I?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Who did?”

I swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me,” he said, his voice gruff. “It fucking matters to me, Willow.”

I felt myself moving closer to him. He looked so strong and brave and unafraid of anything. And I felt so small and tired. I wanted to give up pretending I wasn’t exhausted down to my soul and fall into his arms. Let him hold me up for a little bit, even if it was a cowardly thing to do.

“I should go,” I said. “It’s late.”

He held my gaze a moment longer, then nodded and crushed out his smoke. “I’ll drive you.”

“You can’t,” I said. “Not because I don’t want you to. I swear. It’s my father. He’ll—”

Isaac waved a hand, cutting me off. “You don’t have to explain.”

“It’s why I had you drop me off at another house.”

“I know.” His smile was gentle. “It’s okay. Marty insisted on putting my truck in the shop for some maintenance. I’ve got Brenda’s Nissan this week. I can drop you off and your father will be none the wiser.”

“I hate that it has to be like this,” I said. “I hate that he’s a bigoted ass, but I can’t lose this play.”

“I don’t want you to either,” Isaac said. “Come on. You’re shivering.”

He drove me home in Brenda Ford’s Nissan Altima. Pink crystals hung from the rearview mirror. They jingled against Isaac’s black leather sleeve when he reached to adjust it. The scent of potpourri clung to the leather seats, yet through it, I could still detect the cigarette smoke. All the feminine trappings of the car only made Isaac more striking and masculine. He was a formidable form next to me, yet I felt perfectly safe.

He pulled to the curb in front of my house, then leaned over the steering wheel to get a good look at it. Probably comparing it to his trailer. Maybe thinking I was just another spoiled rich girl who didn’t appreciate what she had.

“You safe here?” he asked.

I stared, taken aback. Confused. Then it sunk in what he was asking and God, my heart ached. The simple consideration touched my bones.

“Willow?” His gray-green eyes pressed me, searching.

“I’m safe here,” I said.

He nodded, satisfied. “You should go. I think we’re being watched.”

I looked to see a figure in the living room window, holding the curtains back.

“That’s my dad,” I said. “Right on schedule.”

“Just tell him you got a ride with the director’s wife.”

“Right.” And before I could stop myself, I leaned over and kissed Isaac’s cheek. His scruff was bristly under my lips, but his skin was warm and smelled of soap and tobacco. When I pulled away, his eyes were wide.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?”

“For saying it matters.” Tears suddenly choked my throat and filled my eyes. I threw open the door and got out. The cold air was bracing in my lungs. I caught my breath before turning back. “Good night, Isaac. See you tomorrow.”

“See you, Willow. Good night.”

I shut the door and hurried up my front walk. Dad remained at the window, watching until Isaac drove away.

“Who was that?” he demanded.

“Hello to you too, father dear,” I said. “That was Brenda Ford, the director’s wife.”

“What happened to Justin?”

“He wasn’t called to rehearse tonight.”

“Your mother says you’re going to a dance with him, and that he comes from a very fine family.”

“Yes I am, yes he is, and I’m really tired—”

“And you’re staying away from Isaac Pearce, yes?” Dad’s eyes had darkened. “My coworker Gary’s daughter thought she saw you with him on Saturday.”

“Well Gary’s daughter needs to mind her own damn business, doesn’t she?”

My father put his hands on his hips. “I meant what I said about Isaac. I don’t want you associating with the one boy in the entire town with a reputation like that.”

Words rose up in my mouth like bile. I wanted to spit them at my father. Tell him he could take his pretend concern for me and shove it up his ass. It wasn’t concern for me, it was concern for his own reputation.

But I was seventeen. A minor. If my father told Martin I wasn’t allowed to do the play, Martin would have no choice but to kick me out.

“Well?” Dad asked. “Did you see Isaac or not?”

“No, my good lord,” I said, biting out the words. “But as you did command.”





Willow



The night of the dance arrived. My parents, thrilled I was making an effort at socializing, had a spread of hors d’oeuvres and sodas fit for twenty people instead of six. Our marble kitchen counters were laden with little sandwiches, chocolate covered hazelnuts and cherries. Even crackers and caviar.