The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

broadly, her feet planted firmly on the floor, hands wedged into her waist. “Let’s extinguish the lights and get to bed. See you at breakfast.”

They did so and soon were off to their rooms after a quiet embrace. The upstairs tall clock ticked in its stately, monotonous tone, and soon Emma was asleep, but dreaming of opening presents, like an excited child on Christmas morning.

* * *

Emma spent the morning complaining of a minor sore throat and a headache, enough so that Charlene’s father threatened to call off the journey—until his daughter’s tears took over.

“You can’t, Father,” her friend said in her best whiny voice. “I’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long and I want that new dress for Christmas.” She took out her handkerchief, turned her head toward Emma, blew her nose, and gave her an artful wink. “I’m sure Emma doesn’t mind spending a few hours alone.”

“Not at all,” Emma replied. “I don’t want to spoil the weekend. You go ahead. I’m sure I’ll be fine by tonight.”

“See? Emma doesn’t mind.”

“Well . . .” her father said, sounding unconvinced.

“Please. . . .”

“All right, all right,” he said, “stop acting like a petulant child. You’re behaving like this to get your way.” Frowning, he turned to Emma. “But you must rest and get well. Your mother will be as mad as a wet hornet if we send you home sick.”

Charlene smothered her father with hugs and the matter was settled. The hours were set: They would be gone from ten until about two in the afternoon with lunch in town. Emma was welcome to help herself to bread and the soup on the stove, if she was hungry.

As planned, the family left and she was alone again in a farmhouse. The surprise wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another two hours, so she sat in the living room and tried to read but couldn’t, her anticipation growing as the minutes dragged by like hours. She attended to herself in the mirror, applying powder, rouging her cheeks, and combing her hair. There was no harm in being presentable when the family returned. She sat on the porch for a time, enjoying the warm morning sun, and taking in the brilliant oranges and reds that blazed upon the hills.

She was about to sit down for lunch when the screen door opened behind her.

Shortly after eleven thirty, Kurt Larsen stepped inside.

Emma had considered that he might be the “surprise,” but had discarded the thought as an impossible fancy believing Charlene would never devise a plot that dangerously crafty and deceitful—unless she and Kurt had dreamed up the scheme together. Perhaps he really did want to see her! Her breath caught and she dropped the napkin she was holding into her lap.

There could be no mistaking her thrilling attraction to Kurt, that pulled at her stomach and heart like a yearning—a butterfly attempting to burst forth from its cocoon—and the mixed sense of liberation and peril that the feeling generated. She was aroused by and, at the same time, terrified of his presence. He stood in the doorway, framed in the dazzling fall light, in a dark jacket and pants, seeming more confident and mature than he had the previous Christmas. The breeze had mussed his hair; he smoothed it back with a strong hand and took a seat at the table.

He took her hand in his and smiled in a way that Emma thought kind and sincere.

Her heart pounding, she fought the urge to pull away. Instead, she leaned close to him. “Charlene told me about the ‘surprise, ’ but I didn’t think it possible.” A jolt rushed from his hand to hers and raced up her arm—the same as when they had first touched by the river such a long time ago.

“I wanted to be here,” he said. “We planned it together, knowing . . . I’m sorry about your father. Charlene said your mother has made your life miserable, even getting angry because I dared write to you.”

“Yes. I’ve been crushed. She blames me for my father’s death. I wasn’t even allowed to study with Mr. French over the summer.”

“Have you had any enjoyment since he died—any chance to recover?”

“Hardly a day.”

He released her hand, pushed back in the chair, and crossed one leg over the other. “Things haven’t been going so well for me, either.” His eyes dimmed for a moment and he lowered his gaze. “My grades aren’t up to par—at least Harvard’s idea of par—so I’m rethinking where I might go to law school. My father’s furious. My mother is keeping the family together at the moment.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, reaching for his hand. “You’re smart. I’m sure things will work out.”

He flinched, jarred by her touch.

“I think about you all the time,” she said.

“I wondered.” He leaned toward her, even closer, until his lips neared hers. “I think about you all the time.”

The heat from his body reached her, the fresh scent of his skin enveloped her, as their lips met. She flushed with desire, as if she could sink into him and never return. The lonely hours in her room, the feelings of guilt and betrayal that had dogged her since her father’s death, vanished with his kiss.

“We don’t have much time,” he said, caressing her face with his hands. “Would you like me to model for you?”

She nodded, unable to speak because of the images coursing through her mind.

He lifted her from the chair and carried her like a princess to her bedroom on the second floor. The sun splashed outside the windows, the day relatively warm even for mid-October. The crimson maples shook in the breeze and an undulating fiery light shimmered across the walls.

Emma felt as if she were consumed by a fire ignited by youth, the warmth of the dying season, and Kurt’s kisses. There was no pretext for modeling now as they both explored each other’s body. The room fell away as her passion exploded.

He disrobed by the