He half sat up, his eyes and mouth gaping as if she had knocked the breath out of him. The sand settled on his chest and trickled down to his stomach. He looked at the sand and then at her. She began to edge away.
He grabbed her suddenly and they rolled over a couple of times, laughing. When they stopped rolling, they were side by side, their faces a few inches apart, looking at each other in childish adoration. She put her finger on his forehead, moved it slowly down his nose, across his lips, over his smooth cheek, realizing for the first time that he didn’t have to shave. She traced the contours of his face with her finger, sculpting it in her mind.
He raised up on his elbow and leaned over her slowly. He gave her a feather-light kiss on her lips and felt again the delightful pain in his genitals, spreading down his thighs and up his stomach.
He put his hand on her cheek and she turned her face to it, nuzzling his palm. He moved his hand to her neck, then slid it slowly over her smooth, warm shoulder and down her arm. He slipped his fingers through hers and lifted her hand, their forearms together. He looked at the contrast between her brown arm and the paleness of his own skin, suddenly feeling the old way again. She seemed to know and squeezed his hand, her eyes deep as wells.
Then it was all right again. He knew it wasn’t important, but wondered if he had enough control over his own body to change his pigmentation. He leaned over and kissed her, letting her know everything was all right.
He lay again on the sand, facing her, and disengaged his fingers from hers. He ran his hand down her side and felt her still-damp underwear. His hand slid across her firm hip and his palm felt hot. She inhaled when his fingers moved up her back and under her bandeau. He unfastened it clumsily and slipped it over her shoulder, freeing her breasts.
She turned her face away, afraid she was blushing. She had never liked her breasts; they were too large for her to look fashionably flat.
Angel took them in his hands and kissed her on the side of her neck. She made a little sound in her nose. He bent his head and kissed her breast, touching the nipple with his tongue. The muscles in her stomach and thighs contracted and she couldn’t seem to breathe properly. Her mouth was dry and her stomach felt as if she were falling. She put the palms of her hands against his chest and closed her eyes.
His hand went down her side again and slid under the waistband of her pants. When he pushed them down, she raised her hips slightly to make it easier for him. She drowned in electricity when his hand and fingers explored her. Her hands moved restlessly over his shoulders and sides and back.
The pressure in Angel’s genitals became painful. He escaped her arms and rose to his knees, pulling off his shorts. Evelyn watched with fascination and curiosity and a little fear, because she had never seen before.
He lay back beside her, put his arms around her, and pressed her to him. “Forgive me,” his voice whispered in her ear. “I don’t know the right way.”
Angel went slowly and tenderly. They explored, touched, investigated, examined their bodies, making marvelous and wonderful discoveries. He was hesitant in the beginning and awkward, but she had no basis for comparison. She helped him when she could, forgiving his clumsiness, loving his innocence.
She whimpered at the first pain and he stopped and loved her. When he started again, slowly, it was easier for them both. But the pressure had built too high and his release came too soon.
He lay drowsily against her, knowing her restless dissatisfaction, feeling her hunger. Then the pressure was in him again, but not so fierce, not so demanding.
He moved with more assurance the second time, savoring slowly, making it last, and they were both satisfied.
Evelyn smiled luxuriously and snuggled in the sand. Angel bent over her and gave her a light kiss. He grinned at her shyly, but with a certain measure of pride. She reached up and caught her fingers in his tousled white hair and pulled his head down for another kiss.
29.
Harold Bradley made cold roast beef sandwiches and wondered just how long he could keep his parents’ questions answered. If it weren’t for the telephone, the damned telephone, he could have Evelyn in any number of logical places. He had finally settled on Miller’s Corners. Evelyn had gone with Grace Elizabeth Willet to help her with Wash Peacock’s father who had been struck down suddenly by some non-fatal, but decidedly debilitating illness.
The Peacocks had no telephone, so that part of it was all right. If his parents didn’t run into Wash or his father or Grace Elizabeth or Rose or Lilah or Judge Willet or Mrs. Willet in town and ask how the patient was doing, it might work. They hadn’t liked it at all that Evelyn had gone without asking, and he’d had a heart-stopping moment when his father had wanted to drive out there and check on her.
All he had to worry about now was: where would Evelyn be tonight? Would Mr. Peacock’s mythical illness work again? He felt sure that if he left her there another night, his father would most certainly drive to Miller’s Corners and check on her. In all probability, though, they would run into someone at the funeral home who knew Mr. Peacock wasn’t sick.
Harold’s head was spinning and he knew he wasn’t intended to be a secret agent. He might as well face up to it; when he returned from the Hindley place tonight, he would have to tell them the truth. He had completely run out of invention. He pushed the whole thing from his mind and packed the sandwiches in a pasteboard box.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bradley.” The smooth voice spoke behind him. He whirled and knocked the box to the floor, spilling sandwiches in every direction. Haverstock and Louis walked into the kitchen.
Haverstock smiled at him. “I was talking to your parents in town a little while ago.” He raised his forefinger and waggled it back and forth. “It seems you told me a naughty lie, Mr. Bradley. And a foolish lie—so easily checked. Your sister didn’t go to visit your grandmother yesterday, after all. Why did you do that, Mr. Bradley?”
Harold’s mouth was dry and he swallowed. “It was none of your business where my sister was.”
Haverstock shook his head. “My interests are very wide ranging, Mr. Bradley. I believe you have quite a lot of information for me.”
Harold’s teeth clenched. Blood spread on his lips from his bitten tongue. His muscles knotted painfully. He couldn’t get his breath, but when he did, he screamed.
Louis watched him. A smile hovered over his lips.
30.
The sun hung low in the west, turning the prairie grass to bronze. Angel and Evelyn sat side by side on the sand, watching the movement of the water in Crooked Creek. A killdeer trotted along the edge of the water, poking among the river rocks for snails and insects. The lonely cry of a whippoorwill floated through the still air, making Evelyn feel pensive.
She leaned her head against Angel’s shoulder. “What’s to become of us, Angel?” she asked wistfully. “Evelyn Bradley of Hawley, Kansas and Angel, the Magic Boy. It’s a very unlikely match.”
“I’m not magic, Evie,” he said softly. He had his voice and lip movements so nearly right that she sometimes forgot what he was really doing. He shifted around and sat cross-legged, facing her. “Look,” he said. He cupped his hands between them. The air misted above his hands, growing thicker and more concentrated until, after a moment, a small globe of water the size of a tennis ball floated there, quivering like jelly.
“I know it looks like magic, but it isn’t. All I did was p ill the moisture from the ground and the air and form it into a sphere.” He lowered his hands. The water ball turned to mist and floated away in a dissipating fog.
“I guess it still frightens me a little bit.”