Seventh Heaven Read online

  Two weeks ago, he’d looked at her like no one else ever had. Like he could reach down inside her and illuminate the darkest corners of her soul. Like he wanted to explore every inch of her, inside and out. And oh, she’d wanted to open herself to him in every way.

  She hadn’t. Now she might not get another chance.

  Turning, she made her way down the street. Could she find a way to make him look at her like that again?

  She found herself trudging up the short hill to the canal path. Through the trees, the horizon was rimmed with crystalline blue darkening to indigo overhead. The still water reflected lights from the houses alongside the canal. She walked until there were no more houses and the path ahead disappeared into darkness. How far she’d traveled, she didn’t know, but decided to head back.

  The desolation of the streets magnified as the lights blinked on. Her shadow stretched long as she crossed the street, glad for the darkness. When she opened the apartment door, Val was on the phone in the kitchen. Next to the kitchen, Val’s bedroom door stood open and from her turntable, velvet-voiced Donovan crooned he was mad about Saffron. The living room was dark and the TV set against the wall hovered like a giant, unseeing insect eye over the thick rug and flowery sofa. Behind the sofa waited Lilah’s room. Empty. Lonely.

  Lilah went downstairs again to the back walk, folded her arms and shivered. The river was running high, glimmering in the night.

  The door creaked open. Val stepped next to her. “You okay?”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it? The river is rushing by so fast, but it really doesn’t go anywhere.” Her life was mired like a river rock, with the world whooshing past her, barely touching her. At some point, she must rise, float up and catch the current.

  “I bet if you put a canoe in it, it would take you somewhere.”

  Val’s comment pulled her out of the muddy depths. Lilah turned to her. “Yeah. That’s what I need to do.”

  The tip of Val’s cigarette glowed. “What? Go canoeing?”

  “Metaphorically speaking.” She hurried inside.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to make something.” She’d string a bridge from her heart to his, in the way she knew best. A tangible object, made with love, that she hoped would touch his heart as much as his hands.

  Val’s bemused voice followed her through the empty store. “A canoe?”

  “Sort of.” A canoe of leather string and silver, to carry her soul to him across these rough waters.

  At the counter, Lilah selected some leather, a few silver beads and a silver ankh charm--the one she’d been saving without knowing why. Her fingers worked swiftly until at last, she nested the choker in a bandana-print drawstring bag. Tucking the bag in her pocket, she locked the door behind her as she went outside again.

  Back at Fran’s, the stools were deserted. James sang along with Janis Joplin--Down on Me--as he wiped the bar. Seeing her, surprise crossed his face. Even that emotion vanished.

  “Hey, I’m closing up.” He wiped a cloth across the countertop, working down the bar, away from her.

  Her heart thudded, though she hadn’t walked fast. “I know. Here.”

  The bag hung from her hand between them. A short reach, but he didn’t move. “What?”

  She’d stand here until he did. “It’s for you. To take with you.”

  He narrowed his eyes, then threw the cloth beneath the bar. “I don’t—”

  “It’s for luck.” She held it closer to him.

  His laugh punched the air. “What, a four-leaf clover or something? ‘Cause the Viet Cong don’t believe in that, so it won’t work.” He walked to the cash register and punched a key to open the drawer, threws in some coins then slammed it shut.

  He was drifting further away from her.

  She laid the bag on the counter. “I made it for you. Wear it for luck.”

  If she had any luck at all, he’d see it was her heart lying there, waiting for him to lift it up.

  She walked away, and Janis Joplin’s gravelly voice cut through the night, across the space dividing them, and into her bedroom window.

  ****

  Thursday scraped by slower than a mule-drawn canal barge. Val begged off early for her trip. Lilah was glad for the time alone.

  From the button basket, she selected one that warned: I am a human being. Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.

  A thirtyish woman from across the river carried in a bag and emptied it onto the counter. A candle rolled out.

  ”It won’t stay lit.” The woman looks at Lilah’s pin and the ends of her mouth curled as if she tasted something unpleasant.

  Lilah set the candle upright. Its black wick and curled sides meant the customer had used half of it. Another time, she might have refunded the customer half price. But the woman looked primed for an argument, and Lilah didn’t have the energy.

  She flashed a grin, the best she could manage. “Why don’t you pick out a new one?”

  In seconds, the woman placed another candle beside the register. Lilah dropped it into the bag and forced a pleasant tone. “Have a good night.”

  The woman walked out with her nose in the air.

  Lilah turned, blew out a long breath as she stooped to return her bead box to the cabinet behind the counter. When the door opened again, she called, “We’re closing in two minutes.”

  Something familiar about the figure on the other side of the counter’s glass front made her rise.

  James stood in the open doorway. The choker gleamed from his neck. “I came by to say thanks.”

  The distance she’d felt between them last night was gone. His warm eyes searched hers, reaching again for a connection.

  “I didn’t know it was you.” She stepped from behind the counter. No more barriers between them.

  He closed the door. “So. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. It looks good. It’s an–”

  “An ankh. I know.” Something seemed to be holding him back, but somehow she knew she must be patient, and let him come to her.

  “The Egyptian symbol of eternity.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and her breath was jagged. “Sorry. I mean, Ben told us. It really stinks you’re leaving.”

  He ran a finger across a glazed jug. “Bad timing.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “I guess it’s never a good time…”

  He glanced up and flashed a switchblade smile. “I mean, I wish we had more time.” His soft voice rushed at her like the wind and billowed the sails of her heart’s rocky boat.

  The air thinned, seemed rarified. “Me, too.”

  He stepped closer. Time felt maddeningly slow. She wanted to run to him, fill her arms with him.

  Instead, she crossed her arms. “I hope you’ll write me, if you get a chance.”

  “Yeah?”

  He was within arm’s reach. His gaze flowed over her inch by inch, over every curve and hollow.

  The floor needed sweeping. And needed to be smaller. Or his steps needed to be more expansive. “Sure, I’ll keep you up on the local gossip. Send you goodie packages.” A lock of her hair. A photo of herself so he’d think of her every day. And night.

  His eyes locked on hers. “That’d be nice.”

  “We’re going to miss you around here.”

  “You will?” The timbre of his voice rumbled inside her like an earthquake.

  With his last step, he was so close her skin tingled with his heat. “No one can make a margarita like you.”

  He fingered her hair, tucked a strand behind her shoulder. “Come back tonight. I’ll make you all the margaritas you can drink.”

  In her head she was already there, sipping at a wide-rimmed glass, serenaded by Dylan in the background, James attending to her alone. “OK.”

  “See you about seven, then?”

  She smiled. “Seven it is.”

  He backed toward the door, slowly, as if still taking her in. The silver ankh winked in the light as he turned to l
eave.

  ****

  Candles lit the bar, daisies and daylilies filled a vase at its center. Bob Dylan moaned that the answer was blowin’ in the wind.

  James walked out of the kitchen. When he saw her, he took long strides toward her. “Hey, right on time.”

  Her voice seemed stuck in her dream-filled head. “Well, yeah, I didn’t want to jinx my lucky number.”

  He laid his hand on her back, and its warmth seeps through her white cotton blouse. “Come on in.”

  She wanted to tell him how wonderful the flowers were, how romantic the candles were. How time felt like the river, static, but slipping away too fast. “This looks great.”

  “The old guy down the street loves to garden. He gave me the flowers.” He moved behind the counter. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, not at all.” Her stomach had knotted so tight, no food would fit.

  “Thirsty?”

  She slipped onto the stool. “Absolutely.”

  His muscles rippled as he mixed the alcohol. Cologne scented the air, cologne he wasn’t wearing earlier.

  “Another slow night,” she said. The bar was empty except for her and James.

  “All week. Very unusual.”

  The tang of the drink seeped into her. “Not that I mind.”

  “I’m kind of glad.” He leaned toward her, and time seemed to reverse a few weeks, like a river reversing its flow.

  Jimi Hendrix crooned about the wind crying Mary, his voice a richly toned instrument, as electric as his guitar.

  She smiled. “I like the music.”

  “Hendrix is always a crowd pleaser.” He watched her mouth as her lips curled around the salty rim.

  She set the drink on the bar. “Let’s hope the crowds stay home for this one.”

  He held out his hand. “Come on.”

  She slid her palm across his, though she didn’t understand. Separated by the counter, they walked hand-in-hand to the end of the bar, where he tugged her close. It felt like whooshing up a mountain, like flying. When he glided her across the floor, she was drifting on air currents high above the earth.

  Candlelight reflected in his dark eyes, making them sparkle. He tightened his embrace and they moved together like water over a rock. He leaned his cheek against hers, and his breath warmed her skin.

  The song ended. He groaned into her shoulder, his hands running slowly across her back. He leaned away to look at her. “Want to go for a ride?”

  “On your Harley? Hell, yes.”

  He laughed, the first real smile he’d shown her in weeks. “Let’s go then.”

  “Now? Aren’t you working?”

  “Not for long.” He strode to the kitchen.

  Ben followed him out again. “Hey, Lilah,” he said, toodling his fingers at them. James took her hand, grabbed her purse and led her through the back door and out into the parking lot.

  His cycle leaned near the kitchen entrance. He unstrapped two helmets from the back, handed her one and pulled his on. He slid his leg over the bike and started it. “Come on.”

  She tugged on the helmet and fit herself behind him, her hands light against his waist. The cycle’s rumbling vibrated through her as he revved the engine and let out the clutch. Her body jerked backward, so she held him tighter.

  He drove them across the river, through Lambertville’s sleepy streets and onto the highway. The wind rushed past them. She rested her chin against his T-shirt as the bike climbed Music Mountain. They swerved onto a side road, its dips and turns like a carnival ride whooshing them through the night. Wide stretches of trees were interrupted by a house here and there. They slowed and pulled off the dark road, and James cut the engine.

  He took off his helmet. “You okay?” His hand glided behind her knee and up her thigh.

  She instinctively pressed into him, and spread her hands across his chest. “Yes, but what are we doing here?”

  He squeezed her leg. “It’s a surprise.”

  She climbed off and he pushed the bike behind a tree.

  His hand was steady and strong in hers as they walked through the woods. A guitar and a clear, high-pitched voice floated through the trees and a light shone ahead. The woods opened out atop a hill overlooking a parking lot filled with cars. Beyond it, a white tent glowed.

  “The Music Circus.” She’d heard of it but never been here.

  He led her to a log, and they sat. He wrapped his arm around her leg. She pressed close, her cheek near his shoulder. Through his T-shirt, his skin smelled of soap, cologne, and…James. She breathed it in; she never wanted to forget that scent.

  The sky was alive with dancing stars. Under the Big Top, Judy Collins sang about both sides of life. Life seemed fractured now between the present and future. She wanted to hold on to this night, make it last so she could keep James with her. In a few days, he’d be whisked away, and an ocean and thousands of miles would separate them.

  James held tight to her hand. “I’m not much of a fan, but I thought maybe you like her.”

  “This is amazing.” The music was a backdrop to the moment –fleeting, but hers forever. “Thank you.”

  He turned to her. When he looked into her eyes, the same deep-rooted feeling washed over her, as if he was reaching far within her, to her core.

  His lips met hers, moist and warm. Her heart pounded, and the rush of blood pulsed in her ears, drowning out the singing below. The end of the kiss felt like waking up from a beautiful dream. Time pressed down on her, a reminder not to waste it.

  “You know, I can take Judy Collins or leave her.”

  His kiss was as quick as his smile. “So let’s leave her.”

  Inside the Music Circus, applause thundered as they made their way to the bike. James pushed it onto the road and revved the engine. She slid on and hugged herself to him. They roared forward, their bodies turning in unison at each curve.

  The world thrummed and shimmered as the Harley slipped like a fish through a stream of streets. When he stopped at a red light, his hand glided hungrily up her leg, and made her catch her breath.

  The bike’s tires hummed across the metal grate of the bridge between Lambertville and New Hope. As soon as they hit blacktop, he steered onto the sidewalk by her shop and walked the bike down the narrow path to the back. It scraped along the side wall and overwhelmed the concrete walkway.

  She fumbled the key into the lock, distracted by his fingers in her hair, running along the seams of her blouse. He stood so close behind her, she couldn’t think straight.

  The workroom was dark. He held tight to her hand but bumped into the shelf. Pottery clanked.

  He reached to steady it. “Ow. Sorry. Shhh.”

  “Oh, we don’t need to be quiet. Val’s in Cape May.”

  He enfolded her in his arms. “Why didn’t you say so?” The urgency in his soft voice sent a zing down her spine, making her insides hot as molten lava.

  Her brain exploded with Peter Max colors when he kissed her. His hands cradled and caressed her face, her neck, her waist, her thigh. They moved across the floor together in an awkward dance of lips and hands, their footsteps divining the door, the stairway, each step up a merry-go-round of flying clothes as they climbed together, their mouths losing contact for split seconds only.

  The apartment opened wide. The muted streetlight shone through the kitchen curtain like an intoxicated moonbeam across the tangle of naked arms and legs. The rug was soft on her feet, her knees, her back as he pulled her down and their dance built toward its crescendo. His chest on hers was sleek with sweat. Her legs twined around him, embracing the rhythm. He pressed against her until they were one body writhing against itself, merging into one being, pulsing with life. She opened herself to him as she’d never done with any man. When she felt him moving inside her, felt his heart beating with hers as one, she knew she was inside him, too, as if her blood now coursed through his veins.

  The air was sweet with his breath, heavy on her face, her neck.

  A breeze ri
ppled the curtain. Her hand traced his spine, his waist, feeling his deep breaths slow.

  His lips moved against her neck. “I could stay like this all night.”

  Warmth rushed through her belly, and she slid her foot along his leg. “Mmm. But it might be more comfortable in bed.”

  His weight on her lightened. “Am I hurting you?” He kissed her nose, her cheek, the edge of her lips.

  Her hips seemed melded with his. “You could never hurt me.” She smoothed the damp hair from his forehead.

  The ankh glowed softly at his neck as it caught the light when he bent to kiss her, his eyes half-closed. Happiness shimmered inside her.

  ****

  Seven months. One hundred seventy-seven letters, sometimes two in one day, sometimes days in between. James was one of the lucky ones--a mechanic, stationed in Da Nang. Other soldiers went into the jungles, and many didn’t return. Prostitutes did a good business there. His letters said he told them hello and smiled politely as they murmured to him, but they left with other men.

  November’s cold was unbearable when two weeks went by with no word from him. The letter that arrived, finally, was short. He’d been in the back of an Army truck with his best friend, Steve. A farmer’s kid from Iowa. A Vietnamese boy--couldn’t have been much more than ten or eleven--rode his bike up to the truck, and shouted something they didn’t understand. They’d learned a few words, not enough. The boy threw a grenade into the truck. Steve shoved James so hard he fell out of the truck. There wasn’t time for Steve to move, and nowhere to go. His 20th birthday would have been the next Sunday.

  James was coming home.

  ****

  December 7 began like any other Friday. Tourists in Bucks County dwindled to fewer and farther between. Darkness arrived too early. The wind cracked across the river in cold sheets and rattled the shop’s windows. Winter seeped inside. Sitting behind the counter, Lilah drew her sweater tighter around her.

  She worked a bead onto a bracelet, then took it off again. The cherry didn’t work with the tangerine--it looked like they were trying too hard to be cheerful. Too reminiscent of summer.