“You’re welcome.” She sounded so terribly formal.
Lightning flashed at the windows, followed by a renewed burst of rain. It pounded the roof with a clap of thunder that felt as if it exploded right overhead. Startled, Harper leaped from the floor into Taylor’s arms. For a moment she clung to him as the storm wailed outside and a deluge of rain blew sideways against the house, into the open window. The attic echoed with vibration.
She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth, the strength of his arms around her. Smelled the lingering scent of soap on his skin. He didn’t release her. She felt her breathing quicken to match his, in and out, aware that he was counting their breaths, too.
Taylor moved to look down at her. He framed her head with his hand and gently tilted it so that she would look at him.
When she looked in his eyes, all the noise around them ceased in her mind. Her whole world was focused on those two green eyes, pulsing with emotion.
“Harper . . . ,” he whispered.
Suddenly all the doubts in her mind fled. She saw only herself reflected in his eyes. She read desire and something more . . . something that felt very much like déjà vu. She took his hand from her face and brought it to her lips and gently kissed each finger. She heard his breath suck in.
In a sudden swoop he pulled her higher in his arms and his mouth came down on her open one. The storm roared outside as they kissed hungrily, like lost lovers who had found each other again. Kisses that meant to go on forever.
Until thunder clapped again, shaking the house. They both pulled back. Taylor tightened his hold on her. Then, in a burst as sudden as the thunder, they both started to laugh at the deafening roar.
She looked into his eyes and he smiled back. They both knew that the other had felt it. They both knew that this kiss was as earth-shattering as the thunder.
“Will you go out with me?”
“Love to,” she said.
He put his hand to his ear in mock deafness against the din. “What?”
“Love to,” she shouted at him.
He grinned. “I’d like to take you to Monday Night Poetry and Music.”
“Okay. . . . What’s that?”
“It’s one of the poetry readings that takes place in Charleston. Locals read their stuff, but we also get visiting poets sometimes. Poet laureates. It’s very cool.” He had to lower his head and talk by her ear to be heard.
“Sounds perfect.”
He bent to place another kiss on her lips, this one gentle. Then, reluctantly, he lifted his wrist to check his watch. “It’s getting late.”
“I don’t care.”
“We’d better get those knobs.” He moved out from her arms to stand, pulling her up beside him. He had to talk close to her ear to be heard over the noise of the rain pounding the roof. “I’ll close the window and meet you back there.”
She nodded. Taylor helped her to her feet, then wound his way to the window. Harper walked foot over foot, in the opposite direction to the back of the attic. Luckily, she spotted in the forefront the two boxes marked in large letters KNOBS. Beneath them was another, larger box labeled DOOR HANDLES. The tape was so old the glue had dried off. Pulling back the bubble wrap, she was thrilled to discover dozens of glass knobs, wooden ball knobs, and old brass and ceramic pulls. Sorting through them, she saw that most of them were in good condition.
By the time Taylor came beside her the thunderous rain had subsided to a steady patter. He slipped an arm around her waist possessively. “Find anything?”
“A treasure trove! There are so many. Mamaw must’ve taken off every knob and pull in the house.”
“You did say you had pirate’s blood in you.”
Harper laughed at that, imagining her proper grandmother going from door to door removing the door handles. He laughed again, and she knew he was imagining the same thing. She hadn’t laughed with a man as openly or freely in a long time. Taylor was slowly opening up to her, and she to him.
“These are perfect. Can you carry these boxes?”
“I think I can manage it.” Taylor smirked and stepped forward and picked up all three boxes as easily as if they were filled with feathers. “If you can grab the small trunk. It’s not heavy.”
She picked up the trunk.
Taylor turned and cast her a hooded glance. “Careful. I can’t catch you this time.”
As she followed Taylor down the stairs, leaving the dust and rising heat, she was sorry to leave the attic.
Very sorry, indeed.
Chapter Nine
For the next several days as the rain pattered the roof and Taylor painted the kitchen, Harper’s fingers tapped at her keyboard. Taylor’s words had sparked her enthusiasm anew. She couldn’t stop the flow.
“But of course she’d tell you that you can’t write. She doesn’t want you to be like him. Your dad. It wouldn’t matter if you wrote like Charles Dickens, she’d have told you that you had no talent.” The more she thought about it, the more true Taylor’s words rang.
It had been a good week. She was making progress on her novel. In some ways it was more memoir than pure fiction, rather what she imagined Louisa May Alcott must have thought while writing the first draft of Little Women. Harper wasn’t putting any pressure on herself to make it one thing or another. She was simply intent on getting the words down on paper, and she’d edit it all later. She didn’t yet know how the story would end.
By one o’clock her stomach growled. She’d risen early and dived right into her work. She hadn’t eaten yet that day, though she’d drunk coffee like a camel. She rubbed her eyes, then closed her laptop.
Looking out the window, she saw that the rain had finally blown off, leaving in its wake a clear, fresh day with an azure sky that stretched to forever. The birds were out in force, calling out songs of joy in the sunlight. Harper rose and stretched. After so much rain, it was too beautiful a day to be cooped up indoors.
She’d been working at the desk in Lucille’s cottage because it was the only place that didn’t smell of paint. Nothing in the cottage had changed since Lucille’s death. The girls had talked about sorting through her things, but Mamaw had promptly put a stop to anything of the sort, declaring that she wanted everything left untouched until she had time to go through it herself. Harper looked around at the cottage, as crammed full as the attic. Clearly Mamaw wasn’t ready to tackle that emotional hurdle yet. But the house had to go on the market. Sooner rather than later, she and her sisters would have to confront Mamaw with the reality that time was running out.