It Happened One Night (4 page)

“Why, Harley June! How sweet of you to surprise your daddy and me like this!” Then she batted her eyelashes at Sam as she must have done since her childhood when she realized that conquering the opposite sex was part of the Southern rite of womanhood. “And who is this good-lookin' man you have on your arm?”

Sam glanced at Harley. Her teeth were clenched so tight there was a white line around her lips and Sam figured that today the introductions were all on him.

“I'm Sam Clay, Mrs. Beaumont, and may I say it's a real pleasure to meet you. I can certainly see where Harley gets her good looks.”

Marcie beamed as she tilted her head, having to look up to meet Sam's gaze.

“Now aren't you sweet?” she murmured, and cast Harley a flirtatious grin. “Honey, where on earth have you been keepin' this sweet boy?”

“Under wraps,” Harley muttered.

Sam heard her and stifled a grin. Poor Junie. This wasn't her day, but he was feeling better by the minute.

“Five days ago Junie and I were married in Las Vegas.”

Marcie's expression fell as the possible suitor she'd envisioned for her daughter just faded away.

“I'm sorry, Harley, I don't remember you having a friend named Junie.”

Sam laughed. “This is Junie,” he said, and slid his arm around Harley, then gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

While Harley's toes were curling from the contact, her mother's breathing had started to sound as if she was strangling.

Marcie grabbed Harley by the arm, all but yanking her out of Sam's arms.

“Harley June, you better tell me this—”

Sam calmly unwound Marcie's grip from Harley's arm and then tucked her hand beneath his elbow.

“It's Clay, Mrs. Beaumont. She's now Harley June Clay. You know, it's hot as blazes out here in the sun. Do you think you might have something tall and cold for us to drink?”

Without waiting for her to answer, he led Marcie into the house, leaving Harley and her father momentarily alone on the verandah.

Harley looked at her father, almost afraid to speak.

“Daddy?”

Dewey was still a little shell-shocked, but he was starting to grin.

“I don't know where you found him, sugar, but damned if he isn't the first man I've ever seen who got the upper hand on your mama and made her like it.”

Harley  blinked  back  tears and  tried  to  smile, although
she felt like laying her head on her daddy's shoulder and bawling. This was so messed up.

“Do you love him?” Dewey asked.

Harley shrugged. “I'm not sure, Daddy.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She swallowed nervously, but wasn't going to lie. Not to her Daddy, and not about something as serious as this.

“I don't remember a thing about the wedding... only waking up the next morning with that man in my bed and a heart-shaped tattoo on my hip.”

Dewey's eyes bugged. “Good Lord! Are you saying you were drugged? If so, then—”

Harley sighed. “No, Daddy. I wasn't drugged. I was drunk.”

Dewey stared in disbelief, but the longer he looked at his only child, the more his mouth began to twitch. Harley was twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight, and truth be told, he'd been afraid she was going to turn into an old maid like his oldest sister, Mavis. This stunt was the first truly daring thing that Harley had done since her eleventh birthday when she'd announced to her teacher that she was going to be a stripper when she grew up.

He chuckled.

Harley stared.

“You think this is funny?”

“I just didn't think you had it in you,” Dewey said. “At least you can sleep easy now, knowing you will
never succumb to the ordinary things in life.” Then he took her by the hand and started inside. “We'd better hurry. I wouldn't miss the rest of this show for another year added onto my life.”

They walked in just as Sam was taking a long sealed envelope from inside his jacket pocket. Sam turned, smiling at Harley. She shivered. His smile was almost as devastating as his kisses.

“Mr. Beaumont, I realize you must have a thousand questions you'd like to ask and certainly have concerns as to your daughter's safety.” He handed the envelope to Dewey. “Inside are the names and phone numbers of my banker, my boss and my pastor. My parents are dead, but I have a brother and two sisters who all live in Oklahoma. Their names and numbers are also listed, although I'd appreciate it if you'd not take everything they say about me to heart. I'm the oldest and growing up, they didn't much like my bossy nature.”

Once again, Dewey was taken aback by the man's ingenuous nature.

“Yes, well...thank you. Of course we have concerns. I will make some calls later.” Then Dewey looked at his wife, whose face was two shades of pink deeper than normal. “Marcie, I think we'd like some of your fine lemonade.”

Marcie sputtered then squeaked. “Lemonade! You want my fine lemonade? Dewey George Beaumont, have you no sense of decorum? Our daughter has gone
and married herself to a total stranger and all you want is lemonade?”

“I'd take something stronger, if you have it,” Sam said.

Marcie's lips went slack. Harley stifled a grin. Dewey headed for the sideboard in the library where he kept a decanter of sippin' whiskey for occasions out of the ordinary. Dewey was of the mind that this was one of those times.

“You'll be stayin' for supper?” Dewey said, as he poured liberal shots of the amber-colored liquid into glasses for himself and for Sam.

Marcie moaned. “Dewey! I can't believe you are just standing there letting this happen.”

“Oh, it's already happened,” Sam said, and grinned at Harley. “Several times now. Right, darlin'?”

Harley wanted to throttle him. How dare he even hint about their lovemaking to her own mother and father?

When Harley didn't answer, Sam just winked and grinned. “We'd be happy to stay for supper, wouldn't we, Junie?”

“I do not answer to that name,” she muttered, and then pointed at the whiskey.

“Aren't you pouring one for me, too, Daddy?”

Dewey hesitated. “Daughter, after what you told me, I don't think you have the head for drink.”

Sam handed Harley his glass and poured himself another, ignoring Dewey's sputter of disapproval.

“On the contrary, Mr. Beaumont. Junie's about as centered a woman as I've ever met. For me, it was love at first sight.”

Marcie's shoulders slumped as she glanced at her daughter, her voice just shy of a whine.

“I can't believe you're married.”

Harley tossed back the whiskey as if it were water, blinking back tears as she choked. When she could breathe without fearing fire would come out her nose, she answered.

“Well, Mama, neither can I, but I've got a tattoo on my butt and a ring on my finger that says different.” She set her glass down with a thump. “Now I am going to peel potatoes, and if I'm real lucky, my knife will slip and slit my wrist and everyone's misery and disappointments will be over.”

She stomped out of the library, knowing that her mother wouldn't be far behind.

“Tattoo? You have a tattoo?” Marcie yelped, and put a hand to her throat in disbelief. “Dewey, did you hear her? Harley June has gone and gotten herself tattooed.”

Dewey was feeling pretty good about things so far and chose to pour himself another shot of liquor.

“Marcie, you go help Harley finish up supper now, you hear? I don't know about Sam, but I'm feeling mighty peckish.”

Marcie  threw  up  her  hands  and  bolted  after  her
daughter, muttering beneath her breath about morals and traditions.

Sam felt sorry for what Harley was having to face, but there was nothing he was willing to do to change it. He wasn't giving her up for anything or anyone, and the sooner that became evident to all parties concerned, the better off they would be.

* * *

“Mrs. Beaumont, this fried chicken is delicious. You soaked it in buttermilk before you battered it, didn't you?”

To say Marcie was surprised by his question would have been putting it mildly. She had alternated between the certainty that her social standing in the community was forever ruined and the knowledge that her daughter was tattooed. Now, to hear this man—the man who had so smilingly announced himself as her son-in-law—ask if she used buttermilk to soak her chicken was almost ludicrous.

“Why, yes, I did,” she muttered.

Sam nodded. “I thought so. My Grannie did the very same thing. Said chicken wasn't worth frying without it.”

Marcie was interested in spite of herself. The mention of ancestry in any form was of grave importance to her.

“My grandmother didn't cook,” Marcie said.

Sam frowned. “Wow. I'll bet her husband had a
fine time with that. How on earth did her family get fed?”

Marcie's nose tilted upward to snooty and Harley winced. She knew what was coming, but figured Sam had asked for it.

Marcie's mouth pursed primly. “Why, they hired a cook, just like every genteel family did in those days.” Then she sighed. “Oh, for the good old days.”

Dewey snorted. “You don't clean your own house and you haven't cooked a meal like this since last Easter, Marcie Lee, so don't go all pitiful on us now.”

Sam laughed, which insulted Marcie highly.

Personally, Harley just wanted the night to be over.

“I come from people who did their own cooking and cleaning,” Sam said. “I do my own, between shifts at the firehouse, of course.”

Dewey leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he fixed Sam with a curious gaze.

“Sam, what made you want to be a fireman?”

Sam shrugged. “I don't know. Just always thought I'd like it.” Then he looked at Harley, wishing he could say something that would take that “shoot me and get it over with” look off her face. “And I do...like it, I mean.”

“But it's so dangerous,” Dewey said. “I know this isn't a topic for supper conversation, but were you working in Oklahoma City when that federal building was bombed?”

The animation went out of Sam's face, and when it
did, Harley felt as if something inside of her had twisted and cracked. She had a sudden urge to put her arms around his neck and cradle him to her breasts. He looked so—stricken.

“Yes. I was there.”

“Daddy, would you care for another piece of chicken?”

Dewey blinked. Harley was passing him the platter of chicken, and the look in her eyes ended whatever else he might have asked.

“Well, uh, yes, don't mind if I do.”

Marcie wasn't interested in jobs as much as she was his past. If only he had some ancestors of which she could brag, maybe then this wouldn't be a total fiasco.

“So...have   your     people   always   lived     in Oklahoma?” she asked.

Sam shook his head, glad that the subject had changed. The hell that he and all the other rescuers had seen was still there in the back of his mind, ready to slip out in the quiet of the night.

“No, ma'am. My great-grandfather was originally from Boston. He came to Oklahoma when it was still a territory.”

Harley felt obligated to add her bit to the lagging conversation.

“My friend Susan's family was originally from Boston,” Harley said. “Of course, that was several generations ago. They've long since become true Southerners.”

Marcie snorted delicately. “Oh no, Harley June. Susan Mowry's family were carpetbaggers. They didn't come here until after The War of Northern Aggression.”

“Mother! For goodness sake.”

Marcie sniffed delicately, her nose rising a bit higher in the air.

“It's true, Harley June. Carpetbaggers. The lot of them.”

Sam laughed. “If that's the kind of stuff that matters to you, ma'am, then my ancestral family will probably turn your hair gray. The first Clay to hit Oklahoma, the one I said was from Boston, was running from the law. He married a Kiowa Indian woman and had four children with her before his legal wife caught up with him and ran her off.”

Marcie  gasped,  her  voice  just  above  a  whisper. “And which woman would your lineage be tied to?”

“That would be the Kiowa with the four half-breed bastards.”

Harley hid a grin as her father laughed aloud.

Marcie paled. So much for bragging rights on the son-in-law.

“Anyone for strawberry shortcake?” Harley asked.

Sam cut his gaze toward her, his eyes suddenly dark with promise.

“We had strawberries and champagne on our wedding night. Do you remember, darlin'?”

Harley started to deny it when she flashed on Sam
leaning over her, pouring champagne in the valley between her breasts and then licking it off with his tongue. She looked at him then, unaware of the want in her eyes.

“Yes. I remember,” she said softly.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Glory hallelujah. It was her first moment of honesty.

Marcie scooted her chair back abruptly and stalked into the kitchen in disgust. Dewey stood.

“I'll just go help your mama with the dessert,” he said.

Sam was still staring at Harley and she felt pinned beneath that dark gaze, unable to breathe.

“Do you really?” Sam asked.

“Really what?” Harley whispered.

“Remember.”

She shuddered, letting her eyelids drop for just a moment to shutter the intensity of her emotions. When she looked up, Sam was leaning across the table. She had just enough time to catch her breath before their lips met. The kiss was brief and hot, like heat lightning in a storm.

“Harley, darlin'.”

“Hmmm?”

“When we get back to your apartment, we are going to make love. You know that, don't you?”

It was a warning and a promise and Harley shivered, both from fear and longing. Longing for this evening with her parents to be over and fear that making love
to Samuel Clay would never be enough to make up for the rest of what was lacking in this marriage. It was a sham, and she suddenly wasn't so sure that she wanted it to be over.