Page 7

The room is at the end of the hall, under the slope of the roof. There's a big iron bed with a white quilt stitched in interlocking rings, and a window that looks straight out across the orchard. A lamp with a fringed shade sits on the nightstand. An open duffel bag spills sweaters onto the floor by the dresser. On the dresser stands a framed photograph of a woman in a man's work jacket, balanced on a ladder in the branches, squinting down at the camera like it owes her rent.

Carolina clicks the lamp on and sees me looking.

"That's her," she says.

"I figured."

I cross to the dresser, pick the frame up, and lay it face down on the wood. "Sorry, Nell."

Carolina bursts out laughing, a real laugh, the loud one from the cider tent. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand. "She'd have wanted to watch."

"That's exactly why."

She's still laughing when I get back to her. I take her face in both hands. She goes quiet and still.

"I'm going to take my time. I want you to know that."

"I'm very bossy," she says.

"I noticed."

"It continues."

"I was hoping."

"Then take your time. But do it where I can see you."

I find the hem of her sweater and look up for permission. She nods. I lift it slowly, over her ribs and the soft roundness of her stomach and then her breasts. She lifts her arms. The sweater leaves her hair in a mess and the clip hangs by a few strands. I take it out and set it on the nightstand. Her hair falls down over her shoulders, thick and heavy, past her collarbones.

For a moment I don't touch her. I look.

Her breasts are full, held high in a black bra with wide straps and a lace edge. The straps have left two shallow pink grooves in the tops of her shoulders. Her stomach is soft and round, with a fine line of freckles running down from her navel. Her waist dips in above wide hips.

I put my thumb on one of the red lines on her shoulder and follow it. "You've been carrying these all day."

"They're not heavy."

"I didn't say they were. I said you've been carrying them." I kiss the groove and then the other one. "That's different."

She makes a small sound and slides her fingers into my hair. "Take it off."

I reach around, find the clasp. The bra loosens. I draw the straps down her arms. Her breasts come free, heavy into my hands. Her nipples are dark and already hard. I run my thumbs across them once, lightly. She sucks in a breath so sharp that I do it again, slower. Her head tips back. A flush goes down her throat and over her chest.

"Ethan."

"Yeah?"

"If you keep doing that, I'm going to lose track of the plan."

"There's a plan?"

"There's always a plan." She pulls my shirt out of my jeans. "Mine is that you're wearing too much."

She works the buttons of my flannel with quick fingers and shoves it off my shoulders. The left one catches. I hold back a wince. She sees it. She stops. Her hand rests on the top of the joint, very light.

"Later," she says, quietly. "I'll fix that."

"I won't be here later."