Jezebel's Blues by Barbara Samuel, Ruth Wind Read Free Book Online

to make her see pictures. A woman in her father’s books would be helpless and hungry.
    A woman in one of his novels would wonder who the drifter was and want to heal his wounds. Somehow the pair would find a bittersweet love—and then, somehow, tragedy would separate them, leaving the pair wandering alone and disconnected forever.
    Well, she’d see her father in hell before she’d play one of his characters for the satisfaction of absurd Fate.
    She closed her eyes tight. Forget it, she thought. Just forget it.

Chapter 4
    I n his dreams, his hands were whole and strong. He could see them as he curled around the body of his guitar, his fingers straight, the tips callused from the strings. In his dreams, there were no scars riddling the flesh and there was deftness in their speed.
    In his dreams, his hands were beautiful with power. But when he woke, his left was clasped in his right, each trying to ease the ache of the other. He didn’t have to move his fingers to know how stiff they would be.
    A small moan of frustration and sorrow escaped his mouth before he knew it was coming, and he leaned his head back against the wall in the darkness. Why did he keep dreaming of perfect hands? He might have borne nightmares of the accident or it’s aftermath—might even have expected them. He might have understood his guilt-ridden soul torturing him with the visions of Retta or the sound of her screams.
    Instead, his mind cast out cruel visions of his hands, whole and perfect. Each time he awakened from the dream, he believed for an instant it was true. Each morning he lost his hands anew.
    Celia’s voice, slumberous and soft, came to him through the gloom. “Eric?”
    He didn’t answer, hoping she would believe him asleep.
    “Eric?” she called again.
    “I’m all right, Celia. Go on back to sleep.”
    “You can’t be comfortable over there. Come lie down. There’s room for both of us.”
    At another time, a time when the darkness was not so thick, a time when he’d not just learned for the six-hundredth time that his hands were broken beyond repair, he might have resisted. Even as he stood up and crossed the room, he told himself it was crazy. He was crazy.
    He settled stiffly beside her, still holding his hands close to his body, where the warmth might ease the ache. A scent of patchouli and rose wafted over him, a strangely exotic scent for such a practical woman.
    Her hands, small and a little cold, surprised him. They settled over his aching fingers with gentle, firm intent. “I’ve been awake for a while,” she said. “Your hands hurt, don’t they?”
    Without waiting for a reply, she lifted one into her palm and with the other hand began to massage the aching joints with purposeful, honest pressure. “My dad had terrible arthritis in his hands the past six or eight years. He said it was from typing so much of his life.”
    Eric groaned softly at the release of stiffness and pain her fingers wrought. He didn’t question the source of relief. He settled back on the pillows, feeling tension slide away from his shoulders and neck as her quiet soothing voice rambled on like a lullaby.
    “You must have arthritis, too,” she continued softly. “You’re so young, you’ll have to make sure you exercise them every day or you won’t be able to use them at all.”
    She let go of his left hand and picked up his right. But when she started to talk again, he reached through the darkness to touch her mouth. Her hands stilled for an instant, along with her words.
    He’d meant only to stop the flow of commentary, stop it as gently as he knew how. But his fingers registered the plumpness of her lower lip and he found himself exploring the curve, feeling her breath sough moistly over his fingertips. He traced the bow on the upper lip and the luscious swell of the lower, moved slowly from corner to corner.
    She caught his palm and pulled away, but not before he imagined exploring the same path with his