The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,483

an endless terrain of darkening clouds. The scent of rain mingled with the heat.

Home. Where I belong. Where the sky looks as I remember it. Where the low country spreads out forever. And the air is my friend.

Fast and silent the traffic flowed on the interstate highway; the low cushy Mercedes-Benz cruised easily at eighty-five. The music ripped the air with its high pure violin glissandos. Finally the sun died to a wash of blinding gold. The dark swampy woodlands closed around them as they sped into Mississippi, the eighteen-wheelers rumbling by, the lights of the little towns flickering for an instant, then vanishing, as the last of the tarnished light died away.

Did she miss the drama of California? he asked her. Miss the cliffs and the yellow hills?

She was looking at the sky just as he was. You never saw such a sky out there. No, she said softly. She missed nothing. She was going to be sailing different waters, warm waters.

After a long while, when it was truly dark, and the only view now was the view of the glowing red tail lamps before them, she said:

“This is our honeymoon, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“I mean, it’s the easy part. Before you realize what kind of a person I really am.”

“And what kind is that?”

“You want to ruin our honeymoon?”

“It won’t ruin it.” He glanced at her. “Rowan, what are you talking about?” No answer. “You know you’re the only person in this world I really know right now. You’re the only one I don’t handle literally with kid gloves. I know more about you than you realize, Rowan.”

“What would I do without you?” she whispered, snuggling back against the seat, stretching out her long legs.

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve figured something out.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“He’s not going to show himself till he gets ready.”

“I know.”

“He wants you here right now. He’s standing back out of the way for you. He showed himself to you that first night just to entice you.”

“This is giving me the creeps. Why is he so willing to share you?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve given him opportunities, and he’s not really showing himself. Strange things happen, crazy things, but I’m never sure … ”

“Like what things?”

“Oh, not worth dwelling on. Look, you’re tired. You want me to drive for a while?”

“Good Lord, no. And I’m not tired. I just don’t want him here with us right now, in this conversation. I have a feeling he’ll come soon enough.”

Late that night, he woke up in the big hotel bed alone. He found her sitting in the living room. He realized she’d been crying.

“Rowan, what is it?”

“Nothing, Michael. Nothing that doesn’t happen to a woman once a month,” she said. She gave a little forced smile, faintly bitter. “It’s just … well, you’ll probably think I’m insane, but I was hoping I was pregnant.”

He took her hand, not knowing whether it was the right thing to kiss her. He too felt the disappointment, but more significant, he felt happy that she had actually wanted to have a child. All this time, he’d been afraid to ask her what her feelings were about such a thing. And his own carelessness had been worrying him. “That would have been great, darling,” he said. “Just great.”

“You think so? You would have been happy?”

“Absolutely.”

“Michael, let’s do it then. Let’s go on and get married.”

“Rowan, nothing would make me happier,” he said simply. “But are you sure this is what you want?”

She gave him a slow patient smile. “Michael, you’re not getting away,” she said, with a small playful frown. “What’s the point of waiting?”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

“And what about Mayfair Unlimited, Rowan? The cousins and company. You know what they’re going to say, honey.”

She shook her head, with the same knowing smile as before. “Do you want to hear what I have to say? We’re fools if we don’t do it.”

Her gray eyes were still rimmed in red, but her face was very tranquil now, and so pretty to look at, so soft to touch. So unlike the face of anyone he’d ever known, or loved, or even dreamed of.

“Oh, I want to do it,” he whispered. “But I’m forty-eight years old, Rowan. I was born in the same year your mother was born. Yes, I want it. I want it with all my heart. But I have to think of you.”

“Let’s have the wedding at First Street, Michael,” she said in her soft husky voice, her eyes