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Homer nodded and moved rather softly and gracefully for a man his size as he carried Jefferson up the stairs to his and Gavin's room. He set him down gently in his bed.

"Thank you, Homer," I said. "Come see us tomorrow," I added. He nodded and then quickly left. Gavin pulled Jefferson's shoes off and dressed him for bed while I went to the bathroom. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I started to giggle. I couldn't stop and was still giggling when I went to my room. I sat on my bed, laughing. Gavin peeked in on me.

"Hey, what's going on?" Gavin poked his head in and asked. I responded with more laughter. He smiled and approached me. "What's so funny?"

The sight of him in his tailcoat

drove me into new hysterics. Soon my stomach began to ache and I groaned, falling back on the bed and clutching myself.

"You're going to pee in your pants if you don't stop laughing," Gavin warned.

I stared up at him and then, as suddenly as I had begun to giggle, I began to cry. I bawled and bawled, the tears streaming down my face, zigzagging over my cheeks, hot, frantic tears that came from the deepest well of sorrow and pain within me. Gavin was frightened by my abrupt change in moods, but quickly knelt down beside me and began stroking my hair.

"Don't cry, don't cry. Everything's going to be all right. I promise. Please, don't cry, Christie. I can't stand it when you cry," he said and started to kiss away my tears. I threw my arms around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder. He continued to stroke my hair and whisper comforting words. My sobbing slowed until I was able to stop altogether. Then, I lifted my face, but held it close to his. Our lips were practically touching.

"Christie," he whispered. We kissed, softly at first and then harder until the tips of our tongues grazed, sending an electric thrill down my body. He kissed my neck and my naked shoulders and I moaned and lay back. I wanted his lips to go lower and lower, but he hesitated at the crest of my bosom.

"Gavin . . ."

"It's the wine," he whispered. "It's made you silly and sad."

"Gavin," I continued, looking deeply into his dark eyes, "have you ever been very close to a girl?"

"Very close?"

"Beside her without clothes?" I asked. Perhaps without the wine in me, I would never have asked such a question. He shook his head and kissed me again.

The horrid memory of Uncle Philip clutching at me, pulling and twisting my body so he would get his pleasure, returned; but I drove it off. That was ugly; this was different. I didn't want to be afraid to touch, to kiss, to want Gavin's body close to mine; I didn't want his lips to remind me of Uncle Philip's.

"Gavin," I whispered, "quickly, touch me, make me forget."

"Christie . . . you're . . . the wine . . ."

"No, it's not the wine. Please," I said. "I don't want to think of anything but you and this moment."

I took his wrist and brought his hand to my breast.

"Christie! No. Not like this," he said. "I'd only feel as if I took advantage of you," he explained, lifting his hand away. I turned my head into the pillow and buried my face so he wouldn't see my embarrassment. "I want to be with you," he said, "but not when you're confused."

I wanted to shout back that I wasn't confused. It wasn't the wine; it was the woman in me demanding to be born in a beautiful and loving way instead of being ripped and torn and dragged into maturity by a sick and twisted man. I wanted to pretend that this was my first time, that I was a girl with a normal life and not one who had been abused. My body ached to be treated tenderly, kindly, softly. I wanted our kisses to be kisses that reached into the farthest corners of my heart to stir my imagination; I wanted Gavin to touch me and set off the fire of passion in a way that made love between a man and a woman something wonderful, not something horrible to haunt me forever.

"Christie." He touched my shoulder. I moaned. "Are you all right?"

"No," I groaned. "I can't keep the horrid memories from bursting out like bubbles of acid burning my heart. I can't stop the nightmares." I spun around angrily. "I've run away from Cutler's Cove, Gavin, but not from the horrible things that were done to me. I feel dirty," I moaned, "and no shower or bath, no matter how hot or how many, can clean me. You think so too, don't you? That's why you won't touch me."

"No, Christie," he protested. "That's not true. I want to touch you. It's taking every bit of strength not to."

"Oh Gavin," I cried. "Stop being so strong. I need you close to me, very close," I said, the words coming from some part of me I didn't know existed. He stared down at me for a long moment and then he began to unbutton his jacket and shirt. I watched him undress himself down to his underwear in the light of the kerosene lamp. Then I sat up and took of my old dress. I kept my bra and panties on. I crawled under the blanket and Gavin, after checking on Jefferson, crawled under beside me. For a moment neither of us did anything. We just lay there letting our bodies touch.

"Christie," he said, "I'm not sure . . . I mean, what do you want me to do?"

Now that he was beside me, I realized how far we had gone and how quickly. Suddenly, it frightened me. Maybe Gavin was right; maybe it was wrong to do this now.

"Just hold me," I whispered, "and let me fall asleep in your arms."

"That's not as easy as you make it sound," he whispered. The hardness growing between his thighs explained why.

"Oh Gavin, I'm so cruel to you, tormenting you, demanding one thing and then another. You should hate me," I said.