Born Innocent by Christine Rimmer Page A

arms and looked down at her, grimacing a little at the strain his own weight was putting on his bad shoulder. She reached up, to try to pull him down into her softness. But he shook his head and kept his elbows locked.
    He looked at her—at her face, her soft breasts, and even lower—to the place where they were joined.
    He pulled back. She whimpered. He pushed into her once more.
    He muttered, “Claire. I wanted...to do this. To see this...you and me....”
    And she moved, accepting and welcoming under him, taking the pain of his barren life, the horror of Mexico, all of it, any and everything that had ever hurt him and hardened him, into herself, holding it there, and finally giving it back as pure pleasure—as love.
    Love unspoken. Because she didn’t say the words. He didn’t want the words. She would be his forever—but they would only share this one night.
    She held him, moving with him, and this time they climbed to the stars together, hovered there, and cried out in unison as they careered back to earth.
    They rested. Later, they made love once more, slowly and so sweetly, and she fell asleep with her head cradled in the crook of his unhurt shoulder.
    She woke alone at dawn. She sat up in bed and looked around, and knew without having to search the rundown house that he had gone.
    She didn’t cry. She understood. They had an agreement. It was easier this way.
     
    Now, six weeks later, seated on a rock by the river in the darkness, Claire laid her head on her gathered-up knees and allowed herself to cry.
    She cried for her foolishness, for her irresponsibility on that starkly beautiful night. It was clear now that those condoms had been too old. She cried for her own desire, which had led her to this place and then left her to work out her fate on her own. She cried for the tiny baby growing within her. And she cried for her hopeless, unfulfilled love for Joe Tally.
    Finally, no closer to a plan of action, but somewhat soothed by the release that tears bring, she wiped them away and stood up. She took in a long, deep breath.
    The crying was over. Soon, she’d have to decide what to do. But not tonight. Tonight she’d be using all the energy she had left just to find her way back to her cottage and drop into bed.
    Fighting growing exhaustion, she staggered back along the dark trail, sighing with relief when she at last came to the end of it and her sneakers touched paved road. When she reached Snow’s Inn, most of the rooms were dark. As she slid around the side of her cottage, she spotted her casserole dish, waiting where she’d left it on the corner of the front porch what seemed like a lifetime ago. She scooped it up and carried it with her to the back door.
    Once she attained the sanctuary of her cottage, she discovered it was later than she’d thought: almost one. She put her pajamas back on, and fell across her bed and slept deeply and without dreams until dawn.
     
    Claire moved through the next morning by rote, forcing herself to eat breakfast, to take care of the check-in desk. Soon enough it was eleven, and Amelia Gennero, her relief housekeeper, arrived for work.
    Claire left Amelia to take care of the desk, stepped out onto the porch—and heard the music coming from the other side of the river.
    Lord, with all her own troubles, she’d forgotten that today was a holiday.
    She walked across the bridge and found Main Street packed with tourists. The street was lined with makeshift booths, while the town loudspeaker system blared patriotic songs. Claire sent a grateful little prayer to heaven that this year Verna would be handling the Snow’s Inn float for the parade at noon. Otherwise, Claire would be up in the schoolyard right now, taking instructions from her mother. For as long as Claire could remember, Ella Snow had orchestrated the Fourth of July parade.
    Just as Claire reached the door to Mandy’s Cafe, five “poppers”—tiny white firecrackers that were actually legal in Pine