in all his days had Hadley ever felt so proud of himself.
# # #
Next meeting, Lucinda confessed that she could hardly read the words, as they left her so breathless. “You’ll have to read them to me, Hadley,” she said. “Problem is, I’m deathly afraid of what will happen between us if we share such words out loud.”
Hadley knew Lucinda might only be teasing. He gulped anyway. To his way of thinking, it was high time one of their wicked books inspired something wicked.
From then on, when it was dark enough, Hadley would read Dracula by flashlight. When it wasn’t dark enough, he’d speak in a gravelly whisper so as to keep the whole thing sinister.
On the day Harker drove his Kukri knife into the Count’s throat, Hadley grew so excited, he kissed Lucinda.
For years he’d dreamt of kissing her. He could imagine himself doing it any number of ways, but always, in the end, Lucinda kissed him back. Now that it was real, his lips traveled no further than the slope of her cheek, but Hadley kissed that cheek as though it were a pair of open lips.
Lucinda dried her face on her sleeve.
“I thought you liked this story,” he mumbled.
“I’ve other things in mind for us.”
“Like what?” he asked, lightly touching her shoulder.
“Hold your horses. It’s only our first time through the book.”
That night, Hadley didn’t sleep a wink. He couldn’t wait to read the book again.
###
Hadley thought the hunt for the count was the most exciting part of the novel. Lucinda disagreed. She liked to read over and over again about Jonathan Harker’s encounter with the vampire brides.
“Do you suppose he likes those women, Hadley?” she asked one afternoon, addressing him as though he were suddenly an expert on the desires of men. “Or is he only afraid of them?”
“Both, I think.”
Lucinda fanned her face. “Fear and passion? At the same time?”
“And don’t forget shame,” Hadley said. “If you ask me, Harker doesn’t seem very proud of himself for liking those brides.”
“No wonder he goes mad.”
“No wonder,” Hadley agreed. “I’d rather be Quincey.”
Quincey P. Morris, a slang-talking American, was Hadley’s favorite character in the book.
Lucinda laughed. “Don’t be silly. No one runs their teeth languorously over Quincey’s skin.”
“No, but Quincey has a bowie knife.”
“Oh, Hadley.” She sighed. Quick as that, it was clear that he was no longer any sort of expert. “You are a baby, aren’t you? One of these days I’m going to have to show you what’s really important.”
The next afternoon, Lucinda stroked the back of Hadley’s neck while he read, the sharp sickle of a lone fingernail dipping down the collar of his shirt to circle the bump at the top of his spine. For a full hour, he didn’t dare move a muscle for fear she’d stop circling. When the last page was done, he closed the book, bent forward, and pressed his lips to the toe of Lucinda’s shoe.
Slowly, fearfully, he turned his face and looked up at Lucinda.
“Read it again,” she said.
###
Hadley celebrated his seventeenth birthday with a surprise smooch delivered courtesy of the new upstairs maid, a girl by the highly promising name of Ethel Lewse. Ethel grabbed him from behind while he was fishing Mr. Browning’s 14 karat gold money clip out of the toilet bowl. Shortly after Lucinda spied the two of them locking lips on the wet bathroom tiles, she gave Hadley a little parchment card with a private birthday message written inside:
Come to the attic at three a.m. to receive your special gift.
Hadley tip-toed up the butler’s stairs at exactly five till three. His plan was to act like a sleep-walker if anyone caught him up and about.
Mama barely moved a muscle when he slipped out of bed. She could be suspicious as a fat turkey invited to Thanksgiving dinner, yet she never worried about Lucinda. Lucinda was a Browning; Hadley, a Crump. What could there possibly be
# # #
Next meeting, Lucinda confessed that she could hardly read the words, as they left her so breathless. “You’ll have to read them to me, Hadley,” she said. “Problem is, I’m deathly afraid of what will happen between us if we share such words out loud.”
Hadley knew Lucinda might only be teasing. He gulped anyway. To his way of thinking, it was high time one of their wicked books inspired something wicked.
From then on, when it was dark enough, Hadley would read Dracula by flashlight. When it wasn’t dark enough, he’d speak in a gravelly whisper so as to keep the whole thing sinister.
On the day Harker drove his Kukri knife into the Count’s throat, Hadley grew so excited, he kissed Lucinda.
For years he’d dreamt of kissing her. He could imagine himself doing it any number of ways, but always, in the end, Lucinda kissed him back. Now that it was real, his lips traveled no further than the slope of her cheek, but Hadley kissed that cheek as though it were a pair of open lips.
Lucinda dried her face on her sleeve.
“I thought you liked this story,” he mumbled.
“I’ve other things in mind for us.”
“Like what?” he asked, lightly touching her shoulder.
“Hold your horses. It’s only our first time through the book.”
That night, Hadley didn’t sleep a wink. He couldn’t wait to read the book again.
###
Hadley thought the hunt for the count was the most exciting part of the novel. Lucinda disagreed. She liked to read over and over again about Jonathan Harker’s encounter with the vampire brides.
“Do you suppose he likes those women, Hadley?” she asked one afternoon, addressing him as though he were suddenly an expert on the desires of men. “Or is he only afraid of them?”
“Both, I think.”
Lucinda fanned her face. “Fear and passion? At the same time?”
“And don’t forget shame,” Hadley said. “If you ask me, Harker doesn’t seem very proud of himself for liking those brides.”
“No wonder he goes mad.”
“No wonder,” Hadley agreed. “I’d rather be Quincey.”
Quincey P. Morris, a slang-talking American, was Hadley’s favorite character in the book.
Lucinda laughed. “Don’t be silly. No one runs their teeth languorously over Quincey’s skin.”
“No, but Quincey has a bowie knife.”
“Oh, Hadley.” She sighed. Quick as that, it was clear that he was no longer any sort of expert. “You are a baby, aren’t you? One of these days I’m going to have to show you what’s really important.”
The next afternoon, Lucinda stroked the back of Hadley’s neck while he read, the sharp sickle of a lone fingernail dipping down the collar of his shirt to circle the bump at the top of his spine. For a full hour, he didn’t dare move a muscle for fear she’d stop circling. When the last page was done, he closed the book, bent forward, and pressed his lips to the toe of Lucinda’s shoe.
Slowly, fearfully, he turned his face and looked up at Lucinda.
“Read it again,” she said.
###
Hadley celebrated his seventeenth birthday with a surprise smooch delivered courtesy of the new upstairs maid, a girl by the highly promising name of Ethel Lewse. Ethel grabbed him from behind while he was fishing Mr. Browning’s 14 karat gold money clip out of the toilet bowl. Shortly after Lucinda spied the two of them locking lips on the wet bathroom tiles, she gave Hadley a little parchment card with a private birthday message written inside:
Come to the attic at three a.m. to receive your special gift.
Hadley tip-toed up the butler’s stairs at exactly five till three. His plan was to act like a sleep-walker if anyone caught him up and about.
Mama barely moved a muscle when he slipped out of bed. She could be suspicious as a fat turkey invited to Thanksgiving dinner, yet she never worried about Lucinda. Lucinda was a Browning; Hadley, a Crump. What could there possibly be
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