Oliver closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of flowers, and felt the strength of her short, tapered fingers beneath the softness of the cloth. She circled behind him and washed his back and neck, running her hands over the muscles in his shoulders, down his arms to his hands, first the left and then the right. He had been touched so little in his life; he trembled at the tenderness of her hands on him.
“Should I stop?” she whispered.
He opened his eyes and turned to face her. They were both breathing as though they’d run a race. “You are so beautiful,” he said.
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Polly touched the soft, new beard on his face, and said,
“You are so good to me.” She leaned against him, and he was overwhelmed by her silken flesh, the press of her lips, and the damp perfume of her hair. Oliver thought his knees would have buckled without the support of the table beside him.
She took his hand and led him to the bed, but it was not an auspicious beginning. Oliver tried not to think of all the rutting pigs and cattle he’d watched, and struggled against the howl that filled his mouth almost as soon as Polly’s legs opened under him.
Polly tried not to think of the times her husband had pushed his way inside her. Aft
er Boynton had finished, he’d roll over snoring and she would walk to the river where the cold water would numb her chafed skin and raw heart.
When Polly and Oliver were done, they lay still, sticky and afraid. Polly turned away and started to rise, but Oliver reached out. “Wait,” he said and fetched the berries. Sitting on the bed, he fed them to her, two at a time, until she swore she could eat no more.
He walked his fingers up her arm and down her back, softly tracing the miniature peaks and valleys of her spine, the height and pitch of each perfect bone from her neck to her waist. His hand was so light, Polly sighed and leaned against him.
They embraced a second time, slowly. Polly kissed every inch of Oliver’s face as he tangled his hands in her hair. He saw the dimples on her shoulders for the first time and like an explorer discovering a new country, claimed them for his own. She admired the strength of his arms and
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the beauty of his back. They stared into each other’s eyes as Oliver rocked against her and into her.
They slept through the sunset and woke up in the darkness. It was raining hard and the world smelled new.
Polly lit a candle, and they held each other, shyly at first.
When Oliver’s need became apparent again, Polly smiled her assent and they closed their eyes and lost themselves in the shared rhythm of their young bodies. In the middle of their union, they understood what they were doing as love.
Oliver and Polly were different people after that. The gnawing hunger that had plagued Oliver since childhood vanished and he seemed to grow another inch for the way he held his head up taller. She refused to answer to her married name and told people that she was Polly Wharf again.
There was a light around the two of them, and had they been spotted together by the ladies of Gloucester, there would have been a storm of talk. But only John Wharf really knew what was afoot, and he died happier knowing his daughter was in good hands.
After the old man passed away, Oliver spent all his nights with Polly and woke early enough so that he could lie beside his beloved and bask in his good fortune. During waking hours, she became uncomfortable under his worshipful gaze, but he could stare and adore as much as he liked while she slept.
In the morning light, Oliver studied his darling’s face, enchanted and amazed, and tried to master the lump in his throat. Polly’s puckered slightly at each exhale; her hair fell
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across her face, a pale blonde web shot through with the strong spring sun. As usual, he was helpless to stop his tears and thoroughly ashamed of himself. At seventeen years old, it was unmanly to weep so easily and yet he seemed to have a bottomless supply of tears. Perhaps it was because he’d cried so little as a child: Tammy used to taunt him mercilessly for any sign of weakness.
But these tears worried him because they seemed