Peaches

The Forbidden Fruit

It was well into the afternoon the next time she saw Mr. James. The sun was just on the brim of beginning to set and the sky was beginning to turn. She was at her tree, when he walked up and sat himself right next to her in the roots. Once more, he abandoned his usual tie and jacket, making him look like a wisp of his usual self. He seemed so much smaller and with the little twinkle in his eye, he was almost approachable. So much so, that Jean decided to take a leap and settle into him lightly.

"Tell me," He said, raising an eyebrow. "Who was that boy you were macking on the other day?"

Jean had all but forgotten about that. The kiss was unplanned, and if Jean had her way, Mr. James would've never even known that George existed. He'd hate him. "No one." She answered, deciding it was best not to be specific. Pursing her lips, she sat up and turned to him. "Just the boy I'm going to marry."

He chuckled. "I believe that you ought to marry a someone, not a no one, Jean Mooney."

Jean blinked, tilting her head to the side. "Who would you have me marry then?"

"I'd rather have you marry me." His gaze was blistering, but his word were entirely playful.

She knew it was a joke, it had to be, but for a second, Jean considered it. She imagined that it would be a grand and fanciful affair. Everything would be a pure pristine white, except for Mr. James. He'd wear a dark black suit with a funny little bow tie and would chortle as she walked down the aisle. The vision faded away as his laughter rose. She giggled with him, throwing herself back down in the grass. "Have you forgotten? You already are married."

"Yes." With that one word of approval, his whole demeanor changed. He turned cold, calculating, but he was still grinning wickedly. "Believe me, my dear. I've not forgotten."

Jean smile suddenly felt very tight. She had not forgotten when she stumbled upon his wife weeping. Since then, Jean had tried her best to avoid her, not even daring to look her in the eye. Mrs. Montgomery looked at her with such pain and pure hatred that it made Jean feel queasy. She couldn't stand her tortured looks, but she was still curious. Their marriage was a thing of intrigue and mystery. "When did you get married?"

He paused for moment, as if he was deciding if he really wanted to answer. "It was six years ago. I'm sure my wife already told you."

"Yes," She scooted closer. "But I want you to tell me."

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was very small. I believe there were only three people in attendance besides the priest and us. She had decorated the entire church in such vast quantities of lilac that to this day the smell of it makes me sick." He paused for effect. "Happy?"

Jean harrumphed. He described it so briskly that she couldn't picture it, but she didn't push for more. Sensing how tense the air had gotten, she bit her lip and rubbed her hand against his ankle. He exhaled, settling further into the tree, truly contented. They didn't touch often, but when they did, Jean found that his face always softened into a wanton mush. It made her laugh. "Very." She said between snorts. Then, she slid herself even closer and nuzzled into his arm. Still, she wasn't satisfied; she wanted more answers, so she looked up with prying eyes.

"You are very inquisitive today, Miss Mooney." He asked, looking down into her brown eyes. "What is it now?"

She furrowed her brows and pouted. Jean wanted to ask so much, but her mind came short, figuring it best to not overload him. "Where do you go when you leave?" She asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

He released a sly little smirk then. "I'll admit—I didn't expect you to say that." Jean only raised an eyebrow, waiting on him to expand. "I'm involved with numerous businesses in the city and they need my almost constant attention. Without me, they will surely suffer."

"One could say the same about your wife and son." Jean added, barely allowing him to finish.

"I suppose, but my work gives them the ability to live as they do. My wife does not know what she wants. She would much rather prefer a life of luxury than a few more days with me. And Roger, ah," He pressed his lips into a flat line and winced. "Roger is not my son."

It was as if he hadn't even said it because she truly didn't understand. Jean squinted, confused. "What?"

James sighed. "My wife likes the world to believe he is mine, but think Jean. Roger is seven. If we got married in 1930, and he was born before we even met, then how can I be the father?"

"You can't." Jean uttered, almost a whisper.

He raised his eyebrows and ducked his chin. "Indeed." He reached out for a moment, hand light as he wiped a strand of hair out of her eyes. Jean suddenly realized that he had told her a secret and it was a big one. He really shouldn't have, but the fact that he did made her smirk. For the first time, Jean felt like she had an advantage. Her parents didn't even know. "His real father jumped out of the picture just months after his birth, if you catch my drift."

She caught it. Jean paused, thinking. All of it was right. Roger was no son of his, and now that she thought about it, he didn't even look like him. Besides the dark hair, they were complete opposites. Roger was weak, a skinny broken baby with no friends. James was none of those things. He was not very tall, but just tall enough to be threatening. A stupid individual might consider him all show and no substance, but Jean knew that he was made of something great. Wonderful, even.

"Wait a moment," She said, suddenly realizing. "What did you think I was going to say?"

"Something about your family...maybe your sister, Marie?"

"It's Mary." Jean grinned at the mistake. Maybe Mary wasn't as memorable as she thought. Mr. James coughed. "And I have nothing to say about my family."

"Neither do I." He exhaled. Jean wondered what he meant by that. Shrugging her confusion off, she positioned herself under him, placing her head in his lap. She had always done this with her Pa when she was younger. Relaxing into his lap, she marked to herself that this position felt right. He looked down at her, his brow furrowed in confusion? Want? She couldn't tell. Then he popped his head back up, staring straight ahead.

Jean realized that is muscles were clenching and she hopped up. "Are you uncomfortable?" He paused, expressionless. Jean didn't say anything, just sticked out her tongue teasingly and turned away from him. She skipped away from the tree, heading out into the sweltering sun. It was gorgeous but it was still unbearable to be out for in the heat for more than a few minutes. Still, she loved the view. All of the grass had grown tall, the highest reaching just above her knees. There were dustings of wild flowers here and there, all of which were a bright crimson. From far away, they looked like splatters of blood on a gangrene ridden body.

Then, she could feel him moving behind her back, trying to get near her again. As soon as he was facing towards her, he reached. Jean's heart stopped for a moment, but all he did was pick up a peach. It had rolled away from it's source, landing near her bare feet. He held it in his left hand, dusting off any dirt that had tainted it's fuzzy skin. "You know, I used to know how to tell if these things were too bruised or not." He tsked, reaching out his hand and inviting her to show him. "I do believe I've forgotten."

Without thinking, Jean clutched his wrist and dipped her head, taking a bite from the peach. When she looked back up at him, allowing the chunk she had in her mouth to rest on her tongue, his lip was twitching. He looked starved. With her other hand, she wiped the juice that was dripping down her chin away. She pushed the fruit back to him, mouth full.

"This one is good." She said, grinning wildly.