by Meg Tilly
She felt him exhale, the tension leaving his body with her touch. His arm wrapped around her tightly as he pressed a gentle kiss on the top of her bowed head. “Thanks.” His voice, his warm breath, felt like a blessing alighting and dropping into her heart.
Seventy-one
EVE HOVERED ON that delicious precipice between consciousness and sleep, her head nestled on Rhys’s chest in the slight dip between his pectoral and biceps, her thigh flung over his thighs. She smiled sleepily, her fingers gliding through the pale golden hairs that were lightly scattered on his chest.
Sometimes, lying in his arms, she wondered if God had been taking a coffee break from dealing with all the war and heartache and pestilence and had looked down and seen Rhys and her bumping around, lost, lonely. If God had said to himself, Look at these two people, both good-hearted and kind, perfectly suited. I wonder what would happen if I . . . Was that how Rhys had been plucked from his movie set and plopped next to her in Luke and Maggie’s house?
Eve smiled. I’ll never know, I guess. What she did know was all the darkness they had just battled through had made the sacred nectar of life so much sweeter.
Rhys loved her. He was thinking of putting down roots on Solace Island.
She snuggled in closer, breathing in the good, clean smell of him. She turned her head slightly and tasted the faint saltiness of his skin.
“Hey, now,” he said, his voice a low rumble under her ear. She felt his flaccid penis start to stir under her thigh.
“You gotta be kidding me,” she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “We just finished up.” She reached down between his legs and nestled his penis in her hand. “Don’t get hard, okay?”
“Impossible not to when you’ve got your hands on me.”
“But I’m just cupping gently. Not doing anything fancy. Don’t get me wrong. I love it when you’re hot and hard and ready to go.”
“Woman,” he groaned, his cock swelling a little more. “You’re killing me.”
“But I also enjoy holding you like this. After we’ve made love, when it’s soft and wee—”
“My mighty, massive penis is not wee,” he said in mock outrage, his voice dropping an octave.
“You know what I mean,” she said, chuckling softly. “When it’s like this, it seems even more intimate than the other somehow. Vulnerable.” She kissed his chest. “Sweet.” She kissed him again. “Trusting.” She slid her hand down to cup his balls—they were warm and heavy in her hand—then moved back up to hold his cock. “Oopsie.”
He was fully erect now. She hadn’t meant to awaken the beast, but clearly she had. “I have to confess, Rhys, I do love having you in my bed. My own private furnace keeping the autumn chill at bay.”
She felt him shift as his arm reached out, heard a foil pack ripping. She smiled. “I love how our bodies fit together. I love the sleepy aftermath of our sweet, tender lovemaking. I love that today was a day well spent.”
“And I love you,” Rhys said, his large warm body now on top of her, gazing into her eyes. She could feel the heat and the taut, swollen head of his thick cock nudging past the slick wet folds that guarded the entrance to her core. “My God, Eve,” he said as he pushed into her, his expression fierce and tender. “I love you so damned much.”
* * *
• • •
MUCH LATER, DRIFTING in and out of sleep, Rhys’s finger lightly traveling the length of her spine, Eve thought she heard him murmur something about getting married . . . little children tumbling around their house . . . But she wasn’t sure. It could have been part of a dream.
Seventy-two
THE REALTOR HAD done most of the talking on the ride over. Rhys and Eve were tucked into the back seat of the Realtor’s silver Range Rover, both of them still groggy with sleep. Eve took a bracing sip of her coffee, enjoying the earthy, rich flavor, the hint of smooth chocolate providing contrast for the bitter hot liquid. Fragrant steam rose like a misty belly dancer, undulating, leaving in its wake minuscule droplets of moisture on her upper lip and around her nose.
She passed the mug to Rhys, who took a large slug, then handed it back. His long fingers skimmed hers in the handoff, causing warmth to pool in her abdomen.
She still couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that he was considering making Solace Island his home.
“Here we are,” the Realtor said, pulling into a driveway.
Rhys’s hand tightened around hers.
The Realtor lowered his window and punched a code into the keypad, and the gorgeous wrought-iron gate with the large bronze sun at its center swung open.
“There were bigger homes,” Rhys said, keeping his words soft, meant only for her ears. “More impressive ones, with all the bells and whistles. I saw a spectacular waterfront mansion with a walk-on beach, but . . . I don’t know, Eve . . . This one called to me. There was a sweetness about it that reminds me of you.”
“Twenty acres, around two-thirds of it pristine first-growth forest, with your own private trails to hike,” the Realtor said, gesturing to the majestic woodland they were driving through.
“Rhys,” Eve whispered, tingles running through her. “It’s gorgeous.”
“There’s a gate at the end of the trail,” the Realtor continued, “on the south side of the property. It leads to parkland and a huge network of trails. The property used to belong to Rebecca S. Flynn, the author of the renowned Rabbity-Tabbity books.”
“Oh my gosh. Rhys, I loved those books growing up! They were my favorites. Daddy read them to me so many times that he joked he didn’t even have to look at the pages anymore. I love her. I can’t believe we get to see where she lived.”
“Well,” the Realtor said, his eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror, “she wrote those books right here on this land, a lifelong Solace Island resident.”
“I had no idea she . . .” And then words failed Eve because the vehicle had come out of the woods, and ahead, nestled in the crest of a rolling hill of fragrant meadow, was the most beautiful home she had ever laid eyes on. Gray cedar shingles, with cheery white trim around the windows and doors, lots of windows to let in the light. It had one of those thick cedar shake roofs, a chimney, which meant a cozy fireplace, and a cupola with a series of small square windows, which added whimsy to the exterior and more light. There was a wide welcoming covered porch that would offer shade during hot summer afternoons. “Oh, Rhys,” she murmured. “It is absolutely the most perfect house.”
He laughed low in his throat. “But you haven’t even stepped out of the car.”
I don’t need to, she thought. I already know.
The Realtor pulled up to the front of the house, and they got out, the pea gravel crunching underfoot. “I’ll open the door,” the Realtor said, heading down the flagstone walkway lined with flowerbeds and mature rhododendrons, “turn on a few lights, and let you wander.”
“Over there by the garage,” Rhys said, “there is a peach tree that apparently has the sweetest and juiciest peaches on the island.” He gestured toward a fenced garden area. “There are also a couple of apple trees, a pear tree, and an Italian plum tree. And if you follow that path there, it winds back through the woods to another little clearing, and there’s a gorgeous studio. It’s where Rebecca wrote. There are skylights and huge windows, tons of light. When I stepped into that studio, I could see you there. Literally. It was like for a split second I could see the future. I saw you painting. You had music blaring, and the rain was thundering down. I could feel the creativity pouring out of you. You seemed so content, unfettered, and that’s when I knew for certain that I should make an offer on this house . . . Oh dear . . .” He pulled her into a one-armed hug, his chin resting on her head. He exhaled shakily. “Damn. I wasn’t going to tell you that. Look, Eve, we don’t have to do this. I haven’t signed the contract. It was just an idea. Don’t cry, sweetheart. Please. Don’t cry
.”
“I’m not crying because of that, you goofball,” she said, whacking him on the chest. “I’m crying because I’m so damned happy. I love this home.” She leaned back, tipping her head up so she could see his beloved face more clearly. “It’s the most beautiful place I have ever seen in my life. It’s the dream home I never knew to dream. But what makes this place so magical is the idea of you and me at the center of it. Because where I’m the happiest, where I feel the most at home, is when I’m with you.” She took a deep breath, centering herself. “So, yes, Rhys,” she said softly, her heart overflowing, reflecting back the love she could see radiating from his deep blue eyes. “I would be honored to create a life with you. Be it here, at my apartment in town, or even in LA. I love you, Rhys Thomas. You are the magic at the end of my rainbow.”
Seventy-three
“YOU ALL RIGHT?” Eve asked as she turned her car onto Sunset Drive. Rhys had been a little quiet on the ride over.
“Sure,” Rhys said, but there was a slight hesitation before he answered. A minuscule one, but Eve caught it.
She glanced over. He smiled at her reassuringly, but she could see strain lurking just under his skin. They were only a couple of minutes from Maggie and Luke’s home. If something was bothering him, it was best to get it sorted out before they arrived.
Eve swung the car into a turnout, switched off the engine, and turned to face him.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Truly.”
“Rhys, I know you better than that. Look, if you’re having second thoughts about the house, moving in together . . .”
“God no.” He looked a little indignant. “Absolutely not. It isn’t that.”
“Then what?”
He stared out the windshield. Sighed deeply, his cheeks puffing out and then deflating again. “I’m . . .” He cleared his throat. “A little nervous.” His eyes shut briefly as if the admission pained him.
“Of what?”
“Meeting your sister.”
“My sister? Rhys, that’s crazy,” Eve said, relief rushing through her. “Maggie is the sweetest person in the whole world.”
“I’m sure she is. That’s not what’s worrying me.”
“Besides, you’ve already met her. She was at the hospital with me.”
“Doesn’t count. I was delirious, all hopped up on painkillers. She couldn’t tell if I was a nice guy or a dickhead. Wouldn’t know if I was worthy of you or if I could string a coherent sentence together.”
Eve would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so distraught. The idea of Rhys being apprehensive about meeting Maggie blew her mind. “Rhys, you’re talking crazy talk. She’s gonna—”
“I know it’s crazy. Hell, I have to meet people all the time. Famous actors, rock stars, directors, studio heads, dinner at the White House. I’ve even met the Queen of England, for crying out loud. No problem. Gave them all the old razzle-dazzle. Any nerves? Nah. Not really. At least not on the scale of this . . .”
She opened her mouth, but he kept talking.
“Eve, I know how important your sister is to you. And if she doesn’t like me, I’m well and truly screwed.”
“Rhys,” Eve said, placing her fingertips against his lips to stop the torrent of tortured words that were spilling out. She slid her hands outward to cradle his beloved face. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll see.” She kissed him gently, then pulled back so she could gaze into his beautiful blue eyes. “You have nothing to worry about. I am so proud to introduce you to my sister. I am looking forward to the pleasure of you meeting my parents someday, too, because I know, one hundred percent, they all are going to adore you.”
“You sure?” His face was still a little pale and the look in his eyes so vulnerable.
“I’m positive,” she said softly.
He must have felt her absolute conviction, because some of the tension left his body. He exhaled slowly. “All right, then,” he said, squaring his shoulders and facing forward once again. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
* * *
• • •
BRUNCH WAS AMAZING. Maggie had outdone herself. Eve had eaten way more than she should have, but she’d worn a long sweater and was able to discreetly undo the top button of her jeans. After everyone had eaten their fill, the dishes had been plopped in the dishwasher. The pans were soaking in water waiting to be washed. And yet they were having such a good time they were reluctant to leave the table. So they lingered, enjoying the November sunshine that was slanting through the windows. With winter closing in fast, they knew to relish the light and warmth as heavy wind and rain could sweep in at any moment. Sipping mugs of café mocha with generous dollops of Kahlúa, whipped cream, and shaved chocolate on the top, they sat savoring the contented aftermath of a delicious meal, family and friendship, love and laughter.
“All right. I’ve got one. We were shooting in the south of France,” Rhys said with a grin.
Maggie reached over and squeezed Eve’s hand. I love him, she mouthed. He’s your perfect match.
I know, Eve mouthed back. I am so damned lucky.
“The cast,” Rhys was saying, “and some of the key members of the crew were staying at this gorgeous, very posh old hotel. Summer. Hot as hell. We’d been shooting outside, baking under the sun all day. We entered the grand lobby of the hotel. We weren’t looking for trouble. All we wanted to do was stagger upstairs and collapse face-first onto our beds. Several members of the crew were dressed for the heat, wearing shorts and T-shirts.
“‘I’m sorry, sirs!’ the manager said indignantly, hustling over. He was an old guy, but boy he could move fast. ‘We have a very strict policy. No shorts allowed!’
“‘Right,’ Alwyn, the sound mixer, said. He was Welsh and had a wicked sense of humor. ‘A trifle inconvenient, but rules are rules and must be obeyed.’ He dropped his shorts and continued up the staircase bare-assed naked. Of course the others thought this was great fun. Off came their shorts, too. A great contingent of large-bellied, hairy-assed men marching naked up the grand staircase of that fancy hotel . . .”
Luke busted out laughing, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the unwanted image from his mind. Maggie was laughing, too. Laughed so hard she needed to wipe her eyes. And there was Rhys, tipped back in his chair. He gave Eve a wink, a cocky grin on his face. He looked so pleased and relaxed and happy.
“Did you?” Eve asked.
“No!” Rhys was pretending to be shocked, but the twinkle in his eyes laid waste to the pompous, dignified expression he had settled upon his face. “I was wearing trousers. My goodness, woman, what a wild imagination you have.”
“You goofball,” she said, still chuckling.
“Your goofball,” he said, capturing her hand in his, lifting it to his mouth, and dropping a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, her heart full.
“Love you, too,” he replied.
My dear readers,
I grew up in a large family. Our mom somehow managed to support all of us children on her teacher’s salary. My stepfather had worked sporadically for the first two years of their marriage, but after that it all rested on our mom’s shoulders. We had to be very careful and manage money wisely to make sure there was food to last us to the end of the month. Therefore, there was no money for restaurants, fancy boxed cake mixes, store-bought candy, sugar cereals, potato chips, or things like that. If we wanted candy, cookies, or cakes and such, we had to figure out how to make them ourselves.
I was four years old when I attempted my first cake. It came out of the oven looking more like a large cookie instead. A very hard cookie. We had to break it with a hammer. I managed to eat some of it, but it was hard on the jaws. My brothers and sisters were laughing their guts out. They thought it was funny. Me? Not so mu
ch. I remember staring at my toes, feeling embarrassed. I had been so proud that I was baking and wanted it to be good.
As the years passed, I got more proficient in the kitchen. When I was six, my little sister and I were responsible for making all the school lunches—and also for keeping the family bathroom clean. Yes, “bathroom,” as in singular. There was only one bathroom for seven children and two adults! At age seven I graduated to breakfasts. At age eight another baby arrived, along with more chores and another mouth to feed.
In the beginning, I stuck with recipes. Checking them over and over to make sure I didn’t make mistakes. As I got older I found I liked to mix things up, became more of a free-flowing cook. I find it fun to figure out how to make exactly what my taste buds feel like eating.
The following oatmeal cookie recipe is one that I’ve continuously morphed and changed over the years to make what I think of as the perfect oatmeal cookie. Crisp, with a slightly soft inside, a tasty treat, and not too sweet. Seriously, when I bake these cookies I’m in trouble, because if they are sitting on the counter, I can’t help but eat them all.
When I mention Maggie’s oatmeal cookies in this novel, these are the ones I am describing. It’s my recipe, and I am so happy to share with you a tasty treat from the Intrepid Café!
The Intrepid Café’s Delicious Oatmeal Cookies
INGREDIENTS:
1 cup salted butter, softened
½ cup granulated sugar
¾ cup light brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg
¼ cup raw almonds
½ cup pecans
1½ cups unbleached white flour
1½ cups old-fashioned oatmeal (don’t use “instant” or “quick”)
1 teaspoon baking soda
