Almost Paradise

by Debbie Macomber

  “That’s not true,” Sherry cried, coming to her feet.

  Roarke rose as well, planted his hands on the desktop, and leaned forward. “Fairy tales are out, Miss White. In the evening you will prepare a study plan and have it approved by me. Is that understood?”

  Sherry could feel color filling her face. “Yes sir,” she responded crisply, and mocked him with a salute. If he was going to act like a marine sergeant, then she’d respond like a lowly recruit.

  “That was unnecessary!”

  Sherry opened her mouth to argue with him when the calico cat she’d witnessed earlier in her cabin window suddenly appeared. A gasp rose in her throat at the tiny figure dangling from the cat’s mouth.

  “Ralph!” she cried, near hysteria.

  Chapter 4

  “Ralph?” Roarke demanded. “Who in the love of heaven is Ralph?”

  “Pamela’s hamster. For heaven’s sake, do something!” Sherry cried. “He’s still alive.”

  Slowly, Roarke advanced toward the cat. “Buttercup,” he said softly. “Nice Buttercup. Put down…” He paused, twisting his head to look at Sherry.

  “Ralph,” Sherry supplied.

  Roarke turned back to the cat. “I thought you said the name was Pamela.”

  “No, Ralph is Pamela’s hamster.”

  “Right.” He wiped a hand across his brow and momentarily closed his eyes. This just wasn’t his day. Cautiously, he lowered himself to his knees.

  Sherry followed suit, shaking with anxiety. Poor Ralph! Trapped in the jaws of death.

  “Buttercup,” Roarke encouraged softly. “Put down Ralph.”

  The absurdity of Roarke’s naming a cat “Buttercup” unexpectedly struck Sherry, and a laugh oddly mingled with hysteria worked its way up her throat and escaped with the words “The cat’s name is Buttercup?”

  This wasn’t the time to explain that his mother had named the cat. “Buttercup isn’t any more unusual than a hamster named Ralph!” Roarke said through gritted teeth.

  Sherry snickered. “Wanna bet?”

  Proud of her catch, Buttercup sat with the squirming rodent in her mouth, seeming to wait for the praise due her. Roarke, down on all fours, slowly advanced toward the feline.

  “Will she eat him?” That was Sherry’s worst fear. In her mind she could see herself as a helpless witness to the slaughter.

  “I don’t know what she’ll do to him,” Roarke whispered impatiently.

  By now they were both down on all fours in front of the sleek calico.

  “I’ll try to take him out of her mouth.”

  “What if she won’t give him up?” Sherry was about an inch away from pressing the panic button.

  Lifting his hand so slowly that it was difficult to tell that Roarke was moving, he gently patted the top of Buttercup’s head.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t praise her,” Sherry hissed. “That’s Pamela’s hamster your cat is torturing.”

  “Here, Buttercup,” he said soothingly. “Give me Ralph.”

  The cat didn’t so much as blink.

  “I see she’s well trained.” Sherry couldn’t resist the remark.

  Roarke flashed her an irritated glance.

  Just then the phone rang. Startled, Sherry bolted upright and her hand slapped her heart. A gasp died on her lips as Buttercup dropped Ralph, who immediately shot across the room. Roarke dived for the hamster, falling forward so that his elbow hit the floor with a solid thud. His glasses went flying.

  “Got him,” Roarke shouted triumphantly.

  The phone pealed a second time.

  “Here.”

  Without warning or option, Roarke handed Sherry the hamster. Her heart was hammering in her throat as the furry critter burrowed deep into her cupped hands. “Poor baby,” she murmured, holding him against her chest.

  “Camp Gitche Gumee,” Roarke spoke crisply into the telephone receiver. “Just one moment and I’ll transfer your call to the kitchen.”

  Sherry heard him punch a couple buttons and hang up. In a sitting position on the floor, she released a long, ragged breath and slumped against the side of the desk, needing its support. At the rate her heart was pumping, she felt as if she had just completed the hundred-yard dash.

  Roarke moved away from her and she saw him reach down and retrieve his eyeglasses.

  “How is he?” he asked, concerned.

  “Other than being frightened half to death, he appears to be unscathed.”

  Silence.

  “I…I suppose I should get Ralph back to the cabin,” she said, feeling self-conscious and silly.

  “Here, let me help you up.” He gave her his hand, firmly clasping her elbow, and hauled her to her feet. Sherry found his touch secure and warm. And surprisingly pleasant. Very pleasant. As she stood, she discovered that they were separated by only a few inches. “Yes…well,” she said and swallowed awkwardly. “Thank you for your help.”

  His eyes held hers. Lynn was right, Sherry noted. They weren’t hazel but green, a deep, cool shade of green that she associated with emeralds. Another surprise was how dark and expressive his eyes were. But the signals he was sending were strong and conflicting. Sherry read confusion and a touch of shock, as though she’d unexpectedly thrown him off balance.

  Roarke’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth and Sherry’s breath seemed to jam in her lungs.

  She knew what Roarke wanted. The muscles of her stomach tightened, and a sinking sensation attacked her with the knowledge that she would like it if he kissed her. The thought of his mouth fitting over hers was strongly appealing. His lips would be like his hand, warm and firm. Sherry pulled herself up short. She was flabbergasted to be entertaining such thoughts. Jeff Roarke. Dictator! Marine sergeant! Stuffed shirt!

  “Thank you for your help,” she muttered in a voice hardly like her own. Hurriedly, she took a step in retreat, unable to escape fast enough.

  —

  Roarke stood stunned as Sherry backed away from him. He was shaking from the inside out. He’d nearly kissed her! And in the process gone against his own policy and, worse, his better judgment. Fortunately, whatever had been happening to him hadn’t seemed to affect her. She’d jumped away from him as though she’d been burned, as if the thought of them kissing was repugnant. Even then, it had taken all the strength of his will not to reach out and bring her into his arms.

  —

  Sherry watched as Roarke’s mouth twisted into a mocking smile. “When you return to your cottage, Miss White, I suggest you read page thirty-six of the camp manual.”

  Without looking, Sherry already knew what it said: no pets! Well, anyone with half a brain in his head would recognize that Ralph wasn’t a pet—he was a mascot. In her opinion, every cabin should have one, but Sherry already knew what Roarke thought of her ideas.

  “Miss White.” He stopped her at the office door.

  The softness in his accusing voice filled her with dread. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to review your lesson plans for the evening sessions for the next week at your earliest convenience.”

  “I’ll…I’ll have them to you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “N-No,” she stammered. “Thank you. I thought we’d lost Ralph for sure.”

  Sherry didn’t remember walking across the campgrounds. The next thing she knew, she was inside the cabin and Ralph was safely tucked inside his shoe-box home.

  Her heart continued to pound frantically and she sank onto the closest available bunk, grateful that Ralph had been found unscathed. And even more grateful that the issue of her application form and the references had been pushed to the side.

  As much as she’d like to attribute her shaky knees and battering heart to Buttercup’s merciless attack on Ralph, Sherry knew otherwise. It was Roarke. Like every other female in this camp, she had fallen under his magical spell. For one timeless moment she’d seen him as the others did. Attractive. Compelling. Dynamic. Jeff Roarke! There in his offi
ce, with Ralph in her hand, they’d gazed at each other and Sherry had been stunned into breathlessness. She wiped a hand over her eyes to shake the vivid image of the man from her mind. Her tongue moistened her lips as she imagined Roarke’s mouth over hers. She felt herself melting inside and closed her eyes. It would have been good. Very, very good.

  It took Sherry at least ten minutes to gather her composure, and she was grateful she’d kept her wits about her. It wasn’t so unusual to be physically attracted to a man, she reassured herself. She had been plenty of times before; this wasn’t really something new, and it was only an isolated incident. As a mature adult, she was surely capable of keeping her hormones under control. For the remainder of the summer, she would respond to Roarke with cool politeness, she decided. If he were to guess her feelings, she would be at his mercy.

  —

  Somehow, Sherry got through the rest of the day. Peace reigned in the cabin, and when the evening session came, Sherry read her young charges the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. She’d promised them she would, and she wouldn’t go back on her word. But to be on the safe side, she also decided to teach them a song.

  “Okay, everyone stand,” she instructed, when she’d finished the story.

  Simultaneously, seven pajama-clad nine- and ten-year-olds rose to their feet.

  “What are we going to do now?” Gretchen cried. “I want to talk about Snow White.”

  “We’ll discuss the story later.” Sherry put off the youngster and extended her hands. “Okay, everyone, this is a fun song, so listen up.”

  When she had their attention, she swayed her hips and pointed to her feet, singing at the top of her lungs how the anklebone was connected to the legbone and the legbone was connected to the hipbone. Seven small hips did an imitation of Sherry’s gyrating action. Then the girls dissolved into helpless giggles. Soon the entire cabin was filled with the sounds of joy and laughter.

  To satisfy her young charges, Sherry was forced into repeating the silly song no less than three times. At least if she were asked to report tomorrow on their evening activity, Sherry would honestly be able to say that they’d studied the human skeleton. It felt good to have outsmarted Roarke.

  “Five minutes until lights out,” Sherry called, making a show of checking her watch. From the corner of her eye, she saw the girls scurry across the room and back to their cots.

  “I still want to talk about Snow White,” Gretchen cried above the chaos. “You told me we’d have time to discuss the story.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sherry admitted contritely, sitting on the edge of the young girl’s mattress. “We really don’t—not tonight.”

  “But when the lights go out, that doesn’t mean we have to go to sleep.”

  “Yeah,” another voice shouted out. Sherry thought it came from Diane, the reader.

  “Someone—anyone—turn out the lights,” Sally cried. “Then we can talk.”

  The room went dark.

  Gretchen’s bed was closest to the cabin entrance. The room felt stuffy, so Sherry opened the door to allow in the cool evening breeze. A soft ribbon of golden light from the full moon followed the whispering wind inside the cabin.

  “Did any of you know that Camp Gitche Gumee is haunted?” Sherry whispered. The girls’ attention was instant and rapt.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Gretchen countered, but her tone lacked conviction.

  “Oh, but there are,” Sherry whispered, her own voice dipping to an eerie low. “The one who roams around here is named Longfellow.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Diane said with a short laugh. “He was the author of the poem—”

  “Shh.” Sherry placed her index finger over her lips. Dramatically, she cupped her hands over her ears. “I think I hear him now.”

  The cabin went still.

  “I hear something,” Wendy whispered. In the moonlight, Sherry could see the ten-year-old had all ten of her Barbies and Kens in bed with her.

  “You needn’t worry.” Sherry was quick to assure the girls. “Longfellow is a friendly ghost. He only does fun, good things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Hmm, let me think.”

  “I bet Longfellow brought Ralph back.”

  Sherry hadn’t told Pamela how Buttercup had captured the hamster. Her pet’s narrow escape from the jaws of death would only terrorize the softhearted little girl.

  “Now that I think about it, Pamela, you’re right. Longfellow must have had a hand in finding Ralph.”

  “What other kinds of things does Longfellow do?” Jan and Jill wanted to know. As always, they spoke in unison. Jill’s front tooth was still intact, but it wouldn’t last much longer with the furious way she worked at extracting it.

  “He finds missing items, like socks and hair clips. And sometimes, late at night when it’s stone quiet, if you listen real, real hard, you can hear him sing.”

  “You can?”

  “Actually, he whistles,” Sherry improvised.

  The still room went even quieter as seven pairs of ears strained to listen to the wind whisper through the forest of redwoods outside their door.

  “I hear him,” Diane said excitedly. “He’s real close.”

  “When I was a little kid,” Sally told the group excitedly, “I used to be afraid of ghosts, but Longfellow sounds like a good ghost.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “Can you tell us another story?” Gretchen pleaded. “They’re fun.”

  For the chronic grumbler to ask for a fairy tale and admit anything was fun was almost more than Sherry could absorb. “I think one more story wouldn’t hurt,” she said. “But that has to be all.” Remembering the conversation with Roarke earlier that afternoon, Sherry felt a fleeting sadness. After tonight, her stories would have to come from more acceptable classics. She thought her girls were missing a wonderful part of their heritage as children by skipping fairy tales. If she didn’t want this job so badly, Sherry would have battled Roarke more strenuously.

  Leaning against the wall, she brought her knees up to her chin, sighed audibly while she chose the tale, and started. “Once upon a time in a land far, far away…”

  By the time she announced that “they lived happily ever after” the cabin was filled with the even, measured breathing of sleeping children. If the girls weren’t all asleep, they were close to it.

  Gretchen snored softly, and taking care not to wake the slumbering child, Sherry climbed off her cot and checked on the others. She pulled a blanket around Jan’s and Jill’s shoulders and removed inanimate objects from the cots, placing Sally’s microscope on the headboard and rescuing the Barbies and Kens from being crushed during the night. Ralph was firmly secured in his weathered home, and Sherry gently slid the shoe box from underneath Pamela’s arm.

  “Sleep tight,” she whispered to the much-loved rodent. “Or else I’ll call Buttercup back.”

  As she moved to close the cabin door, Sherry was struck by how peaceful the evening was. Drawn outside, she sat on the top step of the large front porch and gazed at the stars. They were out in brilliant display this evening, scattered diamonds tossed on thick folds of black velvet. How close they seemed. Sparkling. Radiant.

  Sherry’s hands cupped her chin as she rested her elbows on her knees and studied the heavens.

  —

  “Good evening, Miss White.” Roarke had heard their singing earlier, had come to investigate, and had been amused by her efforts to outwit him.

  The sound of Roarke’s voice broke into Sherry’s thoughts. “Good evening, Mr. Roarke,” she responded crisply and straightened. “What brings you out tonight?” Good grief, she hoped he hadn’t been around to hear the last fairy tale or, worse, her mention of Longfellow.

  He paused, braced one foot against the bottom step, and looked over the grounds. “I like to give the camp a final check before turning in for the night.”

  “Oh.” For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a single thing more to
say. Her reaction to him was immediate. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer and the blood shot through her veins. She’d like to fool herself into believing the cause was the unexpectedness of his arrival, but she knew better.

  “How’s Ralph?” Roarke questioned.

  “Fully recovered. How’s Buttercup?”

  “Exceptionally proud.” The soft laugh that followed was so pleasant sounding that it caused Sherry to smile just listening to him.

  “You have a nice laugh.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that, but it slipped out before she could stop herself. As often was the case when she spoke to Jeff Roarke, the filter between her brain and her mouth malfunctioned, and whatever she was thinking slid out without forethought.

  “I was about to tell you how effervescent your laugh sounds.”

  Sherry couldn’t remember a time she’d ever given him the opportunity to hear her laugh. The circumstances in which they were together prohibited it. Staff meetings were intensely serious. No one dared show any amusement.

  “When—”

  “Tonight. I suppose you plan to tell me that the legbone connected to the hipbone is a study of the human skeleton?”

  Words ran together and tripped over the tip of her tongue. “Of course not…well, yes, but…”

  He laughed again. “The girls thoroughly enjoyed it, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “That sort of education wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but anything is better than those blasted fairy tales.”

  Sherry was forced into sitting on her hands to keep from elbowing him. Fairy tales weren’t silly or senseless. They served a purpose! But she managed to keep her thoughts to herself—with some effort.

  Silence again.

  “I have my lesson plan if you’d like to see it,” she said, and started to get up, but his hand on her forearm stopped her.

  “Tomorrow morning is soon enough.”

  He surprised her even more by climbing the three steps and taking a seat beside her. He paused and raised his eyes to the sky.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The one word seemed to strangle in her throat. Roarke was close enough to touch. All Sherry would have had to do was shift her weight for her shoulder to gently graze his. Less than an inch separated their thighs. Although she strove to keep from experiencing the physical impact of brushing against him, there was little she could do about the soft scent of the aftershave Roarke wore, which was so masculinely appealing. Every breath she drew in was more tantalizing than the one before. Spice and man—a lethal combination.