Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

by Bella Andre

  Fortunately, in the spring following Olive's wedding, Jean found more freedom than she'd had in years. One crisp, clear day, she grabbed a sun hat with a knitted rose-colored sash around the brim, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed out into the sunshine.

  She walked for a long while, stopping now and again to skip a pebble or two. It was something a child would do, and she was supposed to have grown out of the habit a long time ago, but she couldn't see the point of giving up something that was so much fun.

  She was planning to sketch one of the new houses being built about a mile down from her house. She loved watching the foundation go in and the studs go up for the walls. While she enjoyed seeing the finished product--cozy or grand, cute or historical--it was the internal workings of the building that truly captivated her.

  Dorothy, a friend from school, called her name. After Jean slowly made her way over, Dorothy said, "Have I told you how much you remind me of a turtle?"

  "Many, many times."

  Jean just couldn't see the point of rushing anything. Perhaps it was because she was the youngest child. Olive had always been the one in a hurry. To walk, according to their parents, and certainly to fall in love. Whereas Jean simply enjoyed the world around her. She loved the lake. Loved her family, her friends. Loved reading great books and roasting marshmallows by a bonfire on the beach.

  The two girls headed into the diner and drank hot chocolate while they chatted. Suddenly, Dorothy's eyes grew big as she looked at something over Jean's shoulder. "Oh my. Now, there's a man."

  Dorothy had a tendency to be boy crazy, so Jean didn't give much credence to her statement. She didn't bother to turn around and see whom she was talking about. She was pulling out a few pennies to leave as a tip when Dorothy grabbed her arm and hissed, "He's coming over here. Act natural."

  Jean laughed out loud. Of course she was going to act natural. She didn't care one way or another about some strange man.

  At least, until he said, "Excuse me, ladies, could I intrude on your conversation for a moment to ask a quick question?" His deep, rich voice sent thrill bumps popping up one by one across the surface of her skin.

  When Dorothy chirped, "Sure!" in an overly bright voice, Jean knew it was up to her to act normal for both of them.

  She slowly turned around on her stool at the counter. "How may we help you?"

  It was fortunate that she finished her sentence before she lifted her eyes to the man's face.

  He was beyond handsome.

  She'd studied the human face and form for years, both in books and with pencil and sketchbook in hand. But she'd never seen a face that held such symmetry. Only the slight bump across the bridge of his nose broke up the perfection. At the same time, it was the imperfection that so well highlighted everything else.

  Perhaps it was her father's lockdown during a formative period in her growth, or maybe it was just her natural personality, but Jean had never learned the art of disguising her reactions. Which meant that she simply stared wide-eyed at the stranger. It wasn't hard to do, considering his eyes had locked on hers as well. Despite being in a crowded diner, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.

  And deep in her soul, she knew that the man she would marry was standing right in front of her.

  At long last, he cleared his throat. "My name is Thomas Kane. I've come to Summer Lake from New York City to meet with a Mr. Farrington this afternoon. But I'm afraid his business office on Main Street is locked. Do you have any idea where I might find him?"

  Smiling up into his light green eyes, she said, "He's my father."

  *

  Their courtship was short and oh-so-sweet. Thankfully, her father was overjoyed by Thomas's attentions to his younger daughter.

  Jean was overjoyed by them too, even if she didn't understand why Thomas thought he needed to give her so many gifts, such expensive things that were so pretty and so fragile. She supposed she could simply have said thank you over and over again without truly speaking her mind, but that felt like lying. And Jean didn't believe in lies.

  "I don't need so many pretty things," she told him one night when he sat across from her at another fancy restaurant, another beautifully wrapped box sitting on her empty dinner plate. She gave it back to him. "If this is who you think I am, then I'm not sure you know me very well at all."

  His gaze was as intense as she'd ever seen it when he replied, "I know exactly who you are, Jean. You're a loving daughter. You'd do anything for your sister. You'd risk a piece of yourself before you'd ever let one of your friends be hurt. You have no idea that you're the center of so many lives, that you're the lynchpin that holds them all together." He paused, looking down at the box in his hand, before looking back up and saying, "Anyone who knows you, anyone who loves you, would never try to keep you in his life with stupid gifts." The sincerity, and passion, in his gaze kept her spellbound as he said, "He would know that once you loved, it was forever."

  She was in his arms a heartbeat later, the word forever echoing on her lips as she kissed him.

  *

  Three weeks after they'd first met at the diner, he found her by the lake, sketching. He hadn't needed to say a word, hadn't needed to announce his presence for her focus to shatter. Any time he was near, she lost hold of anything but him, was literally unable to keep from smiling. And there was nothing more she loved than the look in his eyes when he smiled back, as if she was a perfect surprise, a gift he'd never expected would be given to him.

  But although she reached out for him to join her on the sandy shore, neither his serious expression nor his position changed. "What is it, Thomas? Is something wrong?"

  His gaze roved over her face. "What would a brilliant girl like you want with a man like me?"

  She didn't have to think about her reason. It was obvious. And very simple. "I love you."

  She put her hands over his, and he lifted them to his lips in a gesture that seemed almost desperate. Something was wrong, but she didn't know what it could possibly be.

  And then, almost in slow motion, she watched him drop to one knee on the soft green grass that bordered the sand. "Marry me. Please. You're all I truly want in the world. Just you."

  Later, after they'd gorged on kisses and whispered promises, Thomas met with her father to ask for her hand in marriage. Her father was as happy as she'd seen him since Olive's wedding day.

  *

  Their wedding day dawned sunny, with spring flowers all around the inn for the ceremony and reception. Olive, Dorothy, and several other women from the knitting group had just finished helping her with the finishing touches on her hair and makeup and had gone, so that she could have a few quiet moments alone with her thoughts, when there was a knock on the door.

  "Jean." Thomas stepped inside and stared at her in awe. "You're breathtaking. The most beautiful woman in the world."

  She knew she was pretty at best. But when she saw herself through his eyes, she believed what he'd said.

  A teasing smile on her face, she moved toward him in her wedding gown. "Don't you know it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony?"

  But he didn't tease her back. "My luck changed the moment I set eyes on you."

  His arms came around her then, and she barely had a chance to whisper, "Mine too," before he was kissing her with all the love in his heart...and she was kissing him back with just as much.

  *

  When she said, "I do," Jean realized that although she'd never felt incomplete, Thomas had completed her just the same. And oh, how she savored every moment of their wedding night in the penthouse suite at the inn, from the sweet kisses he ran all across her skin to his whispered words of love.

  Her mother and then Olive had both pulled her aside to explain what was expected in the marriage bed. Of course, she'd read enough books over the years to have a pretty good idea already. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for Thomas. Not only the exquisite pleasure that he gave her, but also the depth o
f love in his eyes every time he looked at her.

  When he finally stopped caressing and kissing her long enough for her to fall asleep in his arms, the last thing she heard over the beating of his heart beneath her ear was his low voice saying, "You'll have my heart forever."

  Perfectly warm in the comfort of his arms, she fell into a dreamless sleep. She didn't need her old dreams anymore. She and Thomas would make new ones together.

  But as the dark of night turned into dawn, the warmth leached out of the bed, out of the room. Out of Jean.

  Because she awakened alone.

  Thomas was gone.

  *

  Present day...

  Christie's teacup clattered onto her saucer in shock at the unexpected twist in Jean's otherwise very romantic tale. But before Christie could even think about asking whether Thomas had come back, Jean said, "Storytelling always wears me out. Would you mind helping me clean this up?"

  "Not at all," she said, reluctantly accepting that she'd heard all she was going to from Jean today.

  But as she walked back to the inn, she couldn't help but wonder--if Jean and Thomas had celebrated their wedding night in the top-floor bedroom at the inn, could that be why it always felt so cold?

  Because love hadn't only been made in that room. It had also been lost.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Are you the person responsible for this Tapping of the Maples Festival?"

  As soon as Christie saw Mr. Radin walk into the inn, a warning bell went off in her head. She'd never had anything against him until he'd stood up at that town hall meeting last fall and tried to tear Sarah apart for suggesting new condos might go up along the lakefront. He was entitled to his opinion, but it was the way he went after her friend that had been truly horrible. He'd actually invoked Sarah's late father's name, telling her that James would have been ashamed of what his daughter was doing to his beloved town.

  Christie had always forgiven too quickly. More than once, being able to hold a grudge might have helped her steer clear of personal disaster. But she hadn't managed to forgive Mr. Radin for hurting her friend. And today, unfortunately, he was wearing the same angry expression as he had during the town hall meeting.

  "Yes, that's me," she said in as polite a voice as she could manage. "I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have about the festival."

  He slapped down a thick folder. "You can't drill into Adirondack Park trees without the proper permissions. I've filed a halt petition with the Preservation Council."

  Christie felt her mouth fall open, but at that moment she was powerless to close it. She stared at the papers, not wanting to touch them. "I checked everything out with the park's agency before I started putting the festival together."

  "Then they didn't read the codes any better than you did. The Adirondack Park is preserved for a reason--so that people like you can't come here from the big city and destroy our trees. We don't need more buildings and machines and people ruining our land. You're no better than that friend of yours with her condos."

  "How dare you make some sort of claim that I'm trying to destroy the forest." She was glad for the anger that shot through her, if only because of the energy it gave her to stand up to this bully. "You could have come and talked to me first, before filing this petition. You should have given me a chance to address your concerns before escalating things to such a high level." It had never occurred to her that someone would try to stop her from putting on a small festival.

  "All that talk just gets in the way of what needs to be done. I believe in taking action first."

  She had to bite her tongue to point out how well that had gone for him, given that he was alone, grumpy, with virtually no friends in a small town that thrived on interpersonal connections. "The festival is in two weeks, Mr. Radin. Vendors are in place. People have already made their plans to attend the festival and have booked rooms at the inn and all of the local B&Bs. Pulling the festival now would be a headache and a heartache for more than just me." She hated begging for things, but this was more important than her pride. "Please reconsider this petition. I'm not the only one who will benefit from this festival. It's not just going to be good for the inn. This entire community will reap the rewards of it. And I will personally make sure that none of the trees are harmed in the process."

  Suddenly, he smiled, a smug expression with no warmth behind it. "The Preservation Council will make certain of that."

  *

  Across the lake, Susan and Henry were down on their hands and knees in opposite corners of their bedroom. He was sanding by hand, while she worked carefully to finish the already sanded planks with a paintbrush.

  Though Susan had practically had to beg him to let her help him with the bedroom floors, the truth was that she had never cared for work like this. Painstaking, patience-bending work had always been Henry's forte. Like his mother, Jean, he wasn't one to be rushed. Susan, on the other hand, liked seeing something go from idea to reality as quickly as possible.

  Still, she wanted--needed--to be in the bedroom with him, on the floor with a paintbrush, listening to the steady scratch of sandpaper. She dearly hoped working together on something they both wanted would bring them closer together. That they'd lie in bed when it was done and know that they could still be a team.

  Funny the things one didn't realize about someone when one was still in the first flush of new love. She'd loved how considerate he was, how seriously he thought about everything she asked him, rather than just giving her whatever answer she wanted to hear, like most men would. And if his mother had driven her a little crazy in those early years with the way she never seemed to answer a question directly, Susan had believed Henry was different. But more and more, she'd come to see just how similar they were. Wesley had the same easygoing patience. Only Liam needed change, needed a faster pace, the way Susan did--even if he didn't want to admit that they had those personality traits in common.

  She was thrilled that he was coming to dinner tonight. No matter how strained things were between them, he was still her son, and she loved him dearly. Looking down at her watch, she saw that it was time to pull the cherry pie--his favorite--out of the oven.

  Her back was stiff as she stood, and she stumbled slightly to her left. Before she could prevent it, a can at her heel tipped over and lacquer poured out all over the boards that Henry had worked so hard to sand to perfection.

  She bent down to grab the can, but as she did so, she accidentally stepped into a puddle of goo. Slipping, she had only just hit the floor when her husband was there, running his hand down her arms, checking for places she might be hurt. And it felt so good to be touched by him.

  "Does anything hurt?"

  Just her pride. But she couldn't admit that, not even to her husband. Especially not to him, it seemed. "No. I don't think so." She started to get up, but his hands were firm, holding her right where she was. A thrill shot through her at the proof of his strength, something else she'd somehow forgotten.

  "Stay put for a little while," he insisted. "Give your body a chance to recover from the fall." That was when he finally looked from her to the huge mess she'd created. "Well, that's something, isn't it?"

  Though he hadn't outright blamed her for screwing up, she thought she could hear the resignation in his voice, as if letting her help had been a bad idea right from the start. "I didn't do it on purpose."

  He didn't look at her, just shook his head. "I didn't say you did."

  "But you were thinking it."

  His chest filled with a deep breath, one that he let out before he said, "No, I wasn't. Although I thought I was pretty clear about closing the containers before you went anywhere."

  She pushed out of his arms, getting to her feet as fast as she could in the sticky glop that covered her. "I should have known working together would be a bad idea."

  He was up on his feet just as fast. "Don't try and turn this around on me." The moment where he'd put warm hands on her like he used to was cle
arly long gone. "You're the one who's been pushing me to do the floors. You're the one who demanded to help. If you'd just let me do it the way I planned, none of this would have happened."

  "You know what?" Emotions roiled through her, making it impossible to think through her words before they spilled out. "We never should have started this. We never should have tried to pretty up the past and make it look new again. We can't sand down and refinish something that's fundamentally broken. We'll never be able to go back to the way it used to be."

  *

  For how many years had Henry tried to avoid this conversation? He had always loved Susan so much that he couldn't let himself imagine a life without her.

  But more and more often, he had to wonder if he'd been wrong.

  If only they hadn't started this renovation. For years he'd told her the same thing: that he didn't feel comfortable turning away paying business to spend the time working on his own home. But that had been only a superficial reason. In truth--and it was a truth he wasn't at all comfortable admitting to himself--he'd been worried about spending so many hours in the house with his wife when they seemed to manage best with only evenings and weekends together. And now that his fears had become reality, he didn't know what to say, what to do.

  So when he smelled something burning, it was actually a relief to be able to rush down into the kitchen, where black smoke was pouring out of the oven.

  "Oh no, my pie!" Susan tried to push past him to get to it.

  He caught her arm before she could open the oven and burn herself.

  "Let me go!"

  She was talking about the oven and her burned pie, but he had to wonder if Let me go was what she'd really been saying to him all these years. Only he hadn't wanted to listen.

  "I can't let you burn yourself." It didn't matter that he was angry with her, that she'd hurt him more deeply than ever before with what she'd just said in their bedroom. We never should have tried to pretty up the past and make it look new again. He simply couldn't stand the thought of Susan ever being hurt.