“Don’t.” Donny’s hand landed on Ona’s shoulder, surprising her not just with the power of his touch, but the pressure he added. “I want to hear, too.”
She gave him a slow smile over her shoulder. “I’m not going to scheme.”
“And the sun won’t come up tomorrow.”
With a wry smile, she leaned into him. “You never know, Donny Z. That’s why you have to do what’s right on the days it does come up.”
“Don’t leave,” he said after a second.
She knew that tone so well since she’d heard it many times since her accident. Ona’s incredibly close brush with death had not only changed her priorities and plans, the incident had struck pure terror in the heart of her husband. He might play the part of a caustic, hardened, sex-charged—if weathered—rock star on stage. But Donny Zatarain, secret golfer and faithful husband, lived in abject fear that the next time, Ona wouldn’t come back from her astonishing trip to the other side.
“I can’t, anyway, Ona,” Misty said. “Steven’s plane lands in an hour, and I want to meet him at the airport.” She gathered up her large bag and gave Ona a smile. “I can tell you this much about your daughter. She has no idea you are behind any of this.”
Ona fought a twinge of guilt and shame, but quickly brushed both away. If she’d learned anything from that hour she’d spent in the most glorious, beautiful, peaceful place imaginable, it was that guilt and shame were a waste of time.
What mattered in this fleeting, temporal life was forgiveness and love, and Ona was determined to get one and give the other.
She air-kissed Misty and walked her to the door, adding a long hug of gratitude. “You’re wonderful to do this for me.”
Misty’s narrow shoulders shook with a light laugh. “For you? You’re paying for my entire wedding at the Ritz-Carlton, Ona! Pretending to plan one at some little resort out in the gulf is no skin off my back.” She frowned, searching Ona’s face. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Hush. You sound like Donny now. You know what happened to me. I nearly died that day in the ocean.” She closed her eyes, the swirling, black, terrifying sensation so easy to recall. It was always right at the surface. “But it changed me right down to the soul.”
Misty gave her a smile and a kiss, then headed down the hall, while Ona stood in the doorway and watched her disappear, still thinking about those waters that had nearly consumed her the day she’d gone for a swim at their Malibu house. Just one wave, one undertow, one moment she was alive, and the next…
She had no recollection of being pulled from the sea or having her chest slammed and strange paramedics hovering over her. She had no memory of the trip to the hospital. She had no remembrance of being declared dead…only of the light and the beauty and the clear message that had been given to her on the other side.
Undo the damage you’ve done, Ona Zatarain.
And the whole time, the power that held her there kept her hovering over constantly changing images of her daughter. Willie as a child. Willie as a miserable teenager. Willie as a young woman, fighting to find herself. Willie…as a bride.
It was the last one that made her wake up, for some reason. That last image of Willow in a wedding gown, with a man tilting her back for a kiss. A man who looked freakishly like that picture on Misty’s phone.
Then she’d awakened, and Donny cried like a two-year-old, and the doctors mumbled about how stunned they were, and all the nurses proclaimed it a miracle. Ona didn’t know about any of that. All she knew was that she had to find her way back to her daughter.
And if she’d learned anything from her experience, it could be summed up in three words that had become her mantra.
Nothing is impossible.
Not even this.
Chapter Fourteen
Willow clicked off her tablet and pushed off her bed, restless. The imagery that had been painted in her brain remained vivid, even after the words disappeared from the screen.
Her body hummed from the sights and sounds…and emotions. She could see the vast and desolate countryside, and smell the harsh scents of war. She could hear the rapid punch of mortar, the scream of a missile through the night air, freakishly loud even though a fireworks display was the closest she’d ever been to anything like that. She could feel her eyes burn with
“moon dust” that covered Iraq, her throat on fire like—how had he described it? Like someone had snapped a lighter in her mouth. Body parts, debris, and bombed-out Humvees. Vomit and blood and death.
Had Nick experienced all of that firsthand? Of course he had. How could she be so naive as to think he could make that up without living through it? A powerful punch of sympathy slammed her chest.
He almost hadn’t. No, no, that was Lieutenant Spencer Gannon who’d narrowly escaped death. Or was it?
God, she needed air. It was all but dark now, nearly eight o’clock, so she grabbed a water bottle and made her way out to the front porch just as Gussie and Ari walked up the driveway.
“Hey, we went for a walk down by the water,” Ari said. “We knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
Too engrossed in the book. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Her head had been in Iraq, and her heart was in pieces. Or at least in the hands of a very talented writer.
“What did you do for dinner?” Gussie asked as she came up the stairs.
“I skipped.”
Her friend raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to do that.”
“True enough.” She might have lost a lot of weight over the past few years, but she never missed dinner. That only led to dangerous temptations at midnight. “What about you?”
“We’re going to grab a bite on the mainland,” Ari told her. “Want to come? There’s a new restaurant in Fort Myers.”
“And your favorite candy store that’s open until midnight,” Willow teased. “I’ll pass on that stop.”
“You okay?” Gussie asked, sitting on the swing next to her. “You look kind of dazed.”
“It was Nick’s book,” she said. “It hit me. Here.” She thudded her chest.
“Ah, the man of dishonor.” Ari dropped onto a wicker chair.
“Why would you call him that?” Willow asked, defensiveness rising.
“Not me, the staff. The restaurant workers. The brides I had out on tour this afternoon when we saw him. Females in general. They all want to do something dishonorable with him.”
Get in line, Willow thought. “Well, the man of dishonor can write a book.”
“I thought you were struggling with what to tell him about it,” Ari said.
“I thought I was, too, but he really hit his stride. It’s so authentic and powerful now.” She couldn’t resist a sly smile. “He says I inspire him.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Gussie teased.
“Well, don’t let us keep you from reading,” Ari added.
“I don’t have any more to read,” she replied sadly. “I’m caught up. I’ve read every word he’s written. All I can do is wait for more.” Or go and talk to him about what she’d read.
Speaking of dangerous temptations at midnight.
“So come out to dinner with us and tell us about it,” Ari suggested.
She didn’t answer, not wanting to turn down the invitation but not exactly interested in accepting it, either. She took another look at the clock. “Is eight o’clock early enough that it doesn’t seem like a booty call to turn up at a guy’s villa?”
They both stared at her, but Gussie could barely keep a straight face.
“Well, is it?”
“No.” Gussie made a little shriek sound.
“Did you two bet on this?” Willow demanded.
“No, we didn’t. I’m just…happy for you. I’m excited about this.”
“You’re excited about it?” Willow teased. “I’m”—she looked from one to the other—“not really sure how much to tell you guys.”
“Wha
t?” they asked in perfect unison.
“You tell us everything,” Ari said.
“Or we’ll bet on what it is.”
“I don’t think either one of you is going to bet on this. But if you did, the odds would be in your favor.”
Again, they both just looked hard at her.
“Um, okay.” She looked down and plucked at a button on the seat cushion. “Just don’t judge, okay?”
“We won’t,” Ari assured her.
“No promises,” Gussie added.
Willow laughed nervously as they leaned in closer, riveted.
“You know that when I was in college I knew Nick and I, you know, sort of asked him to relieve me of my virginity because, like, who wants to be a nineteen-year-old virgin, right? And he was so hot and sweet and kind to me, but…but…”
“He said no,” Gussie supplied. “And he told you why, which was pretty legit, in my opinion. We know, and we understand why that might make you a little nervous about taking the next natural step with this guy, but—”
“It’s not natural to—”
“Yes, it is!” Ari insisted.
“—be a virgin at twenty-nine,” she finished.
Two speechless, stunned faces looked back at her.
“Holy shit,” Gussie finally whispered. “Really?”
Very slowly, she nodded. “Really.”
“No one? Ever?” Ari asked.
“After Nick, I just couldn’t bear to even think about trying again. I don’t want to put all the blame on him, but that rejection hurt like a son of a bitch. I blamed my weight, of course, which made me angry and frustrated and hungrier than ever.”
“But all these years…” Gussie was still in shock. “And you never told us.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just become such a horrible burden of weirdness. I mean, they make movies about freaks like me.”
“Willow!” Ari said. “That’s not true. There are plenty of celibate people our age. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, it’s kind of cool.”
“Not anymore. For years, I used my weight as an excuse, then I lost weight, and I have dated a few guys, one I really liked, but…” She just couldn’t do it. “I didn’t like him enough.”
“But you like Nick enough,” Gussie said, no question in her voice.
“I do, but…you know. The irony might be too much if he says no again. Not to mention the embarrassment, agony, and regret.”
“He is not going to say no,” Ari said. “A blind man could see how bad he has it for you.”
Willow hugged herself, as if Ari’s very words could wrap around her. “I think you’re right,” she admitted. “And I think I’m ready.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Ari asked.
“Well, I’m not going over to his villa to screw his brains out tonight.”
“May I ask why not?” Gussie teased.
“Because I…I need to see how he feels about it.”
They looked at each other, fighting a laugh.
“Okay, he’ll be down for it, you’re right,” she agreed. “But when he finds out I’m a virgin, how do you think he’ll feel?”
“Honored,” Ari said.
“Horny…er,” Gussie replied. “In all seriousness, Willow, it isn’t going to happen unless you set the wheels in motion. You should go over there and…take those walls down. And clothes off.”
Willow looked at Ari, usually more of a voice of reason. But Ari was nodding.
“I agree, Willow. I also think there’s no irony at all in him being your first, since he was your first choice. Maybe you’ve been waiting for him to come back into your life all along.”
“Yeah,” Gussie said. “He was meant to be your cherry-picker.”
Willow laughed softly, but deep inside, she couldn’t argue that. The disappointment that Nick Hershey hadn’t been her first had been real and long lasting. So long lasting that she’d damn near made it to thirty as a virgin.
Willow pushed back the swing and stood up. “I’m going out, girls.”
* * *
“Are you naked?”
For a second, Nick wasn’t sure if the question came from one of the characters living in his head or not. A loud knock on the villa door followed, giving him the answer. The answer, in fact, that he wanted most.
Willow.
“Define naked,” he called, pushing himself up from the sofa and glancing at his faded boxer shorts.
“That would be man parts visible.”
“Hang on.” He glanced around, spying the worn camo pants he’d had on earlier, so he stepped into them and added a black T-shirt. There, fully dressed.
He put his hand on the door and imagined what he’d see when he opened it. “Are you naked?” he asked hopefully.
When she didn’t answer, he turned the knob and slowly opened, feigning—sort of—disappointment at the sight of her fully clothed in jeans and a tank top.
She held out the jump drive like a lifeline.
“Did you read it?” he asked, closing his hand over hers, the softness of her skin sending a surprising skitter of anticipation and warmth through him.
“Every word.”
He opened the door a little wider and eased her in, unwilling to let go of her hand. “Perfect timing. I’m writing now.”
She glanced at the coffee table, taking in the open laptop, the messy notebook, and the bottle of Bud. “What happens after that fight with the insurgents?”
“I don’t know.” He stroked her knuckles. “I’m throwing things at the wall, but nothing is sticking.” He inched her closer, fighting the urge to pull her all the way in and enjoying the mix of panic and desire on her face as they got closer. “But here is my muse.”
She smiled. “I don’t know if I can help with what happens next, but I can tell you that I loved what you wrote.”
“That’s music to my ears. Even the one that doesn’t work.” He leaned down and let his lips brush her soft, sweet-smelling hair. “You could curl up next to me and help me think things through.”
He could have sworn she shivered. She didn’t answer right away, but gave him a long look, her eyes smoky and gray in the dim light. “All right. And I’ll live completely dangerously and ask if you have another beer.”
“Absolutely. This place is fully stocked.” He took a few steps toward the kitchen, then paused, reaching for her again. “Come on.”
“You worried I’ll read what you’re working on while you’re gone?”
“I’m worried you might leave while I’m gone.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Nick.” Unless he was brain-dead and his woman radar was non-functional, the message came across crystal clear.
“Must have really dug those chapters,” he teased, bringing her all the way into the kitchen.
“I did,” she told him, leaning against the counter. “Although they scared me.”
He gave a questioning glance over his shoulder from the fridge.
“War scares me,” she explained.
No shit. “It should. Did you eat dinner yet?”
“I grabbed something before I left.”
He imagined her finishing his chapters, snagging one of her roof tiles, and rushing over here. The idea did crazy stupid things to him.
Because she wanted to talk about the book? Or because she wanted to talk to him?
He twisted the top off the cold Bud and handed it to her, letting their fingers brush again. “I skipped dinner, so I should be starved,” he said. “But I lost track of time again.”
Lifting the bottle, she toasted him. “I was glad you let McManus live. I was really worried he wasn’t going to pull through.”
Nick felt the blood drain from his face, exactly the way it had drained from McAllister’s body that day. But they’d saved him. Pulled “Preacher” out of a wrecked Humvee and got him on the dustoff with the medics. “He almost didn’t,” he said gruffly.
“I thought it wasn’t autobiographical,�
� she said.
Shrugging, he ushered her back to the living room sofa, where they sat down together. “Parts of it are, of course,” he admitted.
“The good parts.” She tipped the bottle to her mouth, sliding a sharp look to the side. After she swallowed, she put down the bottle and kicked off her sandals, turning to him. “The parts I like the most, I’m guessing.”
He took a swig of his own beer, not wanting to talk about the book for a change. Instead, he wanted to brush her corn-silk hair off her face and let his fingers graze her smooth skin. He wanted to lean in and make out and drink up this sexy woman who showed up at his door like a surprise angel.
“Then you aren’t going to like what I’m working on now,” he said instead.
She inched toward the laptop, turning the screen so she could read. “What’s happening now?”
“Debriefing and a strategy session about what to do with Char—Christina.”
She sipped again, nodding and glancing at his words, making him wonder what she thought as she read.
“Gannon knows what he wants to do with her,” she said wryly. “Why don’t you let them get to it?”
“Screwing the embedded journalist a SEAL saved while taking her to safety is generally frowned upon in the Navy.”
She inhaled slowly and then put the beer down. “Did you?”
He felt himself flinch and heat rise to his neck. “This isn’t autobiographical, Willow.” The words ground out through gritted teeth. “But, no, we did not break any—too many—regs.”
She took another long drink of beer, then asked, “Were you in love with her?”
He turned to stare at the computer. No, he hadn’t been in love with Charlotte. But maybe he could have been…if she’d lived long enough. “I was not,” he said definitively. He cared for her, absolutely. She amused and amazed him, but she would never have been right for him. That didn’t mean he didn’t regret the hell out of what happened with her, though.
“Was she in love with you?”
Lust, not love. She’d said so herself. Swallowing, he stayed silent on her second question, too, as a guilty man in an interrogation. Maybe if one of them had been in love, the story ending wouldn’t have been so dismal. It would have been…tragic, in the sense that it somehow made sense. Instead, it was just a shitty decision.
Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) Page 12
