by Sandra Field
“Compared to me, it’d be a newborn calf.” He emerged from the oleanders into the open, where luckily there was no one in sight. Swiftly he crossed the compound to her room. “Have you got your key?”
She pulled a cord from around her neck. Propping her against his raised knee, Brant unlocked the door and shoved it open, then carried her through, putting her down on the edge of the bed. All his movements economical, he closed the door, switched on the bedside lamp and drew the drapes shut. Only then did he really look at her.
The fieriness of temperament which had attracted him to Rowan from the start had abandoned her; she looked helpless and exhausted and very much alone. Pierced by compassion, he said with sudden insight, “Rowan, for all our fights and love-making, I don’t think we were much good at showing each other our vulnerabilities. I wasn’t, I do know that much.”
She was shivering. “I can’t even talk about it now, I’m too tired. Just don’t go to Toronto tomorrow, that’s all I ask.”
He knelt in front of her. “I won’t. I swear I won’t. I also swear I’ll do my very best to figure out where we go from here. But not right now. Right now I think you should have a shower, and then I’m going to clean up your hands and knees.”
“I wasn’t watching where I was going, I was s-so miserable, and where I tripped it was all cinders on the path.”
Volcanic cinders, in Brant’s opinion, were probably the very worst thing you could choose if you were going to fall flat on your face. He didn’t share this conclusion with Rowan. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
“Bottom left of my duffel bag.”
“I’ll get it. Go shower, Rowan.”
She said in a rush, “I haven’t got the energy to get dressed again so I’m going to put on my pajamas but I’m note—”
“The last thing we need tonight is to end up in bed together, ” Brant said grimly. “We’re in enough of a mess as it is...I’ll try and imagine I’ve been reincarnated as a monk.”
“Now that would be stretching the universe’s powers,” Rowan said with a small smile, and pushed herself up from the bed. Flinching, she added, “Hot water’s going to sting like crazy, you realize that?”
He didn’t offer to shower with her. He didn’t offer to help her undress. You deserve a medal, buddy, he told himself, and stood up, too. “It’ll relax you—you look kind of uptight.”
“I could say the same of you,” she remarked with another of those tiny smiles, took her pajamas from under her pillow and hobbled off to the bathroom.
Brant took out the very comprehensive first-aid kit from her duffel bag and tried not to picture Rowan’s sleek body under the stream of water. She was right. He wasn’t cut out to be a monk.
When she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair was a cluster of damp curls the hue of rust chrysanthemums. Her pajamas, pale green silk, consisted of a long-sleeved top and boxer shorts edged with satin, and more than hinted at her cleavage; he’d always thought her legs were exquisite. His mouth dry, Brant went into the bathroom to scrub his hands. The scent of her powder hung in the steamy air; he remembered that scent from years ago.
Rowan sat down gingerly in the room’s only chair. She’d already realized that the only other choice was the bed, which wasn’t really a choice at all. Through her exhaustion she was aware of the slow upwelling of a profound relief. Brant had promised he wouldn’t leave tomorrow.
They had time. For what, she didn’t know yet, couldn’t even begin to guess. But at least when tomorrow morning came, he’d still be with her.
Brant came back from the bathroom. He was wearing cotton trousers and an open-necked blue shirt. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead; he could do with a haircut. She had no idea what he was thinking, much less feeling. Not that there was anything new in that: his motivations and his demons had always been a mystery to her. He spread out some of the contents of the first-aid kit on the bed, and knelt beside her chair.
She held out her hands. Using tweezers, he picked out the fragments of cinder in her palms first, then slathered on an antibiotic ointment. Her knees were in worse shape. Despite the care he took, she couldn’t always suppress her little whimpers of pain; by the time he’d finished, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He taped gauze pads over the worst of the scrapes and stood up, stretching out his back. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said flatly.
“Me, too.”
She pushed herself up, feeling her knees wobble under her. Brant announced, “Steve and I’ll carry everyone’s baggage tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Rowan said meekly.
“I don’t believe it, nary an argument?” The smile died from Brant’s face. Very gently he stroked her hair back from her cheek. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, or what we need to say to each other in the next few days, Rowan. If you want the truth, whenever I’m around you I’m scared out of what few wits I seem to possess.”
He didn’t look scared. He looked tender and solicitous, the way he’d looked with Gabrielle that awful day at the hospital. She bit her lip. “I don’t know how to read you...I don’t think I ever have.”
He was slowly and rhythmically caressing her cheekbone, not meeting her eyes; the lamplight gleamed in the dusting of gray in his hair, shadowing the new lines in his face. Her heart caught in her breast; he could so easily not have come back from Colombia. Oddly, there was nothing sexual in his caress, and Rowan was suddenly, fiercely glad of this. Over the years she’d come to distrust the way their bodies could fuse so ardently while the rest of their lives remained so far apart.
He said with the same slowness, “The fact that you want me to stay here and that I want to stay—it’s like a huge weight’s been lifted from my shoulders. As though I’ve been released from prison for the second time ’round. Whatever’s going on, we’re in it together.” He lifted his blue eyes, which blazed with pent-up emotion. “You have no idea how good that feels.”
Tears pricked at her lids. “Yes, I do,” she said softly, and did what she’d been wanting to do ever since he’d knelt by her chair a few minutes ago. With a tenderness that felt as deep as the sea, she stroked the dark lock of hair back from his forehead and smiled up at him. “I’ve felt very much alone the last three years,” she confessed. “And it’s like a small miracle that I’m actually saying that to you.”
Brant took her in his arms, holding her wordlessly while time seemed to stop and the tension that drove him so mercilessly and so constantly slackened its grip. Then, gradually, he became aware of other, more earthy sensations: the warmth of her body, the lissome curve of her spine and the scent of her skin. He edged away from her. “I’d better go.”
Rowan took her courage in her hands. “Do you know what I want to say?” she whispered. “Stay with me, Brant, sleep with me, hold me in your arms the night through so I won’t be alone...I’ve been lonely for so long, it sometimes feels like forever. But I’m not going to say it. Maybe I’m scared to, scared that we’ll just fall back into all the old patterns.”
Brant never cried. He couldn’t start now. He said huskily, “You’re so wise and brave and beautiful...and, dammit, you’re right, as well. We shouldn’t get into bed together, not yet.” He paused. “Just as long as you know that I want to.”
She chuckled. “Now that’s one thing I’ve never doubted.”
He chucked her under the chin, knowing he could leave now that she was laughing. “I’ll see you in the morning. The flight’s not that early for once.”
“We can sleep in until seven o’clock, how decadent that sounds...good night, Brant.” Good night, she thought with deep thankfulness. Not goodbye.
He leaned over and brushed his mouth to hers, then left her room. The moon was now entangled in the tall branches of the breadfruit tree; the cool, luminous night enfolded Brant in its arms, as Rowan had enfolded him in hers.
He felt happy.
For the first time in years, he felt happy.
CHAPTER E
IGHT
BRANT woke happy the next morning. Happy, and in a physical condition such that had Rowan been there, she’d have been in no doubt as to his intentions.
She’d be in his bed again, and soon. He knew it.
They’d figure out what had gone wrong with the marriage. If they made it a joint effort, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Although the thought of raising children made him break into a cold sweat.
But he wasn’t going to think about that today. They both needed a respite from the last few days, from the anger, confusion and unhappiness that had traveled with them ever since she’d walked up to him in the airport in Grenada.
He got out of bed and headed for the shower, whistling. On his way to breakfast he met up with Steve and said cheerfully, “Good morning.”
Steve growled, “You think there’d be two seats on that flight to Toronto? Nat saw me dancing with the blonde.”
“But you looked bored to tears.”
“The woman I was dating before Nat was blonde. She thinks I’ve got a thing about ’em.”
“You can have my seat. I’m not going.”
Steve brightened minimally. “You’re not? Hey, man, that’s great. What happened?”
“Rowan didn’t want me to leave any more than I wanted to. Luckily we discovered this before I got on the plane. But you don’t really want to fly out of here, Steve—why don’t you just tell Natalie you’re sorry and see what happens?”
“In the mood she’s in? No way.”
If Steve hadn’t looked so unhappy, Brant might have lost patience. But Brant knew what that kind of unhappiness felt like. “Hang in there,” he said. “Not that I know what makes women tick any more than you do.”
“Four years of marriage to a neat gal like Rowan and you still don’t know?” Steve said tactlessly.
“I never gave my marriage priority,” Brant admitted. “My job was always more important.”
“Women don’t like that.”
“They’ve got a point, wouldn’t you say?”
With a certain self-righteousness Steve replied, “I’d rather be windsurfing or scuba diving right now. But I’m trailing around the countryside looking at birds because Nat likes to photograph ’em. You can’t say I’m not putting her first.”
“Maybe you’d be better off windsurfing and letting her do the photography...then you’d both be doing what you want to do, and you could be together the rest of the time.”
Steve looked unconvinced. “How am I going to suggest that to her when she won’t even talk to me?”
“Just do it and see what happens...oh, good morning, Rowan.”
Rowan said with an endearing touch of shyness, “Hi, Brant. Steve, how are you?”
“Going to grab me a couple of croissants before Sheldon hogs the lot,” Steve said, and marched off toward the dining room.
“How are your knees?” Brant asked.
“They’ve been better. But we’re not doing much hiking today.”
“Sleep well?” He let his eyes wander over her face. “You look very beautiful, my darling.”
She blushed, sneaked a quick look around and kissed him full on the mouth, a kiss whose brevity didn’t negate its passion. Then she gabbled, “We’ve got an awful lot of talking to do, we mustn’t forget that.”
“How about we give it a rest today? I’m just so goddamned glad I’m not getting on that plane to Toronto. .let’s not worry about the future or dig up the past, not today. Carpe diem and all that.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
He laughed, the carefree laugh of a much younger man. “It’s probably just as well we’ll be chaperoned all day by six eagle-eyed birders—I’m not feeling at all monkish.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“So you should.”
Rowan glanced past his shoulder. “Speaking of eagles... good morning, Peg. Good morning, May.”
Brant turned. “I was just telling Rowan how much I’m looking forward to Martinique and Guadeloupe,” he said easily; the last time he’d talked to them he’d been hell-bent on going back to Toronto. “It’ll give me the chance to brush up on my French.”
“The language of love,” Peg said mistily.
“One of the Romance languages,” May said.
“It never hurts to brush up on a language you haven’t been using,” Peg added with a touch of severity.
“One can always improve one’s vocabulary and one’s usage,” said her sister. “Wouldn’t you agree, Brant?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Brant replied, wanting nothing more than to change the subject. “Shall we go to breakfast?”
“We’ll get the white-breasted thrasher in Martinique,” Peg said happily, striding toward the dining room.
“And the oriole, don’t forget the oriole,” May said.
“An early start tomorrow,” her sister remarked. “I’m not much for all this sleeping in.”
It was seven-twenty in the morning. “Positively slothful,” Brant said, and pulled out two chairs, one for Rowan and one for himself. Sheldon and Karen looked like a couple who’d spent the night making very satisfactory love, while Natalie, beneath a layer of makeup, looked as though she were simmering with things unsaid; Brant wouldn’t have wanted to be Steve. The whole group showed such solicitude for Rowan’s scraped hands that he was touched.
At the airport he canceled his flight to Toronto, and nabbed the seat next to Rowan on the plane. It was a small plane; he took great pleasure in the rub of her thigh against his and in watching the little vein pulse in the hollow of her wrist. He felt more than happy. He felt exuberant, as though he could have lifted the plane from the tarmac single-handedly.
They flew over a turquoise sea with its curved reefs and its white triangles of sailboats, and then over the red roofs and dry hills of Martinique. That afternoon they drove to a beach at the very south of the island, where Brant in his binoculars saw a yellow warbler whose feathers were brighter than the sun and whose confiding dark eyes seemed to look right at him; again he felt that unaccustomed rush of pleasure in the natural world.
A flock of tropic birds was circling overhead, with their arched wings and streamered tails, dazzlingly white against the sky. He gazed at them for a long time, long after the rest of the group had moved on, and knew he wanted for himself and for Rowan that grace and ease, that sense of being so much at home with each other and with the wild and constant winds of the sea.
All that afternoon Rowan found herself watching Brant. He looked like a different man today, she thought humbly, his face gentled and relaxed, happy in a way she could scarcely remember. Too happy? For after all, nothing was settled, nothing was dealt with, and underneath her own deep relief that he hadn’t left for Toronto was a burgeoning fear.
Was Brant changing, as he claimed he was? Could they rebuild a marriage different in reality as well as in spirit from their previous one? She knew she was willing to work very hard to achieve that. But she couldn’t do it alone. Furthermore, to do so, she would have to share with him that longtime secret which was hers alone, yet which concerned him at the deepest of levels; it was a prospect she dreaded.
“Least sandpipert” Peg hollered, and hastily Rowan dragged her attention back to her job. When they returned to the hotel she was almost glad she and her driver had groceries and other errands to do. Afterward she showered, put on a calf-length sundress that bid the deplorable state of her knees, and wandered down to the beach.
Steve and Brant were windsurfing, both of them well offshore where the breeze skimmed their boards over the waves. Natalie was stretched out on a beach chair; she was wearing a shiny bronze bikini, her face inscrutable behind huge sunglasses. “Hi, Natalie,” Rowan said, “do you mind if I join you?”
“Go right ahead. Rowan, why are men such creeps?”
Rowan sat down, careful not to bend her knees too much. “Men identify with their jobs, women with their relationships,” she said promptly, and wondered from what mag
azine article she’d gleaned that gem of wisdom. It had, from her own experience, the ring of truth.
“Look at the two of them out there, happy as pigs in...well, happy. Steve’d much rather be surfing than birding. He only came along to keep me happy.”
Natalie’s red mouth was drooping. “He’s not exactly succeeding, is he?” Rowan said gently.
“Are you and Brant a number?”
“No...yes...oh, I don’t know,” Rowan said in exasperation.
“See what I mean? They’re dorks.”
Both men were now racing at an angle toward the beach. The muscles of Brant’s shoulders and thighs were sharply delineated, his whole body taut as an athlete’s: strain gracefully borne, thought Rowan, all his strength and nerve focused on the task at hand. As he passed dangerously close to some rocks, she heard him laugh in exhilaration. His board was carving a bow wave from the blue water; perfectly balanced, he raced toward the sand, and at the last minute sank into the sea. Only then did he see her.
He waved, hauled his board partway on the beach and ran toward her, shaking the water from his hair. The sun gleamed on his wet body and she wanted him so badly she could scarcely breathe. He said, still laughing, “I won—right?”
She said primly, “A tie. Wasn’t it, Natalie?”
“Nah...Steve won,” Natalie said.
Steve had stayed in the water, and was towing his board around for another run. Brant yelled, “Be right there,” and said awkwardly, “He misses you, Natalie.”
“So let him tell me—he’s got a big enough mouth.”
Rowan sighed. “Dinner in half an hour, Brant.”
He leaned down and gave her a very explicit kiss. “One more run. Save me the seat next to you.”
As he jogged back down the sand, Rowan, left gaping like a stranded fish, sputtered, “They’re not only creeps, they’re arrogant and insufferable creeps and why can’t we live without them?”
“You find the answer to that one, you’d be a rich woman,” Natalie said. “Still, Brant seems an okay feller. Maybe you should give him half a chance instead of freezing him out every time he comes near you.”
