by Gina Ardito
I wondered if Drew Pruchik launched the same butterflies in Briana’s stomach that Aidan Coffield did in mine. But now was not the time for us to share some camaraderie over a few good-looking men. “Oh?” I said instead. “Where’s this guy taking you? Someplace special, I hope.”
“To the movies.”
I blinked. “Let me get this straight. You have to look perfect to sit in a dark theater for three hours?”
“And for afterwards. When he takes me home.” The sharp edge to her tone, the way she rolled her eyes, and her exaggerated sigh all conveyed her opinion that she was speaking to the world’s biggest idiot—which, maybe she was.
Defeat crept into my managerial psyche. “Exactly how much time do you need?”
“Well, the movie starts at seven, so…” She tilted her head to stare at me, no doubt gauging how much slack I’d allow her. “Maybe four, four-thirty?”
“You need two and a half hours to get ready?” I might have faltered as a boss, but I hadn’t totally lost my mind. Yet.
She shrugged, but if she hoped to show nonchalance with that action, the way she bounced on the balls of her feet gave away her excitement. “Only because I need a shower. I don’t want to smell like this store when he picks me up.”
Smell like…? The verbal slap stung, and I sucked back a gasp. “What exactly does this store smell like?”
“I dunno. Kinda old ladyish. Like potpourri and cardboard. It’s not a bad smell, it’s just not how I want Drew to think of me.”
I stifled the urge to turn my head and sniff my shoulder. Did I smell old ladyish? Like potpourri and cardboard? I cringed.
Then sanity returned.
Briana was overstating her case, and I was buying into her bullcrap because an extremely good looking guy—an extremely good looking townie—had asked me out and I’d agreed. So naturally, I needed to find something wrong with him. Because, otherwise, I might discover something wrong with me, some gene I’d inherited from my mother that would compel me to turn my back on everyone I loved for some pretty boy with a wallet full of cash.
Paige and I had been eight years old when Mom left. I could still recall every minute of that horrible day. Snapshots filled my head. On his way to work, Daddy took us to Grandma’s because Mom had complained of a headache. Her third of the week, and probably tenth of the month. I had worried that my mother was seriously sick. Grandpa had suffered from lots of headaches before a massive stroke killed him. What if Mommy had a stroke and no one was home to help her? I remember every tick of the big clock in the hall as I sat in Grandma’s living room that day. I stared at the brass pendulum, willing time to speed up so Daddy could finish work and come for us. We had to get to Mom!
At last, I heard his car in the driveway, and I yanked Paige away from the television to meet Daddy on the porch. Then came the ride home—minutes that seemed to take hours. When we finally reached the house, I knew something was very wrong. The front door was closed, a rarity. Snug Harbor wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. There were times we didn’t even lock up at night before going to bed. Worse, there was a desperate quiet to the whole property that tore my heart to shreds.
“Mommy!” I screamed as I raced from the car to the house. To this day, I can hear the blood rushing in my head and the thunder of my rapidly beating heart. “Mommy! Mommy!”
“Nia,” my father scolded. “Stop that. Mommy’s probably asleep.”
But I knew better. Shoving open the front door, I stumbled into the living room. “Mommy!”
Of course, I didn’t find her. Instead, I found the note. The note intended for my father. The note that started with I’m sorry and revealed her frustration over her boring life as a wife and mother in a sleepy Long Island town. The note that ended with the bombshell that she’d escaped Snug Harbor with a stockbroker from Greenwich she’d met earlier that month. The note written on pale pink stationery with bluebirds flying in the corners. As if her life was some bizarre Disney movie, where Bambi’s mom wasn’t shot by the hunter, but ran off with him instead.
Mom didn’t even look back. We never heard from her again.
“So?” Briana’s nagging question shook me out of the memory. “Can I go early?”
Unfortunately, the bitterness from that memory remained. “You can leave at six,” I said firmly.
Briana’s posture slouched. “But that only gives me an hour.”
Tough. “Take it or leave it, kiddo. I’ve got a business to run.”
“Jeez,” she murmured as she strode toward the counter where the employee aprons were stored. “I would’ve thought a dozen gorgeous roses would put you in a better mood.”
“Yeah, well, they didn’t, so let’s get to work.”
~~~~
Paige
Daisy Chain of Love loped at my side as I followed Sam up the driveway toward his house, a dopey grin on her canine mouth. No one should look that happy—not even a dog. And especially not Sam Dillon’s dog.
Like me, Sam lived in his parents’ former home. Unlike me, however, he’d bought the house outright when the older Dillons retired and moved to Florida. I have no idea how much he paid, but I’d bet the price was way below market value.
At the edge of the lawn, Sam unclipped Daisy’s leash, then bent to pick up a tennis ball and toss it toward the front door. “Go get it, girl.”
Daisy bounded toward the ball at top speed. The blur of neon yellow bounced in the grass, but the dog stayed on course. At last she stopped beside where it finally came to a halt, her tail wagging furiously.
When she made no attempt to pick up the ball or bring it back to him, he sighed. “Once again, I’m reminded by my dog that greyhounds are not retrievers.”
I smiled, but not with any real humor. Oh, the dog was cute. And Sam’s comment would have normally entertained. But the weirdest sensation had washed over me as I cycled up the driveway.
I saw myself at fourteen, riding my bike past this very house where fourteen-year-old Sam and a half-dozen friends tossed a football around the front lawn. On the steps near where Daisy stood, I could still picture Annabelle Sutter, Sam’s then girlfriend, with her perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect skin. As opposed to my adolescent self with a mouth full of braces, zits puckering my forehead, and a few extra pounds around my middle. When Annabelle spotted me that day, she shouted, “Geek alert. Quick! Someone toss her a bag to cover her face.” A chorus of hoots and laughter erupted—until Sam drilled the football in Annabelle’s direction. I heard her disgruntled, “Hey!” before I pedaled away.
I don’t know why that particular memory came back to me while I followed Sam now. Maybe because it was the one and only time he had come to my rescue. Although, to be honest, he only helped me out because the ball went awry from his intended receiver.
Shaking off the vision of that long ago day, I squeezed my hand brakes, pulling to a stop. Once I got off the bike, I popped down the kickstand.
“Come on,” Sam said, gesturing me forward. “Let’s get you set up properly for your ride.” He strode forward a few steps, then stopped and turned to me, his face alight with keen interest. “Unless you’d like to stick around for a while…?”
The words came out before I could stop them. “With you?”
His expression hardened to stone, and I couldn’t spit out an apology fast enough.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” he bit out. “Stay here. I’ll get your water.”
He stomped to the house with as much angst as the petulant teen I remembered from high school.
Yeah, I know. I screwed up. But it wasn’t like he and I were such close pals that we’d hang out together on a Saturday morning.
So, okay. If I planned to give him a chance like I promised Nia, I probably shouldn’t think of him as some bonehead without a scintilla of human emotion. Old habits, however, were hard to break. Especially when those habits involved Sam Dillon, the heartthrob of Snug Harbor.
From the day we first me
t in kindergarten, when all the other girls in our class clamored for his attention, I kept my distance. Even at the innocent age of five, I didn’t trust a pretty face. My mother had been a beautiful woman, but I knew her ugly side long before she left us. Nia and Dad only learned about Mom’s vices when she left us. But me? I’d seen the cracks in her perfection, although I hadn’t really understood them at the time.
When I was in college, I was forced to take a psych course. One of the lesson plans dealt with the sins of the parent, a study on how much impact a child’s view of his/her parents affected his/her adult life. The corresponding data-based report I prepared as part of my mid-term exam, based on my personal family dynamics, earned me an A grade in that class. I barely remember the details now except for my coup de grace closing paragraph: Perhaps sins of the parent can be forgiven, provided there is an act of contrition for closure. When wounds are left unresolved, however, scars can become malignant, resulting in irreversible damage to the heart.
Or something like that. I’m paraphrasing, of course. I gained an additional benefit from that paper—a catharsis or something that allowed me to move on from Mom’s transgression. Oh, it was always in the back of my mind, but I never let her sin rule my life. Unlike Nia who carried the shame and guilt of that sorry episode to this day.
The screen door clacked, and Sam strode back outside with two bottles of water in his hands and a large orange tube tucked under one arm. “Here,” he grumbled. “Take this crap.”
It was at this moment, as he shoved bottles at my chest, I realized I might have sincerely hurt his feelings. Go know. The big bad police chief had a soft underbelly, and maybe even—gasp!—a heart. Which, apparently, I just crushed with one careless remark.
Juggling the bottles in my hands, I told him, “Look, I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Forget it,” he said with enough ice to freeze my water.
“No. Really.”
“No. Really,” he repeated with a large dose of acid in his tone. “Forget it.”
Oh, for crying out loud! Would I need to grovel to get him to forgive me? “You took me by surprise, that’s all. You’ve always said my fast mouth would get me into trouble, right?” I paused, waited for God to strike me dead for my hypocrisy. When the sky remained a clear blue with no lightning bolts spearing in my direction and no fiery vortex opening at my feet, I added, “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Do you want to come with me? I mean, if the ride’s too much for you, we don’t have to go all the way to the wharf. But if you’re up for it, maybe we can have an early lunch at the clam bar if it’s not too crowded.”
I stifled the urge to turn my gaze to the heavens and hoped my silent prayer would still reach past the stratosphere to The Big Guy’s ears. Please say no, please say no…
“You’re on. Let me just put Daisy back in the house.” Sam grinned, and I felt the impact in my weakening knees. The man really did have a killer smile. “And I can do the full ride, no problem.”
Oh, you vengeful God.
“Great.” I slid one of the water bottles into my bike rack holster and tossed him the other with as much joy as I could summon up from my inner basement. “This should be a lot of fun.”
Chapter 11
Paige
By some miracle, Sam and I managed to ride alongside each other for most of the trip to the wharf without my alienating him or him getting my back up. Once or twice, I even mustered up a smile at something clever he said. I’d never realized Sam had such a wicked sense of humor—or, maybe it was funnier when his zings were not aimed at me. In any event, I admit, I was beginning to enjoy myself. When we took the final turn on Shore Road, the twenty foot open steel archway with “Coffield’s Wharf” scrolled in some fancy gold script came into view. That’s when it happened.
With my gaze focused on the stupid arch, I never saw the tree branch until my front wheel’s spokes caught in the twigs that jutted out. The thicker part of the branch came up, hit the back of my pedal, and I faltered. Okay, “faltered” is an understatement. The bike went down, tilted to the left, and I went with it, landing smack-dab in the center of the branch on my knees. I distinctly remember a quick “Paige!” coming from Sam before the impact of my kneecaps crashing into wood erased all senses except the excruciating pain, like starbursts exploding in my leg.
Before I drew a second sharp breath, Sam stood above me, lifting the bike off my hips. “You okay?”
I nodded, but with no sincerity. “God, how stupid am I?” I muttered.
Once he had my bike propped on its kickstand, he knelt by my side. “You’re not stupid, Paige. Never have been. You and I both know that.”
He pushed the branch of doom into the sandy underbrush where it could do no further damage. I lay there on the hot asphalt, too stunned to move. Sure, partly thanks to the fall, but more because Sam Dillon had just paid me a compliment. Then he touched me. My ankle, to be precise.
“You’ve got a nasty looking cut on that knee,” he said. “And you’ll probably have one heckuva bruise before the day’s out.”
The heat of his fingers branded my skin. I pushed up on my elbows and stared at him blankly. Maybe the jolt from the fall had loosened something in my brain. Because I, Paige Wainwright, always immune to Sam Dillon’s charm, found myself dumbstruck the minute the man held my ankle in his hand and looked at me with his warm, golden eyes.
“Can you get up or do you need help?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Until he ran his hand up my calf, and then I sucked in a sharp breath. Shivers of delight rippled my skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
“That hurts?” Sam asked, all paternal-style concern.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t reply, couldn’t do more than stare at him, at his face so close to mine. What would he do if I just pushed forward and kissed him?
Wait. What? Me? Kiss Sam? Why on earth would I want to do that? What was wrong with me?
“I-I’m fine,” I managed as I pulled my leg from his clasp. I had to get away from him before I did something stupid. Like kiss him. With that crazy thought rattling around in my head, I scrambled to stand and get some distance between us. “Let’s hit the road.”
“Whoa. Easy there, Paige. Give yourself a minute. You’re bleeding into your sock, for God’s sakes.”
I looked down at my feet and finally noticed the stream of bright wet blood that ran from the massive scrape on my right knee, all the way down my calf. Dirt caked the wound itself and circled my kneecap, a filthy halo. My left knee, although not as severely injured, bled in thin strips surrounded by another ring of dirt. I took a step toward my bike, and sucked in a breath as pain rocketed from the middle of my right leg to my hip.
Sam must have noticed because his next statement was, “At least let me walk you down to the beach. You can take off your shoes and socks and wade into the water. The salt will stop the bleeding and dull the sting.”
I wanted to say no, wanted to tell him I didn’t need him mothering me. But the facts remained the same: (a.) I was bleeding like wet newspaper, and (b.) the scrapes, particularly the one on the right knee, hurt deep down to the bone when I put any weight on my feet. I couldn’t imagine climbing back onto my bike and pedaling until I’d done something to stop the bleeding and maybe even close up the wound a bit. Salt water really was the best curative in my current situation. Of course, the added bonus would be a chance to put a little more distance between me and Sam until I came back to my senses.
“I can do it myself, thanks,” I told him, polite but firm. “Stay here with the bikes. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“You gonna be okay walking over the rocks?” he asked.
“I’ll manage.” I had to. Having him with his arm around my waist, helping me down to the water, would make my current confusion worse. So I limped across the street and to the wide expanse of various rocks that led to the vast blue-gray water of the Long Island Sound. Every crunchy step on the uneven bed of cream-colored pebbles and
stones, which created the shoreline, sent new adventures in pain to my knees, but I persevered. At last, I got close enough to the water’s edge, and I sat to remove my socks and shoes. I stepped into the cool water, also layered with rocks. Wading in deeper, I felt the rocks give way to the muddy bottom of the Sound. When the salty water hit my poor injured knees, wet lightning zapped through me, and I let out a soft cry of, “Ooh, ooh, ooh!”
Lucky for my pride, this portion of the beach was virtually empty, and those around me hadn’t heard me. One family, two parents and two young boys, picnicked about ten yards from where I stood. The children’s screeches of delight pierced the air as they merrily plucked and flung rocks into the Sound from their place at the shore’s edge. Another man, even farther away, tossed a stick into the surf, and a chocolate Labrador bounded after it, kicking up water like spray from a fountain.
Once my scrapes were totally immersed, I crouched and gently splashed the water around my kneecaps. I didn’t want to linger too long here. Sam waited at the top of the road for me. I couldn’t stop my heart from flipping in my chest at the very idea. He’d looked so sweet, so concerned, about my fall. When he touched me, I practically went stupid on him.
The dog barked, which seemed to snap me out of my sugar coma. Dang. I had to keep reminding myself this was Sam Dillon, the man who’d tormented me since kindergarten. The man who’d, only a few days ago, called me “the perfect Princess Paige.” Then again, only minutes ago, he’d said I’d never been stupid, which was kind of a compliment.
Wasn’t it?
God, this whole Sam thing really drove me crazy. Why all of a sudden did I find myself falling prey to his sweet words and warm eyes? I was so much smarter than that. So when had I stopped seeing him as a big, noisy mosquito and started thinking of him as romance material?
Maybe I needed to expand my social circle. After all, my last date, Kevin the Cretin from Hampton Bays, had been a disaster. Not only had Kevin taken Darlene the waitress’s phone number during our first dinner together, he’d actually rushed through the meal at NASCAR speed. Before we could order coffee or dessert, he got the bill, paid in cash, and whooshed me out the door. He actually dropped me off home by eight o’clock—some kind of dating record—then probably returned to the restaurant to finish the evening in Darlene’s company.
