Love is a Distant Shore

by Claire Harrison

  'No?'

  'You can do a lot of things—drive, swim…'

  'Not like you can.'

  Petra tried to sit up but his hands firmly held her head down. His fingers were in her hair now, massaging her scalp. 'Geoff, very few people can swim the way I can. A lot of men couldn't do it. You mustn't judge yourself against me.'

  His voice was low. 'But you were right, you know. I am jealous, damned jealous of you.'

  'Geoff…'

  But she couldn't stop him. 'When I tried to swim with you and got that cramp, it came home to me that I was never going to be the same again. I think before that I'd always believed that one day the injury would disappear and I'd walk again, just the way I'd done before. I thought I'd start with swimming, it seemed easy enough, so I did a mini-training when you weren't around. I swam a couple of lengths, I did some exercises that Joe recommended. But it didn't work the way it would've in the past. The moment I tried to keep up with you, I discovered how wrong I had been. I'm a cripple, Petra. You were right about that, too.'

  'I didn't mean to say those things, I've regretted them ever since. Geoff… I've hated myself. Please… I'm so sorry.'

  His voice was oddly detached. 'Don't be sorry for the truth.'

  'But it was said in anger.' Petra now pulled herself upright so that she and Geoff were looking at one another, their faces pale ovals in the moonlight. 'I really don't believe what I said.'

  He spoke without self-pity, only the resigned detachment of a man who has come to grips with the very bottom of despair. 'Petra, I'll never walk right again. I'll never…'

  Her hands moved to his shoulders, her fingers tightening against his skin, urgent with the message in her heart. 'I don't know how to convince you,' she said. 'I admire you, I… respect you for your courage.'

  'Courage?' he said disbelievingly.

  'Yes.'

  'You don't know,' he said with intensity, 'how I have raged and cursed. You don't know how I've cried.'

  'Geoff, you're not a cripple or half a man. Not to me.'

  'No?'

  It filled her then, the need to tell him, to show him, to express to him what she had come to believe—that he was more a man than many she had known, that there was a wholeness to his spirit that had nothing to do with the injury to his flesh, that his jealousy of her was nothing compared to her jealousy of him. Petra desperately wished that she could be like Geoff. Brave and charming, eminently likable, unafraid of people, the kind of person who fitted in wherever he went. So, forgetful of the rigid hold she kept on herself, forgetful of that third, repressive eye that kept a watch over what she did, Petra leaned forward and brushed her lips against Geoff's, a gentle kiss, a comforting one. A kiss that said, please, please, believe me.

  Geoff was motionless, still, hardly breathing.

  His lips had felt soft, softer than she would have ever thought it possible for a man's lips to be. The skin of his shoulders was sleek and warm, the muscles hard under her fingers. Without speaking, she allowed her hands to move as they wished, the palms settling downwards so that they slid slightly lower to the winged bones of his shoulder blades. With the thumb and forefinger of each hand, she tracked the bones inward to their meeting place at the base of his throat. There, she felt a pulse beating, his lifeforce drumming beneath the sensitive tips of her fingers, its power crossing her own skin and bone, moving rhythmically into her blood, slowly altering to match her own quickened heart. And then, drawn forward by that twinning of blood-beat and pulse and breathing, Petra once again brought her mouth to his.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Geoff had come out on to the porch, feeling sorry for himself, for the pain in his leg, and hating that damned sensation of self-pity that overcame him when he was tired or low or vulnerable. He had thought to lie down on the couch and listen to the night sounds through the screen; he, the urban man, had found an unexpected consolation in nature. The croaking of frogs and the buzzing of insects, the patter of rain on leaves, the scratching of a squirrel on the roof forced him to contemplate his own insignificance in the realm of things. The world ran on without him at the helm; it ran on without his participation in its daily events. It was humbling to think of himself in that way, and it was a novelty to see himself as just a small player in the natural cycle. One hundred years ago, Geoffrey Hamilton didn't exist and no one had cared; one hundred years from now, Geoffrey Hamilton would be dead and no one would care. It was an interesting contemplation for a man who had felt himself important to the way the world operated.

  He saw now how deeply his arrogance had run, a river cut right into his soul, his personality, his temperament. He'd made assumptions about life that he thought were true and acted accordingly. He'd thought, for example, that he was invincible and had walked recklessly down a Beirut street that he'd known was dangerous. He'd thought the news couldn't be reported without him, but today when he'd been in the hospital, he'd picked up a newspaper and read the wire service clipping on the Middle East with Brennan's byline. It had been precise and competent, but he hadn't written it. He'd thought that his future was a line heading straight into further glory and renown, only to discover that nothing was fixed, certain, predictable.

  Nothing was predictable. Not the day with its tragedies and disasters or the evening with its surprises. He hadn't expected to see Petra after she'd gone to bed, he'd been surprised to find himself talking to her about things he'd never breathed to another soul. And, when she'd kissed him the first time, with a spontaneity that, for her, was dazzling, he'd been stunned into stillness and silence. He had barely dared breathe as she moved her hands on his shoulders. In fact, he had stopped breathing, or so it seemed, when her fingers had moved to his throat where only the strong beat of his pulse gave away a growing excitement.

  For a second, the world seemed to have stopped as her face turned once more upwards towards him. In the dimness of the moonlight, he could barely see the wondering eyes, the lips slightly parted. And then she had kissed him again, and the silence and stillness was broken. With a murmur low in his throat, Geoff pulled her towards him, his mouth widening hers, their tongues meeting in a heady, liquid touch. She wore a terry-cloth robe, barely cinched around her waist and, as he brought her up to his chest, the cloth parted so that the silky warmth of her breasts was against him.

  No, nothing was ever predictable. Geoff had once thought Petra skinny and unattractive, convinced that he wouldn't have taken her if she'd been the last woman on earth. Then he realised that she was interesting and even enticing, but he'd decided that the desire to make love to her arose more out of frustration than anything else. Now, he was discovering that he wanted her. He wanted the touch of her, the taste of her, the feel of her. He cupped her face in his hands and explored her mouth, the corners of her lips, the tips of her eyes. He pushed back the shoulder of her terry-cloth robe and ran his thumb down the back of her, feeling the bumps of her spine, the delicate indentations of her ribs. He slid both hands to the front of her, and his palms stroked the hardened nipples of her breasts.

  The sensation was intoxicating, and he brought his mouth down to her breasts, feeling Petra's hands digging in his hair as his head bent before her. Her skin tasted good, a salty, honey taste all rolled into one. With his mind's eye, he could imagine the colour of her in the sun; brown, amber and gold. He remembered the sight of her breasts moving in her bikini and his idle contemplation of the terrain below. Her breasts were no longer enough for him. Needing her, wanting her, his mind whirling with the sensations of her, Geoff pushed Petra backwards, his hands slipping lower down her body, testing the angled hipbones, the swirled navel, the concavity of her stomach and coming to rest at that focal point, that soft, wonderful juncture between her legs.

  'Geoff… Geoff…'

  It was a while before the whispered words made an impression on him or the hands pushing against his chest had any effect. It was a while before he could surface from his sexual haze into the reality of the dark night, the wind ru
stling in the trees outside, the hard edge of the bed beneath his legs. Shaking his head as if to clear his mind and taking a deep breath, Geoff pushed himself off her and sat up, rubbing his hand through his hair and willing his heart to slow its beat, his body to come to rest. For a few minutes in time, he had totally forgotten who he was, where he was or who he was holding in his arms.

  There was a rustle of fabric as she pulled the terry-cloth robe around her and the faint sound of her quickened breathing. 'God, Petra,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to happen.'

  'It was my fault.'

  'No, no, I got carried away.'

  'It was my responsibility.'

  'Petra, I…'

  Her voice was breathless, shaky. 'I shouldn't have kissed you.'

  Geoff felt her starting to stand up and he reached for her, grabbing her by the wrist. 'Why shouldn't you have kissed me?' he asked.

  Petra sat down heavily. 'I didn't mean to. It was accidental.'

  'I liked it.'

  'No.' Her face turned towards his, her voice tremulous.

  'And I liked you and the feel of you.'

  'Geoff.'

  'And I'd like to do it again, a little bit slower maybe and with more finesse and without Jennifer and Joe in nearby bedrooms.'

  She tried to release her wrist from his grasp. 'Please,' she whispered.

  Geoff sensed her trembling even before he pulled her into his arms, this time cuddling her close to him, tucking her head under his chin, wrapping his arms around her so that he could rest his hands on her clasped ones. She trembled like a bird caught in a trap, a wild animal held against its will. He silently cursed the passion that had risen in him and the celibacy that had let it loose to rampage through him so violently that he'd forgotten everything but his need for a woman. Petra was elusive prey, the kind that required quiet, unseen stalking and only the gentlest touch.

  'Now, listen,' he said. 'We mustn't let ourselves worry about what happened tonight. It was a natural sort of thing. A man and a woman alone together, half-naked, in the moonlight. Hell, we're even a cliché.'

  'It scared me,' she said, but he could feel her relaxing. The trembling was gone, and she was even leaning back against him. His lovemaking might have frightened her, but Geoff knew that she had liked it.

  'Can you consider it a compliment? Like I was overcome with your charms?'

  Petra cleared her throat. 'I thought that maybe you were… horny.'

  A laugh rumbled in his throat. 'Petra Morgan, what an unladylike thing to suggest.'

  'Well, weren't you? I mean, we've been here for three weeks and you don't seem to have a girl friend and… well, I just wondered.'

  'Mmmmm—I was getting to the cold shower stage.'

  'There, see?' But she wasn't insulted. In fact, she cuddled up closer to him.

  'How about you? You weren't horny? I mean, you started the whole thing.'

  Perhaps it was the dark that made confessions easier. 'I… I haven't had a man in two years.'

  Two years. Geoff tried to imagine two years without a woman and failed. Then he wondered what had happened to her two years ago that was so traumatic that she hadn't sought out another relationship. But he knew better than to ask; Petra would only tell him when she was good and ready.

  'Hey,' he said lightly, 'you've got a lot of catching up to do.'

  Her tone was serious. 'Geoff, I don't think we should get involved with one another. It would be too… dangerous.'

  'Dangerous?'

  'Well, for one thing, you have to write an article on me. You might lose your perspective.'

  He nibbled on her ear. 'Maybe I've lost it already.'

  She shook her head. 'And I have to swim that lake. I can't let anything get between me and the swim. You see, if I… got… more involved with you…'

  His arms tightened a bit around her. 'You can say it, Petra, it won't burn your tongue.'

  Her voice was hesitant, but firmer. 'If I… slept with you, then I would be thinking about you and what we were doing and how it would affect me and I'd lose my ability to concentrate. I can't afford that, Geoff.'

  Of course, he could see her point. He'd even known in advance what her objections would be. Aside from all the normal reasons why women were loath to get into temporary relationships, Petra had her swim to contend with. 'No,' he said heavily, 'I suppose you can't.'

  'And when the swim is over… well, you have your own life to lead. Allied Press might send you back to the Middle East or… anywhere in the world. You wouldn't want to be tangled up with me.'

  It was kind and generous of her to think about his future problems but, for some reason, it made Geoff want to grind his teeth together. 'Yeah,' he said.

  Petra turned slightly to look at him although his expression was barely visible in the dark. 'That's the way you're happiest, isn't it? When you're free to do what you want?'

  Geoff was confused. She was right, wasn't she? His freedom had always been his most valuable possession; his independence had given him the right to do exactly what he wanted, go where he pleased, make personal choices that weren't open to other men. He'd prided himself on his lifestyle, smugly considering himself luckier and a hell of a lot smarter than those grey-suited commuters, those buttoned-down bureaucrats, who went from office to home and back again in a mind-numbing routine. On the other hand, if his freedom was so wonderful and so valuable, why was he feeling right now as if it were a cage?

  'Yeah,' he mumbled, 'I guess so.'

  'So it's for the best then that we forget about tonight, isn't it?'

  He felt her fear, her anxiety that he'd spend the rest of their time at the lake pursuing her as if he were a lecher in some sort of comedy routine. 'Sure,' he said. 'No problem.' And heard her sigh of gratitude.

  Petra slipped out from between his loosened arms. 'Thanks for the massage,' she said.

  This time he didn't try to hold her back. His arms felt like leaden, heavy weights resting in his legs. 'Any time,' he said and then cleared his throat. 'How's your headache?'

  There was a smile in her voice. 'It's gone. You must be a magician.'

  'Yeah.'

  'Good night, then.'

  'Good night.'

  A magician. That was a laugh. He'd like to be a magician. With one sweep of his hand, he'd like to change everything; his crippled leg, his life, himself. But the irony was that he didn't know what he wanted to be any more. Some time during his stay in Indian Lake, Geoff had lost his focus, his goals, his perspective. The foundation of his life was shifting, altering, cracking like a house set on moving earth. Where it would settle he did not know. How it would settle, he could only guess. He only knew that some part of him refused to fall back into the old way, the old mould, the old patterns.

  Look at the way he tried to make love to Petra. A month ago he would have laughed himself silly if someone had suggested that he'd even consider a physical relationship with her. She wasn't blonde, buxom and bewitching in a casual, non-threatening way. Having sex with Petra wouldn't be one of those offhand relationships that could be eliminated with a shake of the hand or an easy goodbye. She was precisely the sort of woman that Geoff had learned to avoid at a very early stage in his adult life. She was the kind of woman that, if he got involved with her, he would have to take very, very seriously.

  The thought of a relationship like that would, in the past, have sent Geoff into an overwhelming panic and a get-away whose rapidity was only exceeded by the speed of light. The fact that he didn't quite feel that way this time made him all the more confused. He hadn't changed so much that he wanted the traditional trappings of marriage, mortgage, children and nine-to-five job. He hadn't gone that crazy yet. But something was different; he just couldn't put his finger on it exactly. Geoff sighed and stood up, thankful at least that the pain in his leg had diminished to the point that he'd finally be able to sleep. Of course, an unfulfilled sexual encounter wasn't particularly conducive to a good night either, but he'd just have to grit his tee
th and bear it. Perhaps that's what it all boiled down to, once again—frustration for an age-old need that plagued Geoff the way it plagued any other normal red-blooded male. Perhaps, all this confusion, this changing, this craziness, were nothing more than the symptoms of that frustration. Perhaps, Geoff thought tiredly as he limped his way back to bed, I'll take a trip into Toronto and get it out of my system. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

  The police arrived at Indian Lake four days later. They came in a blue and white car with flashing, red lights, their wheels bouncing over the rutted road and sending up a dust cloud high into the trees. No one was at the cottage when they arrived except Renoir who was proving the adage that cats have nine lives. She barely acted as if she'd been the victim of a racoon or fox attack and the recipient of fifteen stitches. When the two policemen entered the cottage, she meowed at them and began to weave in and out of their legs, arching her back and sending her tail into graceful curls. She was so friendly to the police that Sunny was later to joke that Renoir had a thing for men in uniform.

  The inhabitants of the cottage and Rembrandt were down at the beach, engaged in a training session— except for Sunny who was sitting in the sun, resting, her bandaged hand on her knee. She'd been doing well, to the relief of everyone. Her first day back from the hospital had been difficult. She'd not only been tired, but she'd also been determined to get back into her old routines. But it had been impossible for her to perform tasks that she'd done easily before. Cooking was hard when she couldn't use her left thumb, knitting was out of the question and sewing was awkward. It had taken her a day to admit to defeat, and they'd all breathed a sigh of relief when she'd announced the next morning that she was going on to vacation and it was up to the 'lot of them to feed their faces'. And with that, she'd grabbed a pile of magazines and marched down to the beach where she took over the best chaise-longue and took up what she called a 'career in idleness and sunbathing'.

  The rest of them had pitched in with more enthusiasm than skill, but no one criticised their results. Jennifer was assigned to breakfast detail and, although her repertory was narrow (they had scrambled eggs and toast day after day), they ate willingly. Joe and Geoff were assigned to lunches and, if their imagination was limited to ham and bologna sandwiches, no one complained. Petra was in charge of dinner since she was, after Sunny, considered the best cook. She didn't make bread or apple pies or fancy concoctions, but she knew how to keep people from starving in a way that was considered pleasant and adequate. Everyone had to help with cleaning, washing, dusting and sweeping. After three days of this, Sunny declared that she was going to go into permanent retirement.