A Woman's Heart

by Gael Morrison

  "We started with a raft on the back pond at Willow House." Peter chuckled, a reminiscing, happy sound. "My father said we'd graduate to something larger when I understood the water from the fishes' point of view. He made me dive off the raft and float around in the current, assessing which way the raft would drift."

  Picturing him there, Jann liked what she saw. "And did you figure it out?" she asked.

  "Not really. It was just my father's way of making sure I was comfortable in the water. He didn't want me to underestimate it. He believed if you could recognize the dangers on a pond, you would understand your vulnerability on the ocean. He wanted me never to have an inflated sense of myself."

  Laughter peeled from Jann's throat, startling even her in the still night air. Peter was looking at her as though she had suddenly gone mad, but it was impossible to choke back another bout of giggles.

  "And did he succeed?" she finally managed to ask, wiping her hand across watering eyes. "In making you suitably humble, I mean?"

  "Let's just say, I respect the ocean." He grinned back at her.

  "What happened next?" she asked, still chuckling. "Did you graduate to a dinghy?"

  "Better than that. We went out on a Flying Junior—a two-man sailboat—for a couple of months. The yacht club we belonged to rented them out to members."

  Yacht club. A different world from the one in which she'd grown up.

  "Of course, we often went out in our own boat. But he wouldn't let me sail alone. Not until I'd earned the right." He gave her a swift look. "That's one thing I respect him for. People have to earn what they get. Nothing comes free."

  Jann's smile died. Not even Alex. To get him, she had lost Claire. With a shiver, she reached for her sweater and pulled it around her shoulders.

  "You must miss your father," she said quietly. Strange to think he'd experienced the same pain as she. "Your mother, too, of course."

  The moon came out from behind a cloud and cast a light over Peter's face. But he turned away and stared out to sea, his face again now lost in shadow.

  "Of course." His voice had hardened, seemed filled with an anger denying his words. "But she didn't have much time for me or Claire." He faced her again, his expression grim. "Or for my father either in the last few years before they died."

  Jann's lips trembled. Her own parents had been so different. Always laughing, always touching, always brimming over with a happiness that seemed invincible. Only it hadn't been, and that was her fault. She clutched her sweater more tightly, her chill deepening.

  "Hey..." Peter moved beside her, his strong fingers cupping her chin. "...don't worry about me. I gave that up years ago."

  Staring into his eyes, she read the truth. "You don't just forget your childhood," she protested. She never wanted to lose her memories of the time before her parents died. It was all she had left.

  "You do if you're smart." He looked as though he meant to touch her, perhaps kiss her, but was fighting that impulse. At the last instant, he returned to his place at the wheel.

  "What was your mother like?" Jann asked, curious.

  He shrugged.

  "You don't talk about her," Jann persisted.

  "Nothing I want to say." He shrugged again. "She was beautiful," he added softly. "Had Claire's eyes, Claire's hair—"

  "Yours too," Jann said, smiling.

  "—and she smelled like flowers." He seemed suddenly more relaxed, as if he were talking to the heavens now, for he wasn't looking at her, didn't seem connected to the boat or the earth at all.

  Jann's mother had smelled wonderful, too, like homemade baking and steaming hot chocolate.

  "People were attracted to her," Peter went on, "though men more than women. Even when I was a little kid, I could see that much." He frowned. "My father didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do. Trying to tie down my mother was like trying to catch a butterfly."

  His eyes darkened. "She used to laugh at him when he tried to tell her what to do. She was always laughing." His voice lowered. "When I was little I used to feel nothing could go wrong as long as she was around."

  "And when you were older?" Jann whispered, barely daring to speak, afraid that if she did, he would hold it all in.

  "She wasn't around much." His face closed over.

  "Where was she?"

  "Rock concerts, parties, jaunts over to Europe."

  "With your dad?"

  "No." Peter's lips twisted. "My dad wasn't interested in that seventies stuff. He was too busy making money. My mother used to tell him to chill out, that he was an old fuddy-duddy working all the time. But he didn't like her friends, didn't want anything to do with drugs and the counter-culture."

  "That wasn't all the hippie scene was about."

  He looked at her, and his gaze seemed to burn.

  "There were good things too," she went on hurriedly, "like protests, and peace movements, and—"

  He laughed, the sound of it slicing the still air like a knife. "My mother wasn't into the politics of the thing. She just wanted the excitement, wanted to get away. From us," he added bitterly, "from Claire and me."

  Jann leaned towards him, wanted to take him into her arms and wipe the pain from his eyes. "I can't believe..."

  "Believe what, that a mother would do such a thing?"

  "Yes."

  "My mother did." His jaw line tightened. "She liked us well enough when it was convenient." His voice was tight also. "But we were in the way." He pulled in a deep breath. "Which is why I promised myself I would never make the same mistake."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Fall in love, get married."

  Jann's heart contracted. His pain was so tangible, she could almost touch it.

  "At least not to a woman like my mother," he went on.

  She saw in his eyes with a clarity that seared, that he thought she was like his mother, a flaky, pleasure-seeking woman with no more real emotion than the butterfly she resembled.

  "You can't hang on to your childhood forever," she said furiously.

  "I agree," he said politely, "but I can learn from it."

  "So what about Alex?"

  "What about him?"

  "If you get custody of him, how will he fit in?"

  "He'll fit in fine." Peter's eyes filled with certainty. "We'll move into Willow House. It has a big garden Alex can play in, and a stone wall surrounding the property. He'll be safe."

  Perspiration erupted across Jann's brow, and a film glazed her eyes, as never-ending stone walls marched through her brain like soldiers. Walls with no gates. Walls holding her hostage. No matter how much she had wanted to leave, the walls hadn't let her, the courts hadn't let her, either, though no one really cared she was there. Especially not Matron with her starched white dress and unsmiling eyes.

  "I've already spoken to Claire's old nanny," Peter continued. "She's agreed to come back and help care for Alex as she did Claire. She's looking forward to it."

  Jann's breathing seemed to cease. She couldn't let this happen. Not to Alex. She couldn't let him go to Willow House with its walls and its nanny.

  "What's the matter?" Peter demanded. Reaching forward, he touched her gently on the shoulder, bringing her back to her boat and the clear night sky. "You're shaking."

  "I'm fine." She had asked him about his parents but she could never tell him about hers, about them dying, or about the orphanage. Not now. Not ever. He would only find some way to use it to his own advantage.

  "Why didn't you finish your education in Boston?" she asked instead, steering the talk away from Alex and the sort of life he would lead with Peter as his father. Her question sounded ridiculous, like meaningless chitchat at a cocktail party, but she had no choice.

  Peter's eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, he simply looked at her.

  Jann's gaze wavered, and she tucked her hands in the sleeves of her sweater so he wouldn't see them tremble. He must know she was hiding something, that her change of topic had been deliberate.

&
nbsp; "Why Cambridge?" she added, desperate to fill the silence.

  "My father wanted me to go there," he responded, at last, but he still watched her, reduced her to immobility.

  A steady pain pounded her temple.

  "He felt the contacts I made in England would be useful for business." Unexpectedly, Peter grinned. "He was right. Better than that, I enjoyed myself. Made some close friends. Felt at home."

  "And after you graduated?" She could barely wrap her tongue around her words, but the questions were coming easier now. It stunned her how much she cared, how much she wanted to know more about him.

  "I came back to the States to take my father's place in the company." His lips twisted. "My uncle wasn't keen on that idea."

  "Did he have a choice?"

  "Not really." Determination marked his face. The same determination his uncle must have seen. "But I did, and I decided I didn't want the job." He drew in a deep breath. "So I left."

  "You make it sound so simple."

  "Sometimes things are simpler than they look. I felt as though nothing more could touch me, as though I'd been through the wars and come out alive. I was invincible, superhuman."

  "I've never felt like that," she whispered. "It must be wonderful."

  He leaned towards her then as though he meant to kiss her, and she leaned forward, too, pulled to him despite her fears.

  "So you went traveling?" she asked, forcing herself to back away, trying not to watch his lips and dream of them on hers.

  "Not right away," he answered slowly. "I had to decide what I wanted to do about my father's business first. In the end I sold my share to my uncle. Claire sold hers, too, when she came of age." His expression hardened. "She didn't get much use out of her money."

  "And you?" She didn't want to speak of Claire. Not tonight.

  "I traveled." His expression brightened. "I saw things, incredible things—people, cultures..." He paused again. "...and most especially, the things they create to make their lives endurable."

  His hand swept the air. "Strickland's Import—Export Ltd. was born," he said, grinning. "I made a hell of a profit."

  "You can pretend it was for the profit," she said softly, "but you're not fooling anyone."

  "Aren't I?" he asked.

  "No," she said, meaning it. She had seen what was in his eyes, heard what was in his voice. He had respected the people he met, admired them. Warmth stole over her, a dangerous sort of warmth. Abruptly, she stood.

  "I'm going to bed," she said. "Wake me at midnight."

  * * *

  Jann pulled the cotton quilt higher and tried to sink into her mattress, but was unable to fall back to sleep. It was too bright somehow, long past the time to get up. Why hadn't Alex wakened her?

  Alex! Her eyes snapped open. Then realization set in and she relaxed back into the warm grove her body had made against her sheets. Alex was with Ruby and John, and she was here—with Peter Strickland, which was why she had barely slept.

  She had tossed and turned in her bed until midnight, until it had actually been a relief to go back on deck for her watch. At least then she hadn't had to pretend to herself she was sleeping. But it had been equally impossible to sleep when her watch was over. Just knowing Peter was on the deck above her disturbed her somehow.

  With a sigh, she pressed her eyes shut, attempting for what seemed the hundredth time to relax her muscles enough to sleep. She breathed in long, slow breaths. Peter had been different last night—slowly, breathe slowly—more open, somehow. She mustn't move. If she kept shifting around, she would never drop off.

  She must have slept, for suddenly, she was as certain Peter was in the cabin with her as she was that losing Alex would mean her end. Her limp limbs reformed rigidly while slowly... ever so slowly, she opened her eyes.

  Peter stood propped against her door, his shock of black hair disheveled from the night wind. Rising onto one elbow, Jann shook her own hair back from her face.

  "You awake?" he asked softly.

  "Yes," she replied dazedly, her brain fuddled with fatigue. "What time is it?"

  "Eight o'clock."

  "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Not long." He smiled slowly, a buccaneer with his black woolen sweater and early morning stubble.

  He had been watching her sleep! Her cheeks flared hot. "Don't worry." He grinned cheekily. "You didn't talk in your sleep or snore."

  Glaring at him, she pulled the blanket higher. "Why aren't you at the wheel?"

  "I left it on self-steering for a few minutes." He gazed around her cabin, his scrutiny catching everything. He even glanced at the framed picture she kept on the shelf next to her bunk.

  "Your parents?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered stiffly. The picture had been taken a few months before they died.

  Peter was looking at her, an unspoken question in his eyes. But after last night, she couldn't talk of her parents to Peter. Knowledge was power and he had enough of that already.

  "What are you doing in here?" she demanded. Her cabin felt too small, her bunk too big.

  "You asked me to wake you. Remember?" He picked up a miniature vial of perfumed oil from her dresser, pulled out the stopper, and sniffed appreciatively. "It's been a pleasure," he added, bestowing on her another grin.

  "Well, I'm awake now," she muttered, more heat spreading from her neck to her face.

  "I can see that."

  "So go. I need to get dressed."

  He re-stopped the essence and put it back on her dresser. "Pretty," he said, almost to himself, almost as though he meant her, not the oil. "Take your time," he added, giving her one last inscrutable glance before turning and striding out the door.

  Jann hurriedly pushed back her quilt and struggled to her feet. She tugged on her shorts and a clean tee shirt and headed toward the main cabin. Putting the kettle on to boil, she pulled two mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the galley's narrow counter. Then, sinking onto the settee, she balefully eyed the mugs.

  Still two nights left. The worst of it was that at times during the previous night, she'd actually liked Peter Strickland, more than liked if she was honest.

  She shook her head, hoping the movement would wipe those fancies from her mind. She couldn't afford to like Peter. It was too dangerous already that she was taking the risk with Alex.

  Besides which, when Peter talked about his mother, he made it perfectly clear that he thought Jann was just like her, a woman who played at being a mother, but when things got inconvenient would throw in the towel.

  It hurt that he thought that, but she couldn't let herself be hurt. To ensure custody of Alex, she had to remain on guard, couldn't let the man who wanted her baby get under her skin. Peter Strickland was capable of anything if it got him what he wanted. By the cold, clear light of morning, that much was clear.

  Her fingers curled into a fist. She had to continue to see things clearly, to keep strictly business her relationship with Peter Strickland, to put a halt to this unfortunate habit they'd fallen into of discussing their personal lives. She couldn't need, couldn't want to know what he'd been doing for the past ten years.

  Filled with new resolve, she moved back into the galley where she swiftly made toast and fried two eggs. She shuddered at the sight of them lying on the plate, and reached into the wire basket hanging from the ceiling. Extracting an orange, she popped it into her shorts' pocket, then loading everything else onto a tray she carried it up on deck.

  "Come and get it," she said briskly. "I'll steer."

  "Aren't you eating?"

  "Of course." She pulled out her orange and peeled it, then moved to take his place at the wheel. "Now eat. We've got a big day ahead of us."

  "Which is why you need more for breakfast than an orange." He eyed her critically. "It looks like I'll have to take you in hand."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Tomorrow morning..."

  She held her breath.

  "...I'll make you my world f
amous whole wheat banana pancakes."

  Her breath escaped in a whoosh.

  "Guaranteed to make even the staunchest health nut whimper for more."

  "We'll see about that," she said, a smile tickling her lips.

  * * *

  "There! Do you see it?" Jann shouted.

  Peter came up behind her, his body separated from hers by only a hand's width. She could still feel his heat. Goose bumps rose on her arms then skittered across her shoulders.

  "There," she said again, pointing, fighting an inexplicable urge to lean back against him. "On the horizon."

  "How do you know it's one of the racers?"

  "I just do!" she exclaimed, excitement claiming her.

  "Women's intuition?"

  "If you like." She glanced around at him, his green eyes disconcertingly close. "It seldom fails me," she added, smiling.

  "Run with it then." He smiled back at her and leaned closer. "Just remember to listen carefully when it tells you things your head can't accept."

  "Such as?"

  His smile broadened to a grin. "You figure it out."

  "I need to set up my cameras," she said briskly, trying to shake off the tentacles of warmth overtaking her. "Can you maneuver us into position?"

  "I'll be ready when you are." He moved to trim the sails then glanced back at her, his eyes serious. "They'll be good, you know—your pictures, I mean."

  His enthusiasm was catching. Suddenly anything seemed possible, which was how life should be. A job she loved, sunshine all around, and the right person with whom to share it.

  Her skin rippled with new shivers. It was happening again. Peter Strickland was casting a spell and reeling her in. She had to resist, had to focus on her photography, nothing else. If she could capture this race, the thrill and disappointment of it, then she'd really have something to sell! Then she could provide for Alex without touching his trust fund.

  Peering toward the horizon, she saw not one boat, but two. Adrenaline whistled through her, as exhilarating as a stiff breeze on a hot day. She had prayed for a tight finish but hadn't believed it would really happen.

  The boats were so close it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. Like prehistoric mating birds, their sails dipped and bobbed in unison.