What the Waves Bring

by Barbara Delinsky

  Raking tapered fingers through the dampness of her chestnut hair, she chided herself at the irrelevancy of her thoughts. No time to get romantic, April Wilde, she told herself sternly, then pivoted toward the kitchen for a pot of steaming soup.

  To her chagrin, however, her patient was unable to take a drop when, a few minutes later, she returned and tried to spoon-feed the hot liquid through his firmly shut lips. Commanding as he may have been in other times, exhaustion was clearly his master now. There seemed nothing for her to do but let him rest.

  Gingerly, she placed his dark head back on the pillow, only then noting that the blankets had fallen to midchest, where a fine coat of salt crusted the light furring of dark hair. The breadth of his shoulders startled her, drawing her fingertips inexorably downward. Palm resting on his heart, she reveled in the strength of its beat, and the muscled wall surrounding it. For a water-logged sea rat, she mused, with her first semblance of a smile since spotting his bobbing head several hours before, he was quite a figure of a man! If only there were something she could do to make him more comfortable … .

  On impulse, she headed for the bath, returning with a small basin of warm water which she placed on the stand by the bed. Her hand reached for the blankets before she stopped it midair. What was she doing? Was she really about to bathe a total stranger? Wasn’t it enough that he was dry and warm? Did she have the right to go further? Just who was this man? Where had he come from? What sort of accident had cast him upon her shore?

  The persistent howling of the wind and stubborn belligerency of the rain was sufficient answer for the last, yet the others remained an enigma. And she was no Florence Nightingale, she reminded herself with a start. Yet, seemingly of their own will, her fingers were once again at the edge of the blanket. Did she dare? Should she? After all a man’s body was not foreign to her. She grimaced, conjuring up images of the classic perfection of one Shane Michaels. And hadn’t she stripped this man of every stitch of his clothing before safely tucking him into her bed? Her eye strayed to the wet garments strewn about the floor atop ever-widening puddles. They should be washed and dried, she mused—but later. Her gaze settled on the taut features of this nameless mariner, lost now in his internal battle for survival. Anything, anything, she might do would be better than nothing. Determination behind her, she began.

  Squeezing the excess of warm water from her cloth, she lowered the blanket and bathed him gently, coaxing the last remnants of sea salt from his body in soft, steady strokes. The wide span of his chest, rising and falling in thankfully even rhythm, tapered beneath her hands to a narrow waist. His arms were long and well-corded, the grace of lean hands and fingers marred only by vivid red welts on his palms, which untold hours of clutching to life adrift in the tempest had bestowed. Perhaps he was a pianist, she mused, wrapping the cloth around each of his fingers separately. There were no seasoned calluses such as a laborer might bear, yet every digit held a fine-tuned, if latent, strength.

  Carefully, she towel-dried him, mindful that some injury may have been hidden from her scrutiny—a scrutiny that saw little but raw masculinity in every pore. Satisfied with her progress, she paused, riddled anew with unsureness. But he was in her bed and he should be clean as well as comfortable, she reasoned. The shudder that shook the house in the crunch of the hurricane winds echoed in her chest as she draped his upper body to retain its heat and, with only a moment’s additional hesitation, lowered the blanket farther. Catching her breath, she nearly rethought her plan. For if his maleness was evident from the waist up, what lay in her sight below was even more so. In her haste to undress him earlier, there had been no time for speculation. Now, as she bathed him slowly, there was no doubt as to his virility. The blush that warmed her cheeks was steadfastly ignored, though she spared a quick glance to assure herself that her patient was oblivious of her exploration. Then, with a prod of diligence, she proceeded with her task, washing and drying his flat abdomen, his lean hips, and seemingly endless stretch of hair-roughened legs. His skin was mercifully warm to the touch; the shivering had subsided momentarily. And again, there were no visible bruises.

  Her eye noted the tan lines of summer—more vivid where a bathing suit had been, less marked though still apparent at ankle, thigh, and upper arm. A tennis player, her wayward thoughts suggested, as she drew the blanket back over his length. Perhaps he was a tennis player; that might account for the prime condition of his body. After all, muscles did not develop from disuse, nor was one born with them—Popeye and Swee’pea notwithstanding. And he swam—perhaps a long-distance swimmer? Or was he simply a worshipper of the sun?

  Deep in thought, she sat by his side, studying the silent features, wondering at his origin. Not a pianist, she concluded, in light of the tan that, with the lessening of the surf-splotched pallor, came increasingly to the fore. Yes, an athlete—but by profession? Her eye traced the outline of his hair, now full and vibrant. It was too long for the military, too short for the art world. And the tan—its very specific markings would be foreign to either. Perhaps he was a business tycoon, a corporate wizard, even a politician; any of these could most possibly acquire such a tan. What would she find when he finally awoke from his life-renewing sleep? There was nothing to do but wait and see.

  A sigh of resignation slipped through her lips as she gathered together the cloth, towels, and basin, and returned them to the bath. Back in the bedroom, she collected the sodden clothing that had been discarded haphazardly on the floor, loaded it into the small washing machine in the mud room off the kitchen, and wandered back into the living room to sit out the storm. With the trusty transistor propped on her lap, she rested against the cushions of the ancient sofa and closed her eyes, mindful with poignant force of the toll this unexpected rescue mission had taken on her.

  Weary fingers fumbled at the dial of the radio, finding frequency after frequency of static until one weak signal finally came through. “The storm … centered … south of Nantucket … of noon,” the broken voice informed her. “It appears … stalled in … area, lashing … last strength against the Cape … offshore islands.”

  Hmph! she grimaced. You needn’t tell me that! Her eyes shot open as a gust of wind seemed to penetrate the sturdy rafters of the house she had thought to be so secure at the time of its purchase last summer. Slowly, her eye perused the decor she had inherited with the sale, taking in early American furniture, a myriad of crammed bookshelves, regional artwork, scattered rugs. As the lights flickered for an instant, she wondered where kerosine lamps might have been stored by the previous owner. Praying that they would not be needed, she nonetheless searched the kitchen pantry and the dank basement, finally emerging with two vintage lamps and a tin of kerosine. Filling the lamps as a precaution, she placed them on the low wood table in the center of the room before peeking in on her visitor.

  He hadn’t moved since she’d left him and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Reassured, she returned to her perch in the living room. If they could only see me now. She laughed at the irony. From the lap of luxury to the edge of the world, in one fateful move—yet she felt not one ounce of regret. The move was one she had chosen herself. The jet set, into which she had been born, held no lure to her; the fast crowd of New York, which she had left with such firm resolve, offered no greater attraction. She had deliberately chosen this spot, ’Sconset, on the far end of Nantucket, for its inaccessibility. Wasn’t that what it had been touted for? Wasn’t that what the wealthy exiles from the seaboard cities had sought when they had fled here summer after summer? Now she was a year-round resident of this small community—on a trial basis, of course. Her avenues were all very open. If she could continue her work from this isolated spot, aided by her Apple and several understanding colleagues in New York, she would stay. She loved it so far—despite the whims of the elements!

  A stirring from the bedroom brought her quickly to her feet, stockinged now in the thick wool legacy of her skiing days. Padding across the polished oak floor, she entered th
e bedroom to find that her mysterious stranger had thrown back the covers and was enveloped in a sweat totally out of sync with the chill of hurricane winds that enveloped the house.

  “What have you done?” she scolded him softly, racing to the bed and retrieving the blankets, lowering the heat of the electric one before replacing them. Her hand felt his forehead, dotted now with moisture. “And you’re running a fever. Terrific!” Her sarcasm was lost on the patient, who, in his dazed state of sleep, was oblivious to her concern. “Aspirin. Two aspirin tablets.” Instantly, she ferretted the pills from the bathroom medicine chest, grabbed a glass of water, then pondered the best way to get the medicine down. Lifting the heavy head was the least of her worries; coaxing the pills home was the worst.

  “Come on, whoever you are. Open up. This will curb that fever.” She wedged one arm behind his neck to prop up his head and forced the tablets between his lips, chasing them quickly with water. When he tried to turn his face away she held it fast, pleased that there was no sign of either pill.

  “There! That’s my good fellow!” Her soft voice crooned her praise as she eased his dark head down. “Now you can go back to sleep.” But he already had, his senses dead to the world once more.

  How long she sat, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, pulling the covers over him as he shifted and displaced them, she didn’t know. In the midst of Ivan the Terrible’s fury, time lost all meaning. When he was calmer and cooler she left him, but only to retrieve her transistor.

  “Extensive flooding … reported … Connecticut shore.” The crackle came through in broken phrases.

  “You don’t say,” she mumbled caustically, nestling into the rattan chair from which she could monitor her patient’s condition as well.

  But the voice had more good news to report. “Hundreds of telephone lines … knocked down …”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” she whispered in facetious challenge, which, to her horror, the faceless announcer promptly seized upon.

  “ … and tens of thousands … left without electricity …”

  “Uh-oh,” she moaned, her fearful eyes skittering to the pale shaft of light that filtered in from the living room. “Spare me that. Anything … but that!”

  The crackle went on blithely. “Damage estimates from … storm … worst in thirty years … put in multimillions … wind and rain rage on. Trees … uprooted, windows shattered … roofs have caved in …”

  Every muscle in April’s body tensed. “I take that back,” she countered contritely, her husky voice faltering. “I’ll do without lights for a while, if this old house will just stay in one piece.” Her eye ranged over the ceiling and walls, built over a century before to withstand the ire of the Atlantic. As though to second her plea, the house groaned in loud torment as it fought the force of the hurricane, then was still … but intact. The breath she’d been holding was slowly expelled. “Thank you,” she whispered in heavenly appreciation, before turning her attention to the bed. How nice to sleep through this, she mused, then caught herself at the realization of all else this man had not slept through. Once again, the jumble of questions assaulted her; once again, she came up empty-handed.

  She pushed herself from the chair with a sigh, only to fall back again when the light in the doorway flickered and died. Even white teeth punished her lower lip as she held her breath, awaiting return of the current—but to no avail. The phone was dead … and now the lights! Though it was mid-afternoon, darkness hovered about the house. For long moments she put off lighting the lamp, bent on preserving her supply of kerosine. Finally realizing that, for the sake of her sanity alone, light was imperative, she wandered into the living room, struck a match and found herself in a room newly golden and atmospherically warm. Warm—for the time being, she reminded herself, aware that the furnace depended on electricity to function. Ah well, she mused, eyeing the fireplace wistfully, there was always that cord of wood stacked neatly in the basement. And after all, she reasoned, it was really not that cold outside, being barely the start of October. Only the wind, with its continuous wail, and the rain, clattering mercilessly against the panes, implied a harsher season.

  Pacing the floor, she began an analytical review of her situation. Here she was, several miles from the nearest outpost of humanity, and given the damage of the storm, a good day or two from help. She had neither lights nor a telephone; her Apple was hopelessly, albeit temporarily, crippled. And there was the small matter of the stranger in her bed, felled by exposure and exhaustion and Lord knew what else, perhaps in need of medical attention. What was she to do, given the impracticality of panic?

  Memories of a letter that had arrived the day before entered her mind. It was to be the subject of her next column. Crossing the room to her rolltop desk, she fished into the large manila mailing envelope sent by the newspaper office, withdrew the item she sought, then sank down on the sofa beneath the glow of the kerosine lamp.

  “Dear Dr. Wilde,” she read silently. “Can you help me? I have a family of three squalling children and a husband, a rabbit, two dogs, and a house. Lately, everything has gone wrong. The children scream constantly at one another, my husband screams at me, I scream at them all—about everything from food to clothes to television shows. To top it off, every machine in this house has managed to break down within the past two months. I go to bed every night with a headache. Is there any peace to be found for me?” It was signed simply “Hartsdale’s Harrowed Housewife.”

  Settling more deeply into the sofa, April contemplated the letter for several moments before rereading her own answer, typed and clipped to the letter, awaiting transmission via computer. “Dear Hartsdale’s Harrowed Housewife.” She scanned the page quickly. “What you need is a cram course in positive thinking. Look to the bright side of life. Do you love your children? Are they innately rewarding? Sensitive? Companionable? Do you love your husband? Is he honest? Faithful? A conscientious provider? And the house—does it keep you warm? Dry? Protected and private?” Skipping over a greater elaboration on the theme, her eye came to rest on the final sentences. “Hard as it may be at times, you must seek out the positive aspects of your life. In these, you will find your peace. Remember, think up!”

  Think up. The words echoed in her mind as April replaced the letter in its envelope, the envelope on her desk. Think up. That, Dr. Wilde, is precisely what you must do right now! Wasn’t it her own personal credo, one that appeared repeatedly, in one form or another, in her column? Wasn’t it the backbone of her therapeutic approach?

  Looking around, she evaluated her assets. There was the house, standing valiantly against the ravage of Hurricane Ivan. There was the kerosine lamp, providing what little light she needed with its pale orange glow. There was the fireplace—and wood—ready for warmth, should the need arise. There was a pantry full of edible provisions, gas to make the stove operative. And … there was that man in the other room, resting peacefully and seeming to hold his own. All in all, she was not in bad straits. And, assuming her patient did not awaken a raving lunatic or a lecherous demon, she might get him to the village before long and find herself with nothing more than painless memories of the entire adventure.

  Suppertime came and went to the unabated accompaniment of the storm’s blusterous racket—yet still no sound at all from the stranger. Evening’s torrents became midnight’s deluge. April sat tucked in the rattan chair in her room with her feet curled beneath her, eyes glued to the nameless figure asleep in her bed. Was hers but one vigil for this man? Did he have family somewhere? A wife? Children? Parents? Friends? Were they keeping their own, more painful watch for his return?

  The helplessness of the situation frustrated her anew. If only the telephone lines had not fallen, she might have called the authorities to tell of a missing person now found. Or she might have used her Apple to seek information on the man washed up on her shore. Wire services, newspapers—all would have been at her fingertips. But … the elements had conspired against her. Indeed, s
he smiled ruefully, the elements had been responsible for the very shipwreck that had thrown this man into her hands. Or had they? What had caused his accident? Only he could have the answer to that.

  And so she sat—thinking, debating, questioning, puzzling, then gradually wearing down as the needle-thin hands of her fine gold watch neared three o’clock. She finally acceded to the necessity of sleep, realizing too well that the new day which had already begun might be as trying as the last. Extinguishing the lamp in the living room, she stretched her cramped limbs on the well-worn cushions of the sofa and helplessly drifted into oblivion.

  The room was lit by broad daylight when next she moved. Though the wind had died down, the steady pelt of the rain brought the events of the past day to her consciousness. With a burst of awareness she bolted up and headed for the bedroom. She stopped abruptly on its threshold. The pillow still held the indentation of his head; the sheets were rumpled from his body. The man himself, though, was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In a flash she forgot any grogginess there might have been, as well as the hint of a cramp in muscles crunched up through the night. She headed for the kitchen and found it empty, then ducked into the spare room with similar results, finally winding up before the half-closed door of the bathroom. On impulse she lent her weight against the fast-yielding doorknob, then gasped at the sight of the lather-faced St. Nick returning her startled gaze in the mirror.

  For that moment of speechless suspension, their eyes locked and held. His were as dark as she had imagined them to be, though deep and strangely cautious. Hers were softer, warm with relief, more rounded in astonishment. Their periphery encompassed his bare chest, the towel at his hips, his hand stilled in mid-air holding a razor—her razor—and frozen in the act of shaving.