“Mmmm. My hero!” she said, mocking his drama.
“But it was you, April. Your prodding, my need to protect you, my wish to have you forever—that brought my memory back! You’re a very powerful woman!”
“I’m not quite sure if that’s a compliment.” But she glowed anyway. “Powerful women can scare off even the strongest of men.”
“Not this one! When I went back to get you in the middle of the night and found you gone—I would have easily spanked you then!”
“Tsk, tsk, you have threatened me with a spanking twice now. All talk?”
The tightening of the arms that held her gave adequate answer to her taunt. It also drove home to her the depth of his feeling, a depth that spilled out with his own terror. “I told you to stay there … to sleep! I had no idea how that drug would affect you in that darkness! When I couldn’t find you, I nearly went mad! I wasn’t sure whether you’d wandered off, or whether you’d been taken by another of them.”
“In that pitch-black night?” she asked softly, but her heart ached at his concern.
“I imagined everything!” As his intensity reached out to her, she met it halfway.
“So did I.” A retrospective shudder quaked through her, and he settled her more protectively on his lap. Needing him, she let herself sink into his being—her head against his shoulder, her back into the crook of his arm, her body turned toward his as the flower to the sun—as she recalled those harsh imaginings, the pain, the anguish, the heartache.
“I was confused,” she whispered. “I couldn’t remember things. I thought you had left me … to go to Jane. I thought …” Burying her face against the cushion of his chest, she cried softly and uncontrollably, purging herself at last of all the ghosts.
“Ahhhh, April,” he moaned gently, “I love you so much!” Holding her, rocking her, he conveyed his love in the infinite tenderness of his touch. “Don’t cry now, darlin’. I won’t ever leave you again.”
Her tears glistened at the tips of her lashes, but no brighter than the smile, carved from sheer happiness, lighting her face from within. “God, how I love you!” she breathed, then wrapped her arms convulsively about his sturdy frame.
They sat that way, arms wound around each other, uncaring of anything else in the world. It was the joy of being together and in love that would carry them through any storm, the strength of that love which would deliver them to safe haven. While the ills and worries of the world might lash fury around them, they would always, together, find the eye of the storm.
With this knowledge, April’s hope was boundless. She had found her man and her future; she was totally at peace. Or … almost …
“When are those men leaving?” she whispered hoarsely, her heart beating suddenly faster.
Heath took his hand from her back and put it lightly over her heart, feeling its throb, knowing its cause. His voice, too, was deeper, more husky than before. “They’re making a few last calls.”
“Tell them to leave?” Her brown-eyed gaze mirrored her plea.
He couldn’t have missed the urgency in her voice, particularly as it tremored through his body in turn. But her eyes—they spoke volumes. Flames flickered in their depths as in the depths of her body, her warm femininity begging for completeness. Only with him was she complete—as a person, as a woman, as a lover.
Her breath came unsteadily as he left her in the kitchen, trembling, waiting, aching for his return. The low murmur of voices filtered from the living room, an interchange whose words she missed. She did not miss, however, the subsequent opening and closing of the door, the footsteps that moved smoothly across the floor, the tall, proud man who stood at the kitchen door once more, this time with arms open to receive her. She went to him in joy and anticipation, in wild and wondrous love, offering him her all, her everything.
It was with barely bridled excitement that they walked, arm in arm, to the bedroom, neither taking his eyes from the other for a moment. In unspoken accord, each undressed himself quickly, without hesitation. It was Heath’s words that broke through the air of crisp expectancy.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to learn more about me first?” he asked innocently, tugging his shirttails from his pants and deftly working at the buttons.
“No,” she murmured, whipping off her sweater and shirt, so recently donned.
His fingers attacked the wide buckle of his belt. “There’s a lot to tell,” he tempted her. “I remember it all.” His jeans slid over the leanness of his hips at the easy urging of his strong hands.
April bent to tug at her own jeans. “Uh-uh. I love you … regardless of what you have to say.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
Was his male ego injured, just the slightest bit? Grinning, she stood straight, tossing her underwear into the growing pile of clothes. “You’ll tell me everything … later.” Her eye followed the flight of his shorts, then darted back to his body, so long and lean and breathtakingly masculine. He stood tall, all man, and ardently ready for her, a magnet to whom she was unequivocally drawn. “Right now”—she threw her arms about his neck and was lifted off her feet and placed on the bed—“I’m curious about other things.”
“Like … ?” His hands expressed their own curiosity, exploring every curve of her flesh in dire need to know her totally.
“Like …” she whispered, “ … what it feels like to hold you in me and hear you say ‘I love you.’”
With a soulful groan, Heath moved atop her, taunting her for an unbearable instant before offering her the satisfaction she so desperately craved. Over and over, he said the words, vowed them, pledged them, worshipped them … and her. April felt the electrification of him, as he filled her with a passion as timeless as the seas from which he’d come to her. Their bodies, bare and warm, were one, coming together, building together, then together at last in the ecstasy of fulfillment.
It was only after, lying together, their sweat-slickened limbs entwined in the wake of rapture, that they could touch and caress with slow appreciation. Confident now of his love and her own, April probed the secrets of Harley Evan Addison, who would always, in her heart, be Heath. She savored the feel of his flesh with its dark and manly furring of hair, his sinews and planes and pulsepoints. In turn, she indulged him his pleasure, quivering as his fingers adored her breasts and their rosy peaks, her waist, her belly, and the warm, moist core below. His hands held a magic, his lips its potion. She would always be driven wild by his touch.
Body to body, in the thrill of equality, they gave themselves to each other once more. It was a slow but fierce revel, the vow of love to last a lifetime. For they had a lifetime to share, a world of promises to keep. Later, they slept, sated and at peace. When April awoke and reached for Heath, he was gone. Alarmed, she sat up, called his name. Only as she looked back to the pillow, where the indentation of his head remained, did she see his note. Lifting it with a trembling hand, she read.
“Dear Dr. Wilde. My story is one from the heart,” he had written, his dark scrawl rich and dignified. “After years of lonely bachelorhood, I have finally fallen in love. I find I want a wife, to wear my ring, to bear my children, to be by my side through life’s long and varied parade. I offer safety and care, a home and protection, a promise of excitement and adventure … and my everlasting devotion.” April’s eyes filled with tears; brushing them away, she read on. “Above all, I offer my love, all my love. Please, April, please marry me. For my heart is yours. Without you, I am half-whole.” It was signed, with a flourish, “Your-Sadly-Smitten-Lover-from-the-Sea.”
To her amusement, as she sniffed away more tears of happiness, she noticed the smaller script, added to the bottom of the page.
“P.S. Have gone into town for caviar and champagne. Get the ice ready.” Then, in an even lighter scribble, was a final note. “P.P.S. On second thought, I’ll take care of the ice. You simply stay in bed and keep it warm for me. I love you so very much!”
Her smile brimming with joy, Apri
l lay back against his pillow, drawing the blankets over her, clutching his note to her breast. Her hair fell in soft chestnut swirls around her head, framing features that were warm and glowing. With a deep breath, she drank in his lingering scent, then closed her eyes to dream sweet dreams until her love came home.
Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book
SWEET SALT AIR
In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press
Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt-and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.
But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. "What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. "Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.
Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.
Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.
Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.
Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.
“Want some help?” she called up.
He snorted.
“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.
“Two hands’ll do.”
Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.
“I’ve done this before,” she said now.
“Uh-huh.”
“I have. I’ve built houses.”
“That so.” He didn’t believe her.
“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”
He continued to stare.
“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in
the hinges.”
“Really. I didn’t know that.”
“Okay,” she granted. "So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.
“I’m a man.”
She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, "What does that have to do with it?”
“Men run hot.”
“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”
Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, "Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.
“I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.
“No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”
“Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.
So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.
But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.
She didn’t like being toyed with-and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.
Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a tool box. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.
What the Waves Bring Page 18
