He hunkered down in front of her. “I want to show you how we can dance, but you have to trust me.”
Poppy did trust him. But she was frightened.
Before she could say so, he slipped his hands under her and lifted her. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said, but they were already there, gone up naturally, only in part to fight the fear. Holding her against him, he began to sway to the music, but it wasn’t just any old swaying. His upper body moved in soothing ways, rhythmic ways, ways that she could feel, and he kept going, moving gently around the room while his upper body conveyed the beat.
“Relax,” he whispered after the first turn, and how could Poppy not? Yes, she was frightened. She was frightened of failing. She loved the music, loved the beat, loved the confident way Griffin held her—and she loved to dance. The accident hadn’t killed that urge. She often sat in her chair, swaying to the music. But she hadn’t tried it again with a man.
A few more bars, though, and, ever so easily, it happened. Her upper spine loosened, and her arms circled his neck more out of volition than need. She let her body feel the beat, let it slide through her shoulders and her chest. Dropping her cheek to his shoulder, she moved with him, and that, too, was so very easy. Their bodies were totally in sync.
Poppy was just getting started when the song ended. “Replay it,” she ordered giddily and did the button pressing herself when he danced them to the machine. This time, she was into the song from start to finish, raising her head at the end, meeting his eyes, smiling in delight.
He kissed that smile and took her breath away, right along with the fear that she couldn’t do it, that it wouldn’t work, that something would go wrong and spoil the dream. She was feeling dizzy when he drew back.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered and, sliding her hands into his hair, she returned his kiss. Nothing went wrong this time either, not the mating of lips or tongue or breath—until his arms began to shake. She didn’t protest when he lowered her to the sofa and kissed her there, or when he lowered his mouth to her throat, or when he cupped her breasts with his hands. Her moan had nothing to do with protest.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered.
“Oh yeah,” she whispered back.
“Is it good?”
“Very.” She felt incredibly alive. After being twelve years without, shewas stunned. The sensation was stronger than she had imagined. Perhaps she had forgotten. Perhaps memory had been replaced by a new reality. Perhaps, like Victoria hearing more without sight, her breasts had become more sensitive to make up for a numbness below. The thing was, below didn’t feel numb. Oh, it wasn’t the same as she remembered. But it felt incredibly full.
She was thinking that the fullness was special and that she wanted to see where it led, when Griffin drew back. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead damp, his eyes the deepest blue she’d ever seen. She started to laugh.
Those eyes went wide. “This is not a laughing matter.”
She cupped his cheek and ran her thumb over the barest shadow of the bruise he had gotten his first day in town. He was totally dear. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you warned me back in October. You said your eyes were dark blue during sex. I mean, this isn’t sex, not really, not in that sense, but they are.”
“Why isn’t this sex?” he asked.
“Because it isn’t—you know”—she gestured down their bodies—“it isn’t—you know—the whole thing and all.”
Griffin drew in a long and slightly uneven breath. Letting a bit of it out, he said, “That is through no lack of desire on my part.”
“I can’t feel that,” she whispered in reminder.
He reached for her hand and would have shown her, if she hadn’t pulled it back. She didn’t want to feel it wither, didn’t want to know when his interest died.
Hitching himself up on his elbows, he said in the lowest, gentlest, most sensual voice, “Then you’ll have to take my word for it, Poppy. But I want you to take my word on something else. If you don’t want to do this now, I’m fine without. I won’t push you beyond what you want to give. This is too important.”
Absurdly, she felt tears in her eyes.
“Is that okay?” he asked.
Unable to speak, she nodded.
“There’s a price, though,” he said. “I know about Thursdays at Charlie’s Back Room. I want to go. Be my date?”
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie’s Back Room had been a Lake Henry tradition for more years than anyone but the oldest of the old-timers could count. After taking it over from Charlie Senior, who had taken it over from his dad, Charlie Joe, the current Charlie had changed only what his wife, Annette, absolutely insisted upon, namely café tables and chairs to replace rows of benches, and a new sound system. Other than a shoring up, the small, raised stage hadn’t changed, nor had the potbelly stove that exuded a welcome warmth in the cold. The place still smelled of old barn board, now mixed with the aroma of coffee in every modern form. Best of all, in Poppy’s opinion, was the wafting scent of chocolate chip cookies baked from Charlie’s grandmother’s recipe and served warm from the oven.Whereas Saturday nights in the Back Room meant listening to established groups, Thursday nights were for novel ones. Tonight’s opener was a boy from the North Woods who played acoustic guitar, but the evening’s headliner was a string quartet of fifty-something players who did the Beatles on violin, viola, cello, and bass.
Poppy loved the Beatles. Apparently Griffin did, too. For every opening line she quoted as they drove there, he had the name of the song. So she used that excuse in explaining his presence with her that night.
“He’s a die-hard Beatles fan,” she told everyone they met as they made their way into the Back Room. “He’s been helping Micah all week. I figured we owe him this.”
Poppy figured she owed him more than thanks for helping Micah. She owed him for bringing her Victoria, whom she adored, and for cookingoven-baked French toast, which had been salivatingly good. She owed him for respecting her need for caution when it came to romantic issues. On that score, conversely, she owed him for dancing with her. In doing that, he had given her one of the best times she’d had since the accident.
She also owed him for Heather. The whole town did, she decided with no sarcasm at all. If Griffin hadn’t been the one to remark on the similarity between Heather and Lisa, someone else would have done it. But Poppy doubted that anyone else would be as compassionate and involved in the aftermath as Griffin was. She doubted anyone would have called in the resources he had. Yes, the town owed him thanks for that.
But old habits died hard. Though Poppy’s bringing Griffin to the Back Room was a stamp of approval, the fact remained that he had been in town little more than a week. Poppy found that astounding, given how close she felt to him, but the rest of the town didn’t see him as much as she did. Yes, he had survived a trial by fire on Little Bear. But he was still an outsider to them.
That said, he played them well. If he was itching to go with his natural inclination and ask questions, he showed restraint. He remained at Poppy’s side, quiet and amiable, letting her make the introductions, ask the questions, take the lead in conversation. After a bit, she actually felt he was being excluded, and began directing the conversation his way.
It was an easy transition, because the talk turned to sugaring. Since Micah wasn’t there, and since Griffin had worked with Micah, he was a natural to fill in. He gave a status report on the tubing, an update on the washing, even an endorsement of the new labels. He said that Micah could use help in the sugarbush—and Poppy hoped that the invitation would bring offers. But there were only sad smiles and sympathetic nods. Micah had offended one too many of the townsfolk.
The crowd quieted when the boy from the North Woods began to play, but his repertoire was limited. Within fifteen minutes, he was done and the talk resumed. Griffin seemed comfortable—increasingly so, Poppy realized. He was the kind who could find something to talk about with anyone who approached. With C
assie’s husband, Mark, it was Princeton, from which it turned out they had both graduated. With Charlie it wasLittle Bear, now that Griffin had a few stories to add to the Owens’ collection. With John, it was mutual friends in Boston.
On Poppy’s side, there was inevitable speculation. Cassie began by scolding her in a whisper, “You didn’t tell me you were coming with him.”
“I didn’t know,” Poppy whispered back. “It was a last-minute thing. He loves the Beatles.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cassie teased. “But I’m glad he’s here. The Heather situation is up in the air. I was worried there’d be nothing but talk of that, and I’m feeling on the hot seat.”
“You’re doing your best.”
“My best isn’t getting us far. Your being here with your guy gives them something to talk about besides that.”
“He’s not my guy.”
Cassie smiled a bit smugly. “Well, you look really pretty anyway. I like your hair. Is it longer?”
“Two days’ worth, since I last saw you,” Poppy replied with an eloquent stare.
She couldn’t joke as easily with Annette, who pulled up a chair as soon as Charlie and Griffin started talking. “He’s adorable, Poppy. Charlie wants to be cautious, but look at him, he’s failing dismally. There’s something about Griffin that he likes. I’m glad he’s here. And he’s truly gone over you.”
Poppy had to deny it for the record alone. Though Annette had neither a mean nor an irresponsible bone in her body, she was a fulcrum for town talk. Anything she said aloud made the rounds, regardless of how lightly it was spoken.
“He is not ‘gone’ over me,” Poppy corrected, “and even if he was, I am not ‘gone’ over him.”
“He’s certainly persistent enough. You gave him the boot in October, but he’s back, game for the chase.” She studied Griffin. “A guy who looks like that must have lots of women to choose from.”
“Yup,” Poppy said matter-of-factly. “Satisfying him in ways that I can’t.” The words dared Annette to probe into the sexuality of a paraplegic, which, being old-world in that sense, Annette would not do.
Lily—with the brashness, perhaps love of a sister—wasn’t as prudent.When Griffin and John began to talk, she pulled a chair close. “You’re wearing mascara. What does that mean?”
Poppy laughed. It was an easy diversionary tactic. “Mom said that when I turned sixteen—those exact same words. Remember, when I was going out with that guy who was the head of the Dartmouth ski team?”
“Oh, I do. I was already away at school, but I heard about him— and about one infamous pot-smoking night. So it was experimentation then. You were playing at being grown-up and in charge. What is it now?”
“Wait a second,” Poppy chided. “Look at you. You’re wearing mascara—and lipstick—and blusher.”
“No blusher,” Lily said, though Poppy could have sworn she was. Lily had always been the beauty of the family, but she positively glowed now. “Mascara and lipstick,” she specified, “and I do it to look extra nice for John. What’s your excuse?”
“Survival,” Poppy declared, albeit as quietly as the rest of their talk. “I need a pick-me-up. It’s been a bad week, worrying about Heather. But if you’re thinking I did it for Griffin, think again. He’s a friend, Lily. That’s all.”
“Too bad. I like him.”
“I do, too. That’s what being friends is about.”
“I’m sorry it isn’t more. It should be, with a guy like that. You should be thinking indecent things.”
Poppy was, but she couldn’t get herself to say so. She didn’t know if the relationship would go anywhere, didn’t know if she wanted it to. At sixteen, eighteen, or twenty, she had lived for the moment. She couldn’t do that now, not at thirty-two. In many respects, she was no different from other women her age who couldn’t bear to get their hopes up that Prince Charming had arrived. Except, Poppy was different. She had a major handicap. That raised the stakes.
“Friends don’t think indecent things about each other,” she told Lily.
“Well, you should. He’s perfect for you.”
“Not. He’s Ivy League. He’s media. He’s rich, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, Poppy,” Lily scolded under her breath, “so are we.”
“Not like he is. He’s city. He’s society. Can you see me ironing my pretty white linen napkins and tying them up with my sweet little berryrings that match my adorable little centerpieces on each of eight lovely rented tables for the sixth annual New Year’s Day dinner at my very vertical and wholly unmanageable townhouse in the wealthiest section of Philly?”
“Griffin doesn’t live in Philly.”
“New Jersey’s close, but you get my point. The fact is, I’m perfect for me,” Poppy insisted. She was starting to feel peeved. “I knew there’d be talk if I came here with him. Why does everyone think I need someone? Am I not functioning well enough alone?”
“You’re functioning very well,” Lily said in a way that, given Poppy’s current mood, would have been patronizing coming from anyone else. But Lily was sensitive. She knew what it was to have a handicap. Granted, the stutter seemed to have gone the way of her single status, but that was on the outside. Lily did have moments of lingering insecurity. They were close enough as sisters for Poppy to know that.
This was not one of those moments, though. Lily leaned closer, sounding as sure of herself as she’d ever been before. “I’ve been watching the two of you since you got here. You may think he’s totally absorbed, talking with John or Charlie or Mark, but he keeps looking back at you, like you’re his center . . . his anchor. He wants to be near you, Poppy.”
“Well, of course he does. I’m his entrée here. I’m his protection.”
Lily shook her head with slow conviction. “That’s not what I see.” “Well, it’s what I see,” Poppy insisted and, on the verge of a snit, glanced around. “Is there a reason why everyone is harping on this?”
Lily smiled. “I can’t speak for other people.”
“Then speak for yourself. Tell me something that doesn’t have to do with Griffin.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Poppy caught in a breath.
Incredibly, so did Lily. Her eyes were suddenly open wide, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just said. She seemed totally, comically shocked.
“Close your mouth,” Poppy chided in a whisper, and, grinning, gave her a hug. “What incredible news!”
“No one else knows,” Lily said against her ear, “I mean, other than John. I’m barely six weeks along. I wasn’t going to tell you yet.”
Poppy held her back. “I am so happy for you.”
Lily’s eyes held worry. “Are you? I wasn’t sure.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Because I can’t have kids myself? I can, Lily. I just choose not to.”
“Okay, then. But I’ve had so many good things come my way in the last few months. I feel guilty sometimes.”
“Oh, Lily, you deserve it all,” Poppy said, meaning every word. “You’ve suffered through ugly times. It’s your turn.”
“And you?” Lily asked ever so gently. “When’s yours?”
* * *
“Excuse me?”Griffin looked around as a woman emerged from the shadows. He was in a corner of the general store, which was closed now, and quiet in contrast to the Back Room. He had to come here to call in his flight arrangements. Aidan Greene was refusing to talk. Griffin wanted to have a go at him himself.
Now he smiled and put out his hand. “I’m Griffin. And you’re Camille.”
Camille Savidge was an attractive woman in her fifties, with chocolate-colored eyes, fair skin that remained dewy and smooth, and a head of gray hair that should have made her look older, but was so thick, long, and shiny with waves that it did not. She dressed simply—slacks, a blouse, a shawl—and in muted colors, but there was an elegance to her that set her apart, something in the dignified way she held herself, the measured way she spoke, the fact that she w
as a loner and preferred the background to center stage. In her own quiet way, as bookkeeper, accountant, and computer person, she was involved in the lives of half of Lake Henry.
That was what Charlie had told Griffin several mornings before, when Camille had whisked past them emerging from the office, heading down an aisle filled with cheeses, dips, and other appetizer-type goodies, and out the front door. Tonight was the first time Griffin and she had formally met.
“Do you have a minute?” Camille asked him.
Distant chatter came from the Back Room. Griffin had a few minutes yet. “Of course.”
“It’s about Heather. I know that Cassie is donating her time, and they say that you’re not charging either, but Micah is strapped. I have a kitty. If you need something, please let me know.”
Griffin wouldn’t accept her offer, but he was touched. “That’s very generous.”
“I’ve always liked Heather.”
“You already do a lot for Micah. He said you were going to work there tonight.”
“I did. We were checking the inventory—labels, bottles, jugs, and such—and trying to prioritize the bills, but he kept zoning out.”
“Oh, I’ve seen him do that,” Griffin confirmed, “not in the bush—he’s all business out there—but when we’re taking breaks for coffee or lunch. He’s worried about Heather.”
“And exhausted. I don’t think he sleeps.” She grew hesitant. “Does Heather have a chance of beating this?”
“I’ll know more in a few days. I’m heading out tomorrow morning. There may be someone with new information.”
Camille seemed to want to ask more. After several seconds, though, she simply pressed her lips together and nodded.
Griffin, of course, was curious about Camille’s involvement. “Did you know Micah’s family?”
She raised both brows and smiled. “Oh yes. They were good people.”
An Accidental Woman Page 25
