He inched closer and his hand appeared magically on her hip again. "I think it's a good choice, Marcy, but I wouldn't want you jumping to any rash conclusions. We should take our time. Study our options." His last words were a whisper in her ear.
He brushed his lips along the line of her jaw. "Damn, you're hot tonight, Marcy," he breathed. "I just can't take my eyes off you."
Marcy took a deep breath, turned to Seth, and pushed her drink into his hand. "I have to go."
"What?"
She strode off the balcony, through the living area to the door, where she grabbed her purse. She had hesitated because she didn't want to look stupid. Feel stupid. She'd spent a good portion of her adult life feeling inadequate, and she hated it. Funny thing was, standing here, she didn't feel stupid or inadequate, just thankful she'd had the nerve to put a stop to this before she did something she really didn't want to do.
"I'm sorry, Seth." She offered a quick smile. "I need to get home. It was really great of you to show me those other places. Give me a few days to think, and then I'll get back to you."
He stood in front of his pastel couch, his polo shirt matching the fabric, a martini glass in each hand. He appeared flabbergasted. Apparently the jazz from the invisible speakers and the cosmopolitans on the deck usually worked better for him than they were working tonight. "You're just leaving?"
He was obviously irritated with her. She didn't care.
"Yup. Afraid so."
He set the glasses down on a glass-topped table. "Women don't usually walk out on me like this."
Definitely irritation, bordering on anger now. She still didn't care.
"Don't worry about giving me a ride home." She grabbed the doorknob. "I have a friend around the corner. I'd been meaning to stop by and see her anyway."
Before Seth could say another word, she slipped out the door and closed it behind her. Not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, she ran down the steps, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone.
There was no friend to visit. She was going to have to call someone to get her—the question was, who? Phoebe was the logical answer, but as she stepped into the parking lot, she found herself dialing Jake's number. She waited for a break in traffic to hurry across Route One.
"Please let him be home," she whispered reaching the median strip. "Please be home."
"'Lo."
"Jake?"
"Marcy?" He hesitated. "You okay? I just got off the phone with the kids. Ben said you'd gone out with a friend."
She glanced over her shoulder to be sure Seth hadn't followed her in his car, then hurried across the northbound lane of Route One. "I... yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, but I need a big favor. Could you come get me?"
"Get you?"
She grimaced as she stepped safely onto a sidewalk. "I kind of got myself into a jam. The car's at home."
"Tell me where you are."
She crossed the street, deciding to walk another block or so north, just to get out of Seth's vicinity. She told him where to find her in Rehoboth.
"Just pick you up on the corner?" he asked. "You sure you don't want to go inside somewhere? A restaurant? A mini-mart?"
"I'll be fine." She laughed with relief. "I'll be right here waiting for you, Jake." She hung up and tucked her cell phone into her purse as she crossed another street. She slowed her pace, her sandals click-clacking hollowly on the sidewalk.
On this street there were more shadows; the street lamps weren't as close. She glanced over her shoulder suddenly. There it was. That weird feeling... like someone was watching her.
Marcy saw no one.
She hurried to the designated corner and stood under the street lamp beside a mailbox. Jake would be there in fifteen minutes, even if there was traffic.
A car passed by, rock music blasting from its stereo. It was the third week in June, and the tourists were really beginning to pour in.
She noticed a man walking his dog across the street. She couldn't see his face. He passed two teen girls walking hand in hand on the sidewalk, laughing.
Marcy studied the buildings around her. It was an older section of town. A lot of turn-of-the-century houses that had been converted into summer apartments. There were lights on in the closest house. Shadows moved behind the drapes; someone obviously was home.
Still fighting that feeling she was being watched, Marcy looked behind her again. The man with the dog had stopped, but he wasn't paying any attention to her. His dog was squatting on a patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk. Harmless.
So why was the hair standing up on the back of her neck? Why did her stomach suddenly feel so weird? Empty. The drink? She was a little light-headed. She'd only had a yogurt and one of Ben's french fries for dinner. It probably hadn't been wise of her to pour vodka on top of it.
Marcy pushed a lock of blond hair behind her ear. As she did so, she caught a reflection of her image in the window of a parked car. The woman looking back at her truly was beautiful. But it didn't feel the way she always dreamed it would. All these years she had believed her unhappiness and discontent was due to the way she looked. A notion suddenly struck her. What if that hadn't been it at all?
* * *
The Bloodsucker nonchalantly opened the back door of his car and let Max jump in. "Good boy," he murmured, trying to appear, to the casual observer, to be just another vacationer taking his dog out for an evening stroll. Maybe taking a ride to the nearest mini-mart to pick up chips and drinks for the wife and kids. He smiled at the domestic thought.
When he was in his early twenties, he had fantasized marrying, having an adoring blond wife, two adoring children. One boy, one girl, of course. They'd be blond with blue eyes, too, and they would all live in a cute little Cape Cod in a nice neighborhood. When he cut his grass on his riding lawnmower, neighbors would wave. Maybe walk over, lean on the fence, and invite the family over for a backyard barbeque.
The Bloodsucker had never attended a backyard barbeque. Never even owned a gas grill. But if he had a family, a wife, two kids, he'd have to get one, wouldn't he?
He'd made the mistake of mentioning having a family to Granny once. She said no woman in her right mind would want him. An idiot like him. A worthless, whining excuse for a man. If his mother didn't want him, what made him think any other woman would want him?
Dry, bitter old bitch.
The Bloodsucker closed the back door of the car, licking his chapped lips. As he walked around the car, he dared a glance. There she was, standing under the street lamp, the glow of the light making her hair look like it was spun gold. He didn't know what spun gold was; he'd just read about it somewhere once. But he knew it had to look just like Marcy's hair.
Taking his time, he opened the driver's side door of the car. She was so beautiful that when he gazed at her face, his stomach grew tight. The thing down there in his pants grew hard. It made him uncomfortable. Then he thought about Granny and her tight-lipped sneer. Things loosened up a bit.
The Bloodsucker climbed in behind the wheel, debating. It was as if she was waiting for him. But tonight was not supposed to be the night; he had a busy day tomorrow. To take Marcy now, to put her in his trunk, would be impulsive. Nothing was ready. He wasn't ready for her. Impulsiveness was bad. It was dangerous. It also turned out to, sometimes, be disappointing.
He had picked up April on impulse, and it had been a mistake. Marcy was who he had wanted. He'd only taken April because he was so frustrated that night at the restaurant. Because Marcy had been so close, but unobtainable. He'd known the minute April had woken in the chair that she wasn't right. That her blood wasn't the blood he needed.
He'd even tried a little experimentation, hoping to create a little excitement. A little something he had seen on TV about a teen girl who committed suicide. He didn't care what any experts said, though, the ankle didn't bleed as well. The blood didn't seem as rich. As tantalizing.
Maybe it was just because April hadn't been Marcy. She just hadn't been able to stand up to
her beauty. Her strength. With April, the sense of power hadn't lasted as long as he had expected it to, leaving him slightly disappointed. Kind of like when you wanted a vanilla chocolate swirl ice cream cone and you stopped to get it, only by the time you got there, they were all out of chocolate for the night. The vanilla was always good.
Sweet, creamy, cold. But there was still that sense of dissatisfaction at not getting what you had your heart set on.
His gaze strayed to Marcy again, and he contemplated taking her now. He imagined himself walking right up to her, smiling, drawing her into his confidence. He knew she'd talk to him, never suspect, because he already knew she liked him. By the time she realized something was wrong, it would be too late.
No, he told himself firmly. Not tonight.
He needed to stop at the grocery store and pick up dog food. Max was out. He had to be very careful with the chloroform not to give her so much that it poisoned her. And if he stopped for dog food with Marcy in the trunk, only lightly drugged, she might wake up. Even gagged, someone might hear her thumping around in there while he was in the store.
The Bloodsucker was disappointed, but not overly so. So what if tonight wasn't the right night? It would come soon.
He glanced Marcy's way. Smiled. Started the engine and pulled away. Part of the delight of the vanilla chocolate swirl ice cream cone was the anticipation.
Chapter 8
Marcy and Jake rode back to Albany Beach in silence. It wasn't until they passed the carved sign in the median strip that read, Albany Beach, If you lived here you'd be home now, that she had the nerve to speak.
"Thanks for coming to get me."
He slumped in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on the door. "You know, I'm a pretty patient man," he said quietly. "But my patience is wearing thin with this whole finding yourself quest you've got going here."
His remark hurt, but it wasn't unfounded. She studied her left hand without its wedding band and engagement ring. "It wasn't a date, Jake." She took a deep breath, daring a glance at him in the semi-darkness of the car. It had been hard to call him, but she was glad she had. He made her feel safe. As ridiculous as it seemed right now, considering the circumstances, even loved. "I thought it was a date, sort of, but I was wrong."
He glanced sideways at her. "If you think I'm going to believe for one second that any man would turn you down, looking the way you do these days, you—"
"Jake," she interrupted. "I made a mistake. I thought it was what I wanted, and I was wrong." She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. "The truth is, I don't know what I want."
"Tell me about it," he muttered.
His sarcasm stung, too, but she couldn't blame him for his reaction. She wasn't too pleased with her behavior right now, either. "The good news is, I feel as if I'm getting closer."
"And am I included in this new life plan of yours? I mean, I obviously wasn't included in the whole restaurant thing."
She studied his face for a moment and then hesitantly reached out to brush his cheek with the back of her fingertips. "Can we go to your place?"
He glanced at her, then back at the road.
"I thought maybe we could talk for a while," she said, refusing to let him rebuff her. "Without the kids. Without Phoebe. Phoebe makes everything so much more complicated."
"I don't know, Marcy. You're really screwing with my head. Dr. Larson warned me this was going to be hard, that there was going to be an adjustment period, but this isn't at all what I expected." As he spoke, he flipped on the directional signal and made the turn toward his rental, away from their home. "You can't keep doing this to me. Acting like you still care for me one minute, then going out on dates with other men the next."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It's just that I've been unhappy for so long..." She let her sentence trail into silence, and for several blocks they were both quiet again. But he drove to his place instead of their house. He parked in the lot behind his condo, and side by side, they walked down the sidewalk and took the stairs.
He unlocked the door and opened it for her, stepping back.
She walked in, glancing around. She hadn't been inside before. She always dropped the kids off at the door, picked them up outside. "Nice."
It was a two-bedroom, right on the ocean. A comfy living area with a denim-covered couch and chair, a big TV, and scattered end tables. The colors were soft tans and whites with splashes of blue. There was a galley kitchen all in white and a short hall that led to the bedrooms and bath.
Marcy sat on the end of the couch and let her purse slide off her shoulder. Jake opened the double glass doors that opened onto the balcony and a rush of cool night air blew in. She leaned back and closed her eyes, smelling the salt of the ocean, hearing the waves crash on the beach.
"You want something to drink? I think I have some beer. Maybe some rum."
Marcy laughed. When she opened her eyes, he was standing there in front of her looking completely unamused.
"No, thanks. I already had part of a drink on an empty stomach." She winced. "Bad idea."
"Something to eat, then?" He hooked a thumb in the direction of the small, open kitchen.
Standing there in a pair of cargo shorts, a surfer's graphic tee, and flip-flops, Jake appeared ten years younger than his thirty-seven years. He looked as if he needed a haircut. Looked as if he needed a hug even worse.
She got up off the couch and stood in front of him. Her heart was hammering in her chest. "I'm sorry, Jake," she whispered.
"For what?"
"The accident. For nearly killing myself. For waking up looking like this and turning our whole lives upside down." Her voice grew stronger. "For not being the same person I was when I went off that bridge."
She hesitated, searching his gentle brown eyes for the man she had once known. The man she had fallen in love with. "I know I'm not the same woman who crashed her car six months ago. I'm not even the woman you married. But I just can't be that Marcy anymore. I'm tired of feeling miserable about myself. Tired of hearing myself complain."
To her surprise, he half smiled and rested his hand on her waist. "I'm glad you called. I mean, I'm pissed that you were with some guy, but—"
"Nothing happened. I swear it," she whispered. "He took one step toward me, and I was out of there." She snapped her fingers.
He looked away, then back at her again. "Good. I'm glad. I'm also glad I was the one you thought to call." He hesitated. "As far as the other stuff... I just want you to be happy, Marcy."
She pressed her lips together, afraid she might cry. It had been a long time since she had felt this kind of intimacy with Jake. Too long. And until this moment, she hadn't realized how much she missed it. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, reveling in the feel of his arms around her waist, the scent of his skin, and the sound of his breath in her ear.
She laughed. Sniffed. "So what have you got in that bachelor's fridge of yours?"
Jake prepared a gourmet meal for them of tuna salad pita sandwiches, carrot sticks, and lemonade. They sat on the balcony overlooking the ocean in the folding lawn chairs he'd bought at the dollar store, and ate and talked. They went for a walk on the beach, hand in hand, and then back to his place to talk some more.
It seemed as if suddenly there were so many things they wanted to tell each other. They talked about her dislike of her job as the bookkeeper with the construction company and her dream of the restaurant. The amazing thing was, he had a lot of good ideas on how she could make it work. They also talked about the accident. Jake told her things that had happened in the months that she was unconscious. Some big things, some just little that he said he'd wished she'd been there to share with him.
Somehow the night got away from them, and before they knew it, the sun was beginning to rise on the ocean's dark horizon. They sat on the balcony, wrapped in beach towels for warmth, and sipped coffee in silence as the sun went from an orange streak of light in the
darkness, a bare hint of the day to come, to a glowing red-yellow ball in the sky, full of promise.
Jake drove Marcy home so she'd be there when the kids got up. They talked about him coming in for breakfast, but agreed it wouldn't be fair for the kids. Neither said anything about Jake moving back in, taking another stab at living together as husband and wife, but they both knew it was on the other's mind.
Jake walked her to the front door the way he had in the days when they'd been dating. "I really am glad you called me, Marcy. It means a lot to me to think you think I'm still a big part of your life."
Standing on the front porch step, she turned to face him and reached out tenderly to stroke his beard-stubbled cheek. "Of course you're a part of my life. You always will be. You're the father of my children."
"Damn it, I don't just want to be the father of your children."
The strength of his conviction surprised her.
"I want to be your friend, your lover, your partner."
She closed her eyes, savoring the moment between them, truly thankful, maybe for the first time, that God had saved her that night she drove off that bridge. "I should go in," she whispered. "And you'd better get home. You'll be late for work." He was going to have to hustle to get home, get a shower, and make it on time.
"Call me later. If you want to go ahead with that Mexican restaurant property, we should have someone look over the sales contract." He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressed his mouth to hers.
Marcy slipped her arm over Jake's shoulder and parted her lips slightly. How long had it been since Jake had made her feel this way? All warm and tingly from head to toe. How long had it been since she let herself feel this way?
The kiss was over sooner than she wanted it to be, and Jake was headed for his car. "Talk to you later."
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