Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady)

by Vanessa Grant

  Cold. Empty. She twisted, fought arms that held her, felt the wetness of her tears as her face moved against cool skin.

  A low, husky voice, “Easy, darling. Easy. You’re okay.”

  Cold night air on her skin. A man’s warm body against hers.

  Lyle’s face. Lyle’s hands, soothing her heated skin. She was in Lyle’s house, Lyle’s guest bedroom. Scott was gone. Forever.

  “Hey,” he whispered softly, his hand brushing the wetness away from her cheek. “Don’t cry, honey. You had a dream. A nightmare.” He gathered her closer into his arms and she found herself cradled against his warm, broad chest.

  “Were you dreaming about the shipwreck?”

  She shuddered. Scott. Scott was gone forever.

  The doctor, standing uncomfortably in the waiting room, saying, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dobson.”

  He’d never take her in his arms again.

  His hands stroking her back, the warmth and the closeness…

  Lyle’s hands on her back, lips softly kissing her cheek where the tears had started to dry. Outside, the foghorn wailed. George shuddered, burrowing herself deeper into his arms. Her sobs slowly quietened. Her hand crept up, flattening itself against his bare, warm chest.

  He moved, murmuring, “Here, honey, just shift a little.”

  She shook her head drowsily, drifting away from the voice, burrowing against the warmth, seeking comfort and closeness instinctively. Scott…

  “That’s better,” he murmured, gathering her against him, pulling the covers back over them both as she shivered again. “Isn’t it?” he continued, his voice low, , not wanting to alarm her, but wanting to draw her out of the nightmare.

  “Don’t talk,” she whispered, turning towards him, letting her palm brush against the hairs on his chest. Her body curved against his length, her soft thigh brushed his muscular one.

  A deep shudder went through her.

  “Honey, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  The wrong voice. Too deep. Too young.

  Warm.

  The hurting would come back if she lost the warmth. She whispered, “Please don’t talk,” without knowing what she said.

  Her hand moved rhythmically against his skin, drawing comfort from his heat.

  She curled closer, a soft clinging warmth against his hard maleness. He was still, his arms against her back until she turned, bringing his hand over her breast

  His hand trembled, then closed on the softness.

  She let go her tenuous grip on reality, welcoming the tide of feeling that grew as his hand cupped the fullness.

  She sent her messages to him softly, silently, as Scott had taught her, moving against him without words, waiting, wanting, until he moved his hands along the soft woman curves of her. Then she was trembling for him, aching with need.

  His hand smoothed over the thrust of her hip, his mouth bent to her breast, drawing the taut hardness of her nipple softly between his lips.

  She whispered his name as she went spinning through the tide of passion rising around her.

  His hands tensed, suddenly rough and hard on her body. Then she was alone, cold, shivering.

  Her eyes opened, glazed with her fantasy, staring up.

  “Wake up, George!” His voice was harsh, cold.

  Their eyes locked. She saw intimate knowledge of her body in his eyes, felt the flush on her skin from his touch.

  “My name is Lyle,” his voice whipped over her. He stared down at her body lying exposed and pale in the light that swept across the window. “And I don’t need a woman so badly that I’m about to act the part of a dead man.”

  He turned and strode away, slamming her bedroom door closed as he went, leaving her alone.

  Scott.

  She closed her eyes, still shivering with the cold air even after she pulled the covers over her heated body. She lay alone, staring at the picture on the wall as the lighthouse light swept over it, then left it dark.

  She felt the hot tide of shame rising as she lived again the feel of Lyle’s hands on her skin, remembered how she had shut out the sound of his voice as it intruded on her fantasy.

  Scott had been making love to her. It was Scott’s name she had cried out as Lyle’s lips took possession of her breast.

  For the first time since Scott’s death, her tears flowed freely, racking her body until she was spent, empty, lying alone on the bed in the darkness.

  An endless time awake, her mind almost blank. Then, slowly, she started to hear the night noises of the house. The creaking of a step. Lyle. The fading echo as a door slammed. He was gone now. Outside. She stared at her door in the dark, feeling closed in, shut out.

  Each night Lyle had left the door to her room open so that he could hear her if she called out in the night.

  Tonight she had called out, and he had come.

  How could she have lain in his arms, silently asking him to make love to her?

  What must he think of her? In her mind the dream was mixed with the reality, but she remembered enough to know that she had invited his caresses, his lips on her skin. The memory of his touch had a heat that her dreams of Scott had never had.

  What was he doing now? Was he walking to cool off? There was no doubt he had been aroused. She’d seen his body all too clearly as he stood beside the bed, knew it was her own hands that had undone the belt of his robe. How could she?

  She had to get off this island. There was no way she could face him after this, looking into his eyes, remembering how she had tried to pretend he was Scott, begging him to make her his.

  The door again. Footsteps. He was back, in the basement. Would he go to bed now?

  Silence. Then the faint sounds of music, muted. Pieces of a song, strung together, repeated, haunting notes floating on the night air. Where was the music coming from? She listened, lying alone.

  Ever since her father died, she had been the outsider, the one who didn’t belong. She’d laughed and moved on, but there had never been a place that was really hers. Even with Scott—

  She had tried so hard, but she’d never quite been what he wanted her to be. In the end he had left her with a finality that she had no weapons against.

  Left her? How could she think of Scott’s death as a willful abandonment? As if both Scott and her father had rejected her through some choice. She needed a psychiatrist. No! She wasn’t going to turn her insecurities inside out for some clinical expert to frown at.

  Lyle was somewhere. With the music.

  Only moments ago she’d tried to make him into a fantasy to heal her pain. Now she was moving again, getting up, hoping to push away the memories with his presence.

  She couldn’t stay alone here another minute. If she were in a city she would get her guitar and go out, take a taxi to a coffee house and try to drown memories in music.

  She was alone and miserable. She couldn’t resist the sound of music.

  If she was going to get up, she had to wear something more conventional than an oversized sweat shirt and bare legs. She slipped out of bed, her bare feet silent on the braided carpet. The dresser drawer slipped open easily. She wasn’t really surprised to find her own jeans lying inside, freshly washed and neatly folded.

  A complete change of clothes. Jeans and shirt, underwear and bra. She slipped into them. She even put on the bra, although it hurt where it hugged her left side. The denim jeans hurt, too, against the partly healed gash on her leg.

  She padded silently to the bathroom, combing her hair and washing her face, trying to get rid of the sleepy-eyed look that might remind him of what had happened in her bedroom only moments ago.

  If she had any sense, she’d be staying in bed, going to sleep and pretending tonight had never happened. Facing Lyle was going to be embarrassing.

  Her bare feet were silent on the carpeted hallway. She was sure he wouldn’t hear her from the basement.

  Robyn’s door was open. A night light on the wall threw soft illumination over the sleeping girl,
her long hair spread out over her pillow in a tangle that must be a nightmare to comb out in the morning.

  The sight of the sleeping girl reminded George too intensely of her own childlessness. She turned away.

  The music was hauntingly faint.

  The living room was dark and silent, lit only by the lighthouse beam as it shone in the windows.

  In the shadowy kitchen, the big orange cat stood up and stretched, staring as George passed.

  The fourth stair creaked loudly as she went down to the basement. At the bottom, the concrete floor was shockingly cold underfoot.

  A freezer. Washing machine. She slipped through an open door and found herself in the radio room. It was dark and empty.

  Only one door left. Closed.

  There was a piece of paper taped to it, a childishly drawn sign that said, Daddy’s room.

  She took a deep breath before she opened the door.

  He heard the creak of the step. It always creaked, and he’d always intended to fix it.

  He wanted to go out to her, take her in his arms and bring her here, warm her and love her—

  Last year she’d been only a passing dream, stirring yearnings. He’d seen her with that flash of recognition that comes only rarely, the intuitive knowledge that another person could be someone special.

  Could be… Did saving her life give him some mystical claim to her? Or was it the other way? That she had a claim on him? She was even getting tangled into his music.

  Tangled in his life. Damn! He didn’t need this! There were other women – women with free hearts.

  His hand jerked on the synthesizer.

  Just another woman who didn’t really want him.

  The music shuddered in a discordant wobble.

  She belonged to a dead man. His name was Scott.

  Had Scott loved her going barefoot on the cold rocks? Had he—

  Stop it! Jealous of a dead man?

  The door opened. He saw her come in and knew that the wrong word would send her away – and he didn’t want to send her away.

  When she closed the door behind herself, he dropped his eyes to the synthesizer, brought the volume up a little as she took in his room.

  Thick carpet everywhere, even on the walls. Would she think that strange? He’d had to deaden the sound to allow recording without too much contamination from outside noises. Even the windows were covered. He’d used fiberglass insulation batts, then covered it all with blankets.

  The song was coming. He had the drums recorded. He was working on the bass guitar now, making the music with his fingers on the synthesizer, rather than using his guitar. He was far better with the synthesizer than with a real instrument.

  His feet were controlling the volume with the variable pedal on the floor. He had the sound coming through the four big monitor speakers on the wall, although the bass guitar track was recording directly from the synthesizer to the multi-track recorder.

  She leaned against the closed door. She looked tired, vulnerable. She was wearing her jeans. He hoped the denim wasn’t too harsh on the newly healed cut on her leg. He saw the thrust of her breasts that revealed she was wearing a bra over her bruised ribs, and he knew why. It was a message for him, whether she realized it or not. A barrier.

  She had the nervous look of a frightened animal ready to bolt.

  And he still wanted her.

  He wasn’t giving up so easily, although he had more than a dead husband to contend with. George wasn’t roaming the seas just from grief. She was a wild thing, needing love yet afraid of the warmth.

  He knew how to deal with wild things. It took time, and love. He wouldn’t make the mistake he’d made with Hazel, wouldn’t trap her with demands and declarations. She’d be free, and one day she would choose to stay.

  She was restless already, and he wouldn’t be able to keep her here. He’d have to find a way to keep contact, to give her time.

  He felt a sudden wave of hopelessness. Too little time. She’d slip away. He’d lose her. Forever.

  Her eyes met his. Hers were uncertain. He tried to keep the heat out of his. He looked away, concentrated on the beat of the music, on completing the rhythm.

  He felt her coming closer, but he didn’t look up. He could see her without looking directly at her. She curled up on the end of the sofa, sitting tense as she listened and watched.

  When she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, he knew that the music was what she wanted. He drifted away then, caught up in developing the song, although he could still feel her there with every second.

  He jotted a note on the page in front of him, working on that difficult passage, the transition that didn’t seem to work. He stumbled over it, replayed the sound track from the beginning, trying to get the right feel for it.

  After the first few minutes, George realized that Lyle wasn’t going to flash anger and rejection at her with those deep blue eyes. She didn’t know why she’d come down to him, but she knew she had no right to seek companionship after the rejection she’d just given. But she was here, regardless.

  She let the music take possession of her.

  It was a catchy tune. The rhythm had that irresistible something that hit songs seemed to have. She thought there should be words, too. She thought of his poems and she hummed softly, fitting wordless sounds to music. Her fingers itched to pick out the rhythm on a guitar.

  She saw the guitar sitting idle in the corner. He seemed deeply intent on the sounds he was making, his eyes far away as his ears listened critically. She certainly couldn’t interrupt him.

  She smiled a little, watching his absorption. Musicians. They had their own world, apart from the rest of the people. This was the other half of the man, the dreamer who made music and put words to it. His poems had a rhythm like music, so she should have known. His reddish hair was falling over his forehead, but he didn’t know it. He was writing a word, touching a key.

  He was having a problem with that passage, yet it seemed to her that the answer was in the notes he’d already written. She couldn’t have expressed it in notes or words, but if she had a guitar in her arms she thought she could play the music. He didn’t seem to notice as she crossed the room. It wasn’t her guitar, but it was the same type. Her fingers found the notes softly, the sound strengthening, following his lead, the music filling and flowing between them.

  As the sounds of the guitar faded, the tune grew, renewed, from Lyle’s synthesizer. George found her fingers improvising, the volume swelling, her own voice humming wordless sounds that had to fit with the rhythm and the mood.

  The music faded slowly, leaving its heat behind. She let her fingers go lax on the guitar strings.

  His eyes were on her, a disturbing light in their depths that might almost be anger. She was suddenly and unexpectedly frightened of him.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, but he shook his head, denying anger. She strummed a chord, picking up the melody of his tune. The sound of music from her fingers made her comfortable, gave her confidence. “Lyle, you should try selling that song. It’s terrific!”

  “Should I?” His eyes sparkled quiet laughter.

  She frowned at his equipment, realizing, “This is obviously a professional setup.”

  “I’m trying,” he said simply. He jotted something on the notebook in front of him. “I liked that echo you put in, repeating the melody – I was having a hell of a time with that passage.”

  He pushed an impatient hand through his unruly hair, saw her watching.

  “Need a haircut,” he mumbled.

  She was surprised to realize that he was embarrassed. He always seemed so strong and confident. Even in his concern over Robyn, he seemed to know instinctively what to do.

  His discomfort disarmed her. Impulsively, she said, “I’ll cut it, if you like.”

  He smiled then. “Sounds like a gift from heaven.”

  Her smile caught from his. She’d been frightened, coming down here after the scene in the bedroom, but it was all r
ight. He was going to let her pretend it had never happened. She said gaily, “You’re taking a chance, you know. I’m no expert, but Jenny did let me cut hers.”

  His fingers brought the synthesizer to life again. “Could you cut it tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” she agreed as the music swelled, flowing over them both. This time the rhythm completed, the hesitation gone as Lyle filled in the notes she had supplied.

  “I think I’m getting it.” He threw a switch, then held out a piece of paper for her to take. “Here’s the music – a bit rough, but would you try it for me? I’d like to hear it with just the guitar. And could I talk you into singing the words? You do have a singing voice, don’t you? You were humming like a pro.”

  She took the paper from his hands, wishing she didn’t have to say meekly, “I don’t read music very well. I just learned to play by ear.”

  His fingers brushed soft curls back from her face as he wondered why she should apologize for anything. He was watching her, seeming to see something reassuring in her eyes. “Feeling better now?” he murmured, nodding in answer to his own question. “Play the music as best you can remember it, would you? I’d like to hear it. Then perhaps I’ll teach you to read music. It’s certainly time you learned. I— what’s wrong?”

  She blinked away a vivid memory of Scott towering over her in a West End coffee house, his eyes filled with the quiet anger that hurt so much. He had stared at her as the music faded away, then there had been the uncomfortable silence of the others, as if they’d known he shouldn’t have found her here. She had scrambled to her feet.

  “I’m sorry, Scott! I’m late again, aren’t I? I’m sorry!”

  “Georgina, don’t you think it’s time you grew up, time to stop playing about like a teenager? It’s time you learned a sense of responsibility.”

  “George?” Lyle’s voice was sharp. She stared down at the guitar in her arms, wishing she’d done more to be the wife she should have been. Scott had asked so little, and she’d seemed to have such trouble giving it.

  “George?”

  She met Lyle’s eyes, saw the question in his fade as if she had answered it without words. He knew. She felt ashamed, and confused, without understanding the reason for either emotion.