Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady)

by Vanessa Grant

  Robyn watched for a few minutes, until Lyle said firmly, “School!” Then they were alone in the kitchen. George stood behind Lyle as she snipped. He couldn’t see her face and she didn’t have to try to wear a mask.

  She could enjoy the intimacy of his hair in her hands, knowing he couldn’t see her pleasure.

  “Want to go fishing this afternoon?” he asked after a long silence.

  She let a damp curl wrap itself around her finger before she carefully snipped it shorter. “Fishing? From shore?”

  “No, from a boat.” The curl pulled out of her fingers as his head moved.

  What would he do if she moved around to the front of him and sat down in his lap? Would his arms go around her as her hands reached up into that softly waving hair?

  “Are you afraid?” he asked softly.

  “What?” She sucked in a deep breath. He couldn’t see her face, but her fingers might have transmitted her wanton thoughts. “What do you mean? Afraid of what?”

  “Afraid of the water. Of going out in a boat.”

  “Oh— no, I don’t think so.” She separated a section of his hair with her comb. He had asked her to cut his hair short, but she was leaving enough of the curl to run her fingers through.

  Oh, lord! Was she actually considering having an affair with him? She mustn’t! He was too dangerous, too easily able to stir all kinds of needs that could never be satisfied.

  She talked nervously, filling the silence. “I’m not afraid of the water. I suppose I should be, after Lady Harriet going down, but— sit still, please, Lyle. You’re going to have a mess on your head if you don’t quit jerking around.”

  He caught her hand. Could he feel her pulse thundering under his fingers? She licked her lips. The fingers of her entrapped hand clenched on the scissors. Lyle’s thumb rubbed across the inside of her wrist, then he reached across with his other hand and took the scissors from her.

  “If it isn’t the water you’re afraid of,” he said slowly, his thumb caressing the inner surface of her wrist as he watched her intently, “then I think it must be me.”

  She couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from his, couldn’t make herself laugh or change the subject. How could she deny it when her heart was pounding, when she desperately wanted him to pull her closer and kiss her again? And all the while she was terribly afraid that he might actually do that, take her and entrap her forever.

  “Yes, it’s you.” She couldn’t break his gaze, but she found the strength to pull her hand away from his grip. “Could I have the scissors back? I’ll finish your hair. Then I’ll cut Russ’s.”

  “And then?” he demanded softly, laughter and something else in his eyes.

  “And then you can take us fishing,” she evaded.

  His eyes flashed. “George, do you always pull away when a man gets close?”

  “Always,” she said firmly, taking the scissors back.

  Look what happened when a man got too close. Scott. And her father.

  She took refuge in chatter. “And especially men named Lyle. Now be quiet, or I’ll jab you with these scissors.”

  He subsided, but he was smiling when he turned to face forward again. She had the uncomfortable feeling that if they were counting points, Lyle was winning.

  Chapter 6

  George caught a small flounder. Robyn caught a halibut that was too big for her to reel in on her own, so Lyle took over.

  Lyle caught nothing. George thought he wasn’t trying, but he seemed to enjoy leaning back and watching them.

  She was enjoying it, too. There was a warm simplicity in their spending time together in a small boat, alone on the water. The wind was light, making only small waves that rocked the boat gently.

  George felt good. Warm and excited and relaxed. She couldn’t remember feeling quite like this before.

  When they tired of fishing, Lyle opened up the engine and the small boat rose up and raced across the open water towards Dundas Island, two miles away.

  George thought she might use the insurance money from Lady Harriet to buy a speedboat. Something fast and white, with lots of power. She had an absurd desire to trap this feeling, to keep it forever.

  “Do you use your seaplane a lot out here?” she asked.

  “In the summer, yes.” He had to shout over the sound of the engine to make her hear. “Stick around a while and I’ll show you something of this country. If you stay, I could arrange to have my plane delivered next week. It’s in Prince Rupert right now. I store it there for the winter, ‘til the spring storms are over.”

  Flying with Lyle. High over these islands, looking down on the world. They’d be observers, together in their world and untouched by anything in the world below.

  Oh, lord! More fantasies. As if anyone could be untouched. Sharing like that was asking for pain, for loss. She looked away, narrowed her eyes to keep out the wind and stared off at the horizon. “I have to leave on Wednesday!” She let the wind carry her words back. “I have to see my insurance agent, and—” She shrugged, an indication of numerous chores and duties she must do.

  Robyn had curled up beside Lyle, her eyes closed and her mouth slightly open as she slept.

  The boat slowed suddenly, settling down in its own wake, rocking as they came to a silent stop with water all around.

  “You could come back,” he said carefully.

  The affinity between her and Lyle could never stop at mere friendship. Whenever they came close emotionally, she could feel the strength of his pull. If she got too close, she would never be free.

  She shook her head silently, refusing to look at him, but his words kept echoing. She could come back. She didn’t have to go.

  She couldn’t lay herself open like that again. She’d be caught, stuck, committed. Terrified, she pushed away the temptation to let Lyle draw her closer.

  She helped Robyn with her English assignment, then insisted on making supper for them all. She cooked the fish, making English style fish and chips, something she knew she wasn’t likely to make a mess of.

  When evening came, she tucked Robyn into bed while Lyle gave the weather report, then she slipped away as Lyle came into the girl’s bedroom.

  She went silently down to the room in the basement, closing the door behind her. While Lyle said goodnight to Robyn, she had this private room to herself.

  She tuned his guitar, strumming softly, blanking her mind with the sounds she was creating.

  With her eyes half closed, the music came from wherever it was that music lived. She felt the peace sweep over her, then the feeling of power, as if she could do anything, be anything she wanted.

  The music was all around her. She half opened her eyes, singing for someone who wasn’t there, and she saw a man’s tall shape beside her, towering over her. She hadn’t heard him come in.

  Fear and guilt surged through her.

  “What’s wrong?” Lyle asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, but her voice was shaking. Her eyes dropped to the guitar. Her fingers started to move again.

  “When you saw me, you looked as if you’d been caught with your hand in the cash register. Why, George?”

  She shrugged, her fingers creating a discordant sound. Why couldn’t he leave it? Why did he always have to probe at her, seek the reasons for her behavior? She found words to silence him. “I thought you might mind. It’s your guitar, after all. And I didn’t ask if—”

  “Why are you lying to me, George?”

  She gasped. “I— how did you know I was lying?”

  He brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. “Honey, your face is so expressive. It’s always fascinated me, ever since I first saw you last year. When I came in and you saw me, you were back with Scott, weren’t you?”

  Scott had never wanted her to play the guitar. Why had that been so hard for her to take? It wasn’t as if she were a great talent. She didn’t need to make music. Her hands fell awkwardly away from the guitar, as if she had forgotten how to play it.

/>   “Only this memory wasn’t a happy one?” She shook her head in protest, but Lyle persisted. “You looked guilty as hell, caught out doing something you shouldn’t. Did Scott object to your music?”

  She glared at him, said resignedly, “Damn you, Lyle! It’s got something to do with your eyes, I think. The rest of you looks like a tough outdoors man, but you’ve got dreamer’s eyes. And you always see too much.”

  He lowered himself to sit down beside her. The soft chair shifted to accommodate his weight. His thigh pressed against hers. Somehow the contact seemed comforting, not threatening. “Why didn’t Scott like your playing?”

  “Can’t you leave it alone?” she asked tiredly.

  “No, George. I can’t.” He took the hand that rested on the strings, his fingers uncurling hers, as if to make them relax. “Why didn’t he like it?”

  “I don’t know.” She’d never known, but she had tried. “I’m such a wild thing. I’ve always been impulsive, but I tried not to be that way around him. I loved him so much, and I didn’t want to spoil it. The music— that was part of it, somehow, because whenever I played I could see that look in his eyes. As if he didn’t know what I’d do next.”

  Lyle pushed back the hair tumbling over her forehead and she had to look at him. What had Scott wanted of her? Something she couldn’t give? Her hair bounced, rubbing across his hand as she shook her head.

  “He wanted me to be more grown up, more settled. He was older than me, and I was so young.”

  The curls twisted around Lyle’s fingers as he mused, “Volatile, and restless, and full of bouncing enthusiasm.”

  Yes, all the wrong things. Scott had wanted her different – stable and content, full of warm acceptance. She said defensively, “I loved Scott!”

  “Past tense?” he asked softly. “But did Scott love all of you?”

  She sagged back against the chair, the guitar slack in her arms. She’d always known that Scott’s love depended on her being what he wanted. “I used to think I could make myself different for him, that I could be like— oh, like Jenny, I guess! Jenny’s always known how to please the people she loves, and she doesn’t get restless— well, not often anyway.”

  She said tremulously, “I did love him, and I’ve missed him terribly, but—”

  His hands were gentle through her hair, making her scalp tingle. She blinked against sudden tears that welled up behind her eyes. She thought of all the times she’d turned away from her impulses, of how she’d worried and ached with knowing she couldn’t be the perfect wife he wanted. “I’m never going to do it again. I’m wild and apt to— apt to do any crazy thing. I’m thirty years old now and I’m not going to change.”

  His deep eyes held hers with magnetic intensity. “Grow up, George,” he whispered softly.

  “Lyle, I’m thirty years old!”

  “Are you?” He was smiling as if at a child. “Then don’t you think it’s time you stopped trying to live up to other people’s expectations?” His lips brushed hers in the most fleeting of kisses. “You’re unique, sweetheart. Don’t let anybody make you feel inadequate for having your own special talents. You don’t have to fit into a mold.”

  She took a deep breath, tried to conceal that she was trembling from his touch.

  He leaned closer, his thigh hard against her as he worked his way around the guitar. His lips moved against her cheek and his low voice said, “This is my room and it’s filled with music. If Scott resented your love of music, then I’d say this is one place you’ll have a hard time mixing us up.”

  He was right. Here Lyle was strong and alive. His lips found hers. Her hands clenched on the guitar. Her mouth opened as his tongue moved between her lips. When she swayed, he took her closer in his arms and the kiss grew deeper.

  His fingers kneaded softly on the muscles of her back, feeling the contours of her spine. When her hands reached up into his hair her fingers clenched on the slippery softness, pulling him closer as her mouth invited the hard invasion.

  His hands on her back, his tongue thrusting, taking possession. A deep shudder passed through the core of her being and her body came to life, shifting closer, seeking intimacy.

  The hard edges of the guitar pushed between them in a sudden, painful thrust.

  “You’re driving me insane,” Lyle groaned as he released her. “I keep remembering you in my arms, touching you, seeing you in the moonlight.” His breathing was shallow and quick, his eyes flashing as he took in the signs of her own arousal, the thrust of her hardened nipples against her sweater, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she tried to calm her breathing. “You feel the same, don’t you? Say it, George!”

  The heat was rushing through her body. She gripped the guitar, made music with her fingers that was wilder, more passionate than before.

  His voice penetrated the notes. “George, I want to make love to you.”

  “And you want me to stay here?” The words were drawn from her against her will.

  “With me,” he said. “Yes.”

  “I can’t.” The music came louder. She bent her head over the guitar, said softly, “It’s a trap. Just a little island and the winter storms shutting you in. I could never stay here.”

  She pushed the guitar aside and she was on her feet, moving away to stop herself from touching him. She fingered keys on the synthesizer without knowing what they were. “Can you show me how this thing works?”

  “Why not?” He moved close to her and she tensed. He leaned over to turn the power switch on. Over a faint hum, he asked, “Why did you come sailing up this coast so early in the year?”

  She shrugged, moving back a step, out of his reach. “It’s not winter any more. I thought your bad storms were in December and January.”

  “The worst ones,” he agreed harshly, “but March isn’t exactly summer. Why didn’t you wait for spring? Where were you last? Before you came here?”

  She said, “Mexico,” her voice flat. What was he, psychic? How did he always know where to find her vulnerable spots?

  “Mexico?” he repeated, ignoring her unwillingness to talk. “With the boat? Why did you leave the sunshine? Why not wait until June like the other boats, then come see the North Coast when the sun makes it kind and beautiful?”

  “Why do you have to ask so damned many questions?”

  He grinned, his long arm reaching her shoulder in a fleeting caress. “Mostly because you seem to hate answering them so much. That makes you a mystery, honey, and mysteries are for solving.”

  “I don’t want to be solved.” Damn! She sounded petulant, like a sulky child. “I don’t want to talk about Mexico,” she added.

  “Why not?” He pressed some buttons. The muted sounds of the song he had been writing the night before filled the room. “So many things you won’t talk about. Scott. Your marriage. Mexico— lord! You’d think Mexico would be a safe enough subject. Tell me about the markets, the warm water. Did you swim there? Are sharks a problem for swimmers in Mexico?”

  She laughed, then frowned because she didn’t want to be smiling at him. She swung away abruptly, stuffing her hands into the pockets of the jeans that were beginning to hurt as they rubbed against the wound on her leg.

  “Watch your leg!” His warning came just as she twisted her leg, swinging around at the boundary of the room. She winced at the sudden shaft of pain reaching up her thigh. Then her ribs, seeming belatedly to sense the twisting she had inflicted, hit her with a gaspingly intense attack.

  “Are you okay, honey?”

  She winced as his hands settled gently over her shoulders. “Don’t touch!” she gasped. “Please don’t touch me for a minute!”

  She breathed carefully, slowly making each intake of air longer than the last. “My poor ribs!”

  “Let me see what you’ve done.” He was frowning, his eyes raking over her. “You’re terribly pale. You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  “Of course not! I— no, leave it, please!” she protested as his finger
s started to pull her sweater up. She wanted so badly to close her eyes, let him take the sweater away. She wanted to give herself to him.

  Forever.

  No! Not forever.

  “It’s all right. Please—”

  His fingers stilled, his eyes narrowed as he watched her face. “Okay, be still George. Come here and sit down for a minute.” He guided her back into the chair. “Don’t try to get up. Just sit, damn it! Do you ever just sit still and do what you’re told?”

  She giggled at the frustration in his voice, let his hands push her back into the chair. Then the pain came and she closed her eyes, whispering, “No, I guess I don’t. When I had chicken pox as a kid I kept getting out of the house, spreading the pox over the whole neighborhood.”

  “I can believe it.” He prodded gently along her rib cage. “Stay still for a minute, please, honey. You look really pale. I don’t think you did any damage, but please try to remember for a while that you’re fragile. And I promise I won’t ask about Mexico. Now stay still.”

  He sat beside her and settled her against his shoulder. “Okay?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble through his chest where her ear pressed.

  “Yes,” she admitted, giving herself up to the pleasure of resting against him. She seemed to fit so nicely against his shoulder.

  His music was low around them, still playing from the recorder connected to his synthesizer. She could hear water in his music, clear and pale green.

  “Mexico wasn’t anything, really,” she said as his music faded. “Just— well, depressing, I guess. And I don’t feel very good about Mexico. I guess— well, I don’t really want you to think badly of me.”

  His arms tightened carefully around her. She didn’t want to tell him that it hurt when his wrist pushed into her side. She wanted to stay here. In his arms she felt somehow that it was safe to rest, to stop running..

  He murmured, “I don’t think I could ever think badly of you.”

  It was too easy talking to him. The words just seemed to come out of their own volition.

  “It started last year. I told you about my cousin Jenny? And Jake? When they finally worked it out, I left them the boat for a honeymoon trip.”