by BETH KERY
“I suppose that can happen to any couple,” Mari murmured, thinking of herself and James as she idly dried herself with a towel. “People grow. They change. There’s no guarantee they’ll change in the same way.”
“Maybe,” Marc replied levelly. “But if you care enough about the person to begin with, there’s more of a cushion to weather the changes.”
He sprawled on the blanket to soak up the sun’s rays. He went on to tell Mari that Sandra had disapproved wholeheartedly of him running for Cook County State’s Attorney, and how his choice had been the nail in the coffin of their marriage.
“She insisted I only wanted experience at the State’s Attorney’s Office as a springboard for a cushy job at a law firm. When I said I planned to run for the job, she couldn’t believe it.”
Mari didn’t reply for several seconds as she studied his strong profile. “I’ve heard that you head up the second largest criminal justice system in the entire country. It’s an extraordinary feat, Marc. I…I was really proud of you when I heard you’d won the election.”
He lifted his head off the blanket. “You were?”
She rolled her eyes, both flattered and discombobulated by the fact that he seemed genuinely pleased by her compliment. “Of course. Do you—” she glanced away from his piercing eyes “—regret it?”
“Becoming a state’s attorney?”
“No. You and Sandra splitting.”
He exhaled and lay back, staring up at the blue sky and fluffy clouds. “No. It was the right thing to do. If anything, I regret entering into the marriage so impulsively. I was too young. Maybe I was grasping for something to hold on to.”
He glanced over and noticed her small smile.
“What?” he asked.
Mari shook her head and looked away from the enticing vision of him lying there wearing nothing but board shorts and water droplets.
“I was just thinking you must be one of the most eligible bachelors in the state.”
He rolled his eyes. “If anyone thinks that, they’re either crazy or have never experienced the fallout of divorce. I hardly consider myself to be in the marriage market. Avoiding it like the plague, more like. What about you? Do you have any regrets, Mari?”
“With my career? No. I’ve never once regretted my work. You must remember how much I loved playing, even when I was a girl. My choice of career was an easy one. I’ve felt nothing but blessed since the day someone actually paid me to do what I love.”
“You’re fortunate.”
“I am. Maybe too much so.”
His brows went up.
She laughed self-consciously. “I’ve had a boyfriend or two tell me that I’m too serious about my career.”
“Ah. We have that in common, then. Fortunate in our choice of career, unlucky at love. It’s funny, though…. I’d always pictured Mari Itani to be the type to master both her career and romance like a pro.” His mouth quirked with humor, but his eyes were warm as they studied her. “Figured you’d be married with at least five kids by now and be busy training them for the family orchestra.”
Mari whipped her towel at him in playful reprimand. Hearing Marc tease her had caused embarrassment and pleasure to surge through her in equal measure. There was little doubt she’d once expected to settle down and start a family with him.
Funny, how the dreams of a girl still had the power to move her.
Soon, the sun’s warm rays lulled Mari as she lay on the blanket they’d spread on the beach. Admiring the gleam and flex of his strong back muscles, she watched through heavy eyelids as Marc again wandered into the lagoon to cool off and swim.
When she awoke, her right cheek was pressed against her extended arm. She glanced around sleepily, not moving her head, wondering why she felt so content when she wasn’t immediately certain where she was. She saw the blue-green water of the lagoon wink in the periphery of her vision and recalled the day in a flash. Everything was quiet.
Where was Marc?
She abruptly turned onto her back and bumped into the answer to her question. He was right there—his arm bent at the elbow, his head in his hand, his long body curved around her. Only an inch or two separated them. She laughed in startled amazement when she saw his blue eyes studying her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he countered in a low, husky voice that only added to her sense of delicious lassitude.
“It looks like you were watching me sleep.” His gaze flickered over her neck and breasts, and made her skin tingle.
He smiled. She stared up at him, mesmerized by the longing in his blue eyes. “I was thinking about all the nights I missed watching you while you slept,” he replied in a hushed tone.
A strained silence ensued.
“Did you think about me? When you left for San Francisco?” he asked.
“How can you ask me that?” Her eyes burned when she blinked. “It was hell, that first year after the crash. My aunt was worried sick about me, I lost so much weight and I couldn’t sleep through the night. I’d wake up in a panic.”
“Were you having nightmares?”
She shook her head. “I’d dream I was back in Michigan and that everything was perfect. I’d dream my parents were still alive. I’d dream of being with you again.” She reached up and caressed his jaw. “Waking up was the nightmare.”
His nostrils flared slightly at her words. His eyes looked fierce. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.
She sighed in surrender. It was just the two of them. They weren’t hurting anyone by acknowledging their unique bond. The past receded. Surely there was nothing stronger than this moment, than this feeling?
He lifted his head too soon for Mari.
“Marc?” she whispered, disappointed at his withdrawal.
His mouth slanted in irritation. He glanced up at the thick foliage behind them.
“What—?” she asked, startled when he abruptly sat up. Mari heard voices behind them. She sat up, as well, twisting to look behind her.
Three teenagers—two girls and a boy—reached the bottom of the path and walked onto the white sand. They hesitated when they saw they weren’t alone, but then the boy said something Mari couldn’t catch, and they headed down the spit of sand, granting Mari and Marc space, if not privacy.
Marc glanced back at her, the heat in his eyes still very much present, and gave her a wry smile. She laughed softly. They were a little old to get caught fooling around on the beach. She tried to ignore the sharp stab of regret she experienced and reached for her tank top.
They dressed and packed up their belongings, speaking sparingly to each other as they trudged back up the steep path. She noticed how far the sun had dipped in the western sky as Marc got on the motorcycle.
“How long did I sleep?” she asked as she climbed up behind him.
“Over an hour.”
“Really?” she asked, flustered. It was out of character for her to nap for so long, if at all. Had Marc watched her that whole time? “I’m sorry. I’ve been a little tired ever since the trip,” she murmured as he shifted the cycle to an upright position.
“Don’t be. I didn’t mind.” The bike roared to life.
Mari had thought the spell that had settled on them in the lagoon had been broken by the arrival of the teenagers, but she’d been wrong. She held on tight to Marc’s waist and pressed her chest to his back, her cheek to his shoulder and watched the trees and picturesque farms pass by as he drove on country roads for miles. When Marc turned the bike down a long, narrow drive, she noticed a handmade sign featuring a peach and a fluffy pie: McKinley Farm and Orchard—Pick Your Own Fruits and Vegetables and Savor the Harvest at the Cherry Pie Café.
She dismounted from the motorcycle and removed her helmet. Marc had turned off the engine in a gravel turnabout featuring signs in the shape of pointing fingers. Cherry Orchards. Strawberry, Blueberry, Blackberry Picking. Peach, Plum and Apple Orchards. Lake Michigan, the Che
rry Museum, Country Store, Restrooms and the Cherry Pie Café.
“Have you been here before?” she asked, grinning.
“Never,” Marc replied. “But who can resist a place called the Cherry Pie Café?”
Mari pulled her tote bag out of the storage bin. “I’d like to change before we look around,” she told Marc.
Marc also retrieved some folded clothes from the bin. He grabbed her hand and led her down a quaint path featuring bright flowers and a tiny bridge over a burbling stream.
Wearing a sundress, she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. She saw Marc standing at the entrance to the Cherry Museum. He’d changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a white, collarless shirt that made his bronzed skin glow in comparison. When he turned and looked at her as she approached, he broke into a wide grin, his teeth flashing in his sun-darkened face.
“What were the chances of that?” he drawled, staring at her sundress, patterned with red cherries.
She joined him in laughter until he reached out and grabbed her hand, leading her out into the gorgeous summer evening.
They picked up a little wooden basket from a receptacle and wandered into the cherry orchard. Again, they talked little, speaking with their eyes and small smiles, both of them comfortable in the silence as they filled the basket. Only the sound of a bee or two buzzing contentedly in the trees and the gulls calling in the distance reached Mari’s ears. She idly wondered if the farm was deserted, because they saw no one. It was as if an enchantment had fallen over the place.
She quickly learned they weren’t alone on the farm, however, when, their basket nearly overflowing with cherries, they exited the orchard. She glanced up at a clicking sound and saw a white-haired man wearing khaki shorts and white socks, taking their picture.
He was smiling when he lowered the camera a moment later.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he called. “I saw you while I was in the next grove over. You make quite a picture in that dress, ma’am. The photo would look great in my brochure.” The man’s kind eyes glanced over at Marc, and he nodded cordially. “With your permission, of course.”
They approached the sunburned man and exchanged greetings and handshakes. As she suspected, he was the owner of the farm, a man by the name of Nathan McKinley. He told them that he and his wife had bought the farm last year and moved there from New York, looking for an escape from the city grind. It seemed right, somehow, she thought as she watched Nathan and Marc talk pleasantries, that the only person they’d conversed with during these golden hours was someone new to the area, a stranger to their past.
“You two should check out the café,” Nathan said. “We have lake-view seating and the best cook in Harbor Country.”
Marc glanced at her, his eyebrows cocked in a query. Mari nodded eagerly. She was in no mood to return to town at the moment. In fact, she wished this stolen day with Marc would never end.
They sat at one of the small tables in the cafe. Looking as large and picturesque as the Mediterranean Sea, Lake Michigan sparkled to their right. The only other occupant of the café was a brown dog whose tail wagged in friendly welcome when they sat, although he appeared to be too drowsy to move from his reclining position in the cool shade. The view was spectacular as the sun started to sink toward the lake, but Mari hardly noticed it. Her attention was all for the man who sat across from her.
The best cook in Harbor Country ended up being Nathan’s smiling wife, Clarisse. Nathan’s boasting about her cooking hadn’t been without merit. Mari was surprised and pleased by the delicate, flavorful sauce on her Cornish hen, which was accompanied by mouth watering mashed potatoes, garden-fresh steamed spinach and homemade cherry tarts. After Clarisse had cleared their empty plates, and Mari had requested a bag of the tarts and some homemade cherry salsa to take home, they lingered at their table, enjoying the view.
“I’m not surprised Nathan wanted to get a picture of you,” Marc said after a while.
Noticing his warm gaze, she paused in sipping the remainder of her tea. “I know. How funny that I picked this dress to bring.”
Marc reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“I don’t mean the dress,” he said. “You’re glowing, Mari.”
“Am I?” she laughed, made a little self-conscious by his heady stare. “I got some sun today. We both did.”
Marc shook his head, a small, quizzical smile on his lips. “It’s not the tan.”
Clarisse’s arrival broke the delicate bubble of the intimate moment. Mari and Marc thanked Nathan and Clarisse profusely and promised to tell everyone who would listen about their wonderful farm and café.
A wistful sadness came over Mari as she climbed onto the motorcycle and Marc drove down the lane back to the main route. Night settled slowly on their return to Harbor Town.
She didn’t know for sure what to expect when Marc pulled into her driveway. She released him reluctantly, having grown used to the convenient excuse of holding him so close while they were on the bike. He kept his feet planted on the concrete of the drive while she dismounted. Mari smoothed her dress and tried to read his expression, but his face was cast in shadow.
“I’m leaving the cherry tarts,” she said as she removed her tote bag from the storage unit. “Give them to Brendan tomorrow at his party for me, will you?”
Marc turned the ignition on the motor and silence fell, interrupted only by the waves hitting the shore rhythmically on Sycamore Beach.
“Why don’t you give them to him yourself? Come to his party with me.”
Mari froze in the action of hoisting her bag to her shoulder. “What? No, Marc. Of course not.”
“Why not?”
Her chest tightened when she heard the stiffness of his tone.
“It’s a family party,” she murmured. When he didn’t reply, she continued. “Surely…surely your mother is going to be there?”
“She’ll be there. What’s that got to do with me asking you, as well?”
“Oh come on, Marc. It’s got everything to do with it. I don’t want my presence to ruin a family celebration.”
“There’s no reason your presence should ever ruin anything,” he stated bluntly. “But there is,” Mari shot back. “There is, and you know it. It would be rude of me to show up and make your mother feel so uncomfortable at a family function. Excuse me for saying so, but it’s disrespectful of you to suggest it.”
He leaned toward her enough that she caught sight of the tightness of his lean jaw. “How do you figure that?” he demanded. His voice had been quiet enough, but she sensed his anger. The old, familiar feeling of helplessness rose in her.
“It’s disrespectful and selfish to deliberately do something that would make Brigit unhappy.”
“So I’m selfish for wanting to be with you.”
“Yes. No,” Mari sputtered. “I mean, it’s selfish in this particular instance.”
“What about this afternoon?” Marc replied briskly, reminding Mari all too well of his skills as a prosecutor. “My mother would have preferred I didn’t spend it with you. Was I selfish then? My mother thought I should have worked things out with Sandra. I suppose I was selfish every time I went against her wishes, though. Right?”
“No, Of course not,” Mari seethed. “That’s not what I meant. This situation is different.”
“I know it.” His loud bark made her jump. “But that doesn’t make it wrong for me to want to be with you.”
She opened her mouth to make a blistering comment—how dare he try and make her seem like she was being petty for bringing this up?—when someone called her name. She blinked and peered through shadows thrown by the bushes lining the yard.
“Eric?” she called, thinking she recognized her friend’s voice.
“Yeah,” Eric replied. After a few seconds of silence, he stepped into the light of the streetlamp. He glanced warily from Mari’s stiff expression to Marc’s angry one.
“It was such a nice night, I thought I’
d walk over and see how things went with the realtor today. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course,” Mari replied quickly.
Eric’s gaze flickered over to Marc. “Do you have some time to talk? I had some good news today. I’ve wanted to tell you about it all day, but I couldn’t reach you on your cell.”
“I…well, sure,” she said, flustered by the turn of events.
She jumped when the motorcycle’s engine suddenly roared in her ears.
“’Night,” Marc said.
“Marc…wait,” she called as he began to turn the cycle around in the drive. She saw the tilt of his chin and suddenly knew for a fact that the golden day had come to an abrupt end.
Eric and she stood immobile, watching as Marc tore down the street in the opposite direction of the Kavanaugh house.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Eric said uncertainly. “It’s just that I think I found the perfect manager for The Family Center today.”
“Really? That’s great.”
“You don’t seem as excited as I thought you’d be.” He glanced down Sycamore Avenue. “Mari…are you seeing Marc Kavanaugh?”
Her spine stiffened at Eric’s incredulous tone. She felt beleaguered and on edge, having her idyllic day with Marc end this way.
“Why do you ask it like that?” she bristled.
“It…it just seems a bit surprising.”
“Does it really? It doesn’t seem strange to me at all!” she said a little shrilly. Her emotions seemed to be reaching some sort of crescendo in her body. A strange, indefinable feeling had risen in her as she’d watched Marc ride away. She felt exhausted and yet prickly with adrenaline. She was vaguely queasy. In the back of her mind, she had the niggling thought that she was now hotly defending to Eric something she’d just been denying with Marc, and that upset her even more.
