by Vicky Loebel
“So, it’s all right if you don’t want to use the insurance money to fix the theater. Honestly. The building’s just a shell.”
The seagull squawked irritably and flew away.
“Careful.” Mike squeezed Lane’s hand. “I think Aunt Esther heard you.”
She giggled. “Mike!”
“Come here.” His smile forgave her for rejecting him. “Sit with me.”
They found a shaded spot where they could lean against the wall. From that low angle, all that was visible of Mimosa Key was pure blue sky marked by the rippling palm fronds overhead—an upside-down ocean, dotted by leafy boats.
“If it was just us….” Mike put his arm behind Lane, providing the best possible cushion. “If it was just us, I’d say we should give up on the building. I don’t know much about theaters except they always seem to be desperate for money. My guess is Charity’s right—there’s a good chance you’d end up bankrupt even starting with a working stage.”
Lane forced herself to listen quietly.
“But it’s not just us. All these plans I made to cruise the world in the Hermia to honor Uncle Elias’ memory—it seems to me Aunt Esther deserves honoring, too.”
The gull flew back, hovered facing the breeze and landed. This time it had a friend.
“So here’s my suggestion. We use the insurance money to rewire the building and pay for basic repairs like cleaning smoke off the auditorium ceiling. It won’t stretch much farther than that.”
“I’ve got the auction money.” Lane tried not to sound eager. “That’s enough to repair the stage. Not state of the art, but basic sound and lights, and maybe folding chairs to muddle through our first year.”
“I’d rather you kept the auction money. Essie left the costumes to you, not to the Mimosa Community Theater. I think she wanted to give you a financial cushion.” He squeezed Lane’s arm.
Despite the heat she snuggled closer. “I don’t mind investing in the theater.”
“Maybe, but I’m not finished.” Mike turned toward her, touching her cheek. “Essie could have left you the building, or left it to the theater company, and I would never have given it a second thought. But she left it to me. So when I sell to the Captain’s Club, I’m going to put two-thirds of the proceeds into the Mimosa Community Theater nonprofit foundation.” He smiled. “Assuming you set one up by then.”
“But—”
“That ought to keep Charity Grambling—or anyone else—from throwing you out after I’m gone.”
“But—”
“No buts. It’s what I want. And I think it’s what Essie would have wanted.”
“It is. It’s wonderful. And much more generous than anything I imagined.” What had Lane done to deserve this guy? “Except….” She clasped the fingers touching her face. “Except I don’t want you to go.”
“Me neither.” Mike gathered her for a kiss.
Lane lifted and turned to face him, swinging her knee across his lap. “I really, really don’t want you to go.” He had the sexiest hair, the most appealing muscular neck and shoulders.
Mike growled softly. Strong arms crushed Lane against his chest. Hands, large and irresistible, slid through her hair, grasping her head. She melted into him, forgetting her troubles, her sense of failure. Forgetting everything except how much she needed this man.
Mike removed his shirt and spread it on the ground. Then he took off Lane’s shirt and layered it on top of his. Without dislodging her from his lap, without exposing an inch of skin over the parapet, he maneuvered them both out of their jeans and laid those flat as well, creating a Lane-on-Mike outline of clothing.
Lane stroked him languidly, barely aware of what was happening, intensely conscious of every point of connection between them. At last he laid her back onto the fabric cushion, hovering above her on hands and knees.
“Mine.” Mike uttered the only word that mattered.
“Yes.” She was his. “I want you so much.”
He claimed her mouth first, then her body, then her soul.
Lane vibrated beneath Mike’s whispered answer. “I’m yours.”
Chapter Eleven
“Mikey, my boy, this is the life.” Nick Hershey propped his feet on the Hermia’s stern rail and sighed. “Great fish, great friends, great food.”
They were anchored off a tiny Caribbean island, repeating a pattern that had become second nature to Mike: up early, search out a good fishing ground, catch the next couple of meals, and find an anchorage for the night. Between fishing, there had been stops at colorful Caribbean markets, jungle hikes, and hours of snorkeling exotic coral reefs in crystal clear water.
Mike inhaled the scent of spicy mango chutney drifting from the Hermia’s galley. Nick’s wife, Willow, had begged off fishing, claiming she couldn’t eat a creature after seeing its face. She took over cooking instead, and since Willow’s day job was food and beverage manager for Barefoot Brides, the arrangement had worked out perfectly.
But then, everything about the last two months at sea had been perfect. From balmy days following one after another, to fish that practically leaped into the ice chest, to starry moonlit nights. Even the mild squalls the Hermia had faced had proved satisfying, increasing Mike’s confidence in his ability to handle the forty-four-foot Striker and keep his passengers safe.
But it was all a little too perfect. A little too balmy. A little too empty without Lane. Mike rose, removing his cap and sunglasses. “I think I’ll dive on the anchor before supper. Anyone want to come?”
“Sure.” Sixteen-year old Zach, a relative of Willow’s who’d tagged along on their vacation, put down the ukulele he’d been playing, reached for his mask and flippers, and cannonballed over the side.
Mike and Nick watched him strike out swimming around the boat. The boy—almost the age Mike had been in basic training—had been a nervous swimmer when Mike picked up his friends in Puerto Rico. Now Zach plowed the water like a pro.
“Race you both,” Nick called, diving in.
Mike followed less athletically but with a better sense of where to go, launching himself into the shallow water, beating the other two to the bottom of the anchor chain with inches to spare.
The boat was holding well. Mike signaled thumbs up, and they snorkeled the short distance to the island, scanning the rocky bottom for the glint of fish settling down for the night. By the time they rejoined Hermia, the sun had painted the sea bright golden yellow and the smell of pan-fried fish filled the air. Mike climbed to the bridge and checked his satellite data and weather reports while the ocean faded to midnight blue and stars rioted like fireworks across the sky.
This was the life, all right. He’d seen dolphins and flying fish, eaten in tiny thatched restaurants on hidden islands, and traded his catch in village markets for fresh supplies. And he’d had wonderful company—from the Air Force buddies who’d come for weeks at a time, to friends like Nick and Willow, spending a few days on the Hermia as part of a longer Caribbean trip.
It was a perfect life. But possibly not for Mike.
“Oh, ho.” Willow carried a platter of fish tacos up from the galley. “Look who’s off his phone, for a change.” She wasn’t referring to the teenager.
“I don’t use my phone that much, do I?” Mike took the platter and offered Willow a Perrier, knowing she was too health conscious to want a beer. “Besides, it’s mostly texts.”
“That’s right,” Nick said. “Mike’s hardly on the phone. It’s his computer that’s getting a workout.”
“That telling late night glow,” Willow agreed, “beneath the cabin door….”
“Yeah, what are you doing in there all night?” Zach joined the kidding. “Old guys don’t play video games.”
“Computer solitaire,” Mike replied. “My record’s seventy-six wins in a row.” The fact was, he and Lane had been sleeping together. And since she was a thousand miles away, that meant keeping his laptop open in bed. It wasn’t great, as far as romance was concerned, but
it had given them lots of time to talk.
Willow nibbled delicately on her taco. “Two days, and then it’s back to work with the bridezillas.” She grinned. “I don’t suppose the Virgin Islands are suffering an airline strike? Or you’d consider keeping me on as cook?”
“Neither, sorry.” Mike laughed at her mournful expression. “Besides, I’m lending my boat to Skeeter Davis in St. Thomas.” The captain had left Mike several weeks ago, pronouncing him fit for command. But when Skeeter offered to charter the Hermia, it created a perfect opportunity for Mike to fly to Florida and finalize the sale of the Mimosa Theater. And see Lane. “I’ve got business in Mimosa Key.”
Willow traded looks with her husband. “We all know your business.”
“Well,” Zach seconded Mike, “I have to get home, too. Internet classes are OK, but my girl can’t go to next week’s Fall Formal without me.”
“And I,” Nick said, “need peace and quiet for writing. All this fishing and lying around in the sun takes too much out of a guy.”
“I know, I know.” Willow sighed. “And our fall wedding season is kicking off. Can’t blame a girl for dreaming.” She took her Perrier into the stern to watch for shooting stars while Nick and Zach cleared and washed dishes.
“I’m going to treasure these memories,” Willow told Mike when he joined her. “I thought the Caribbean would be like Florida, but it’s totally different. I wish Lane could have come.”
“She will sometime.” Although Mike wasn’t sure how. Lane’s theater kept her busy enough for two people. On top of that were classes at Casa Blanca, helping the drama teacher at the high school, private lessons. The woman never slowed down.
Zach came out carrying his salt-stained ukulele.
“What will it be tomorrow?” Mike asked his guests. “A final round of fishing? Water sports? Or we can tie up early and hit the tourist spots in St. Thomas.”
“Tourist?” Willow clasped her heart. “Does that mean duty-free shopping?”
“And restaurants,” Nick asked, “that serve something other than fish?”
Mike laughed. “I admit, I could go for a steak. How about you, Zach?”
“Not going. Don’t care.” The teen didn’t glance up. “But leave the sat-link on. I’m going to practice with my band.”
“St. Thomas, then.” The farther away from band practice the better.
Zach cleared his throat. “We just finished a new song.” He launched into what could only be described as a hip-hop ukulele sea-shanty.
Probably the up-and-coming thing in music. Mike left his friends and went below to his cabin. He brushed his teeth, took a ten-second shower, checked his reflection a couple of times in the mirror—a haircut was definitely overdue—opened his laptop, and settled in bed with a volume of Midsummer Night’s Dream (No Fear Shakespeare). Twenty minutes later—exactly twenty-two minutes after their agreed-on time—the woman he loved appeared on the computer screen.
“Couldn’t get the gidgets to bed, sorry.” Lane and her daughters had settled into her in-laws’ home in Blue Landing. “They’re super excited that you’re coming back.”
“They’re excited, huh?”
“Me, too.” Her laugh accompanied a flattering shrug. She backed away from the camera, revealing the short shapely kimono she’d worn their first night together. “Want the local news?”
“Sure.”
Lane launched into her daily summary and started removing clothes. Kimono off. The sexy red camisole underneath was just a prelude to the garters and stockings she must have put on specially for him. Mike watched them roll down, listening—trying to listen—to everything going on with MCT, but by the time she slipped under the covers, he’d forgotten every word.
She stretched her arms over her head. “Your turn.” She meant, take off his clothes.
“Already bare.”
“Well?”
Mike demonstrated.
“Nice.” Her eyes smoldered. “You’d better hurry back to me pretty fast, flyboy.”
“I think it’s swabbie now,” he said. “Hurry back for what?”
She told him what. Then he told her. Mike watched her eyelids flutter, her breasts rise and fall under the sheet, remembering Lane’s soft skin, imagining the parts he ached to kiss. The conversation slipped into soft murmurs and longed-for-caresses. For a few moments, the two of them were united, but then the reality of the situation caught up.
“Mike.” Lane sat up solemnly, wrapping the sheet around her. “Where’s all this going?”
“As long as it’s not YouTube,” he kidded, “who cares?”
“I don’t mean our video chat. I feel…. I worry we won’t have anything to discuss after the theater’s sold.”
“We’ll have Shakespeare. You’re speaking to a man who knows literature.” He held up the beginner’s copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “That’s something that can keep us going for years.”
“The man did write a lot of plays.”
“And you,” he said, “can learn about stowing cargo. Whether to rake the keel of a boat up or down. Pretty deep stuff.”
“You mean, stuff like this?” She held up a thick volume of illustrated boating, opened it, and read: “Reserve buoyancy is an essential component of any vessel’s seaworthiness….”
Mike listened with a rush of affection. “Please tell me you’re meeting my plane in Miami.”
“I am.” She set the book aside. “We’ll have all weekend. Janet’s hosting a slumber tea-party for a houseful of girls.”
“Fantastic. We’re still on track to close escrow, and I’ll have two weeks in Florida.” He told her about Skeeter chartering the Hermia.
“Two weeks.” She didn’t look as happy as he’d hoped. “So,” Lane asked hesitantly, “do you still love fishing?”
“I love it when I catch more fish than Nick,” he joked. “The rest….” He loved the business of fishing. Planning, purchasing supplies, loading and trimming the boat. “I like the challenge, the charts, the variables of tide and wind and current. I like plotting a course at least half as well as my navigation computer and pretending I know how to maintain the engines.” He didn’t love sitting in the sun drinking beer. “It all still feels pretty new.”
Lane nodded.
“How about you?” Mike asked. “Do you still love A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” The play was opening soon.
“I’m a little tired of it.” She grinned. “It seems like I’ve been rehearsing this cast since the dawn of time. But they’re getting good, and I’ll start work on our next play soon, so I get to move on.”
Move on. She meant directing, but there was more to it than that. How long could a gorgeous, well-educated woman like Lane stay interested in a guy whose only connection to her was a computer chat window? How long before someone who fit better into her life caught her eye? Mike wasn’t stupid. Twenty years in the Air Force had shown him how hard it is to keep up long-distance relationships.
“Sorry.” Lane yawned. “I know it’s early, but I’ve got to be up at dawn. The guys who cleaned the auditorium ceiling are taking down their scaffolding.” She lay back, pulling the sheet to her chin. “It looks fantastic, by the way. The starburst inlay really stands out.”
“Text me a picture when they’re gone. By the way, I’m taking Nick and Willow shopping in St. Thomas tomorrow. Any requests?”
“Backrubs.” Lane smiled sleepily. “I’d like a case of backrubs.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Gemma’s reading Mutiny on the Bounty. She wants a breadfruit tree.”
“Wrong island, I’m afraid.”
“And Mima’s got a standing order for a baby dolphin.”
“So.” Mike laughed. “Tee-shirts for everyone?”
“Sounds good.” She closed her eyes. “I love you, Mike Evans. Good night.”
“I love you, too.”
He pulled on clothes and rejoined his friends on deck, listening to Mozart as interpreted on the ukulele
. That was followed by a rousing singalong—Willow’s family had ties to the music industry—and a hilariously bad sailor’s hornpipe from Nick.
At last Mike made his final rounds of Hermia, checking in with nearby boats via radio to make sure everyone was well. And then he settled down in his cabin.
Mike lay in bed, watching Lane sleep in the little video-chat window. He missed her. He loved her.
And he was very much afraid he’d have to give her up.
Chapter Twelve
“So, what’ll it be, gidgets?” Lane planted Mima on a copy shop counter and fanned out brightly colored sheets of paper. “What shall we pick for our first ever Midsummer Night’s Dream flier?”
Gemma stood on tiptoe and ran her fingers over the samples. “It’s a momentous decision.”
“Purple.” Mima went for the obvious.
Lane picked up a baby-blue sheet. “This one is like the sky at sunset.”
“But yellow’s summery,” Gemma said. “And Aunt Ari says people can see yellow from farther away.”
“Purple with yellow glitter,” Mima chirped.
“You may be on to something.” The fliers, a miniature version of a poster designed by Ari from Barefoot Brides, featured two fairies—one in cowboy boots—who closely resembled the girls. “We could hand-paint glitter onto the wings.” If they worked fast. The Mimosa Community Theater’s grand opening was only ten days away, which meant the fliers—a last minute impulse—had to go up tonight.
Lane selected bright yellow and stretched her budget to heavier stock. What the heck. She had a whole auditorium’s worth of seats going in tomorrow, thanks to Mike, who was down the street right now, selling his building and making a mind-boggling donation to the Mimosa Community Theater Foundation. She’d snuck the gidgets out of school early so they could meet Mike in Naples to celebrate.
Mike. Lane’s skin tingled. Magic Mike. The man’s power, his generosity, most of all, the tender look that came over him when he was gazing at her…she could hardly believe her good luck.
Of course, Magic Mike was returning to the Caribbean in a few days and hadn’t said anything about coming back. Lane shrugged, refusing to worry. She had a fabulous boyfriend, the finest daughters in the world, and an amateur cast that was showing real talent for Shakespeare. This was going to be the best ten days of her life.
