It better not take forever. Simon was running out of time.
It had nothing to do with his client's end-of-the-month deadline, and everything to do with his willpower. He'd been sitting at this table with Frankie for nearly six hours, and his strength was being severely tested. He'd memorized every single freckle on her nose and cheeks, he'd studied the way she caught her lower lip between her teeth when she was concentrating, and he'd stopped himself from reaching out for her more times than he could count.
He needed to find this man John, so he could find John's stepson, Jazz, so Frankie could see for herself that the guy was not worth her time.
Whereas Simon was?
No. But the time Frankie spent with Simon— preferably in Simon's bed—was going to be so incredible, it wasn't going to matter. It was going to be worth it.
At least it would be to Simon. Somehow—he didn't know how or why it had happened— Frankie held the key that would unlock him from this damned self-imposed state of monkhood he'd recently found himself in. Somehow, out of all of the women in the world, Frankie was the one woman that he wanted, the one woman who could set him free.
It was going to happen. He had to believe that.
“I wish there were a way to narrow down the dates,” Simon said. “Lots of people take vacations the same two or three weeks each year. Are you sure Jazz and his family didn't—”
“I'm positive,” Frankie interrupted. “Some times he was here in April, and sometimes he came down in February or March. The last year he came down it was early May. I know because—” She broke off. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
She shuffled through the papers on the table, searching for the date. “It was May, and it was a month before I turned eighteen. I know because I reread what I wrote in my diary just last night.”
Simon stared across the table at her. “Your diary?”
Frankie kept a diary? She hardly seemed the type. “Since when did you keep a diary?”
“Since forever,” Frankie said, not even looking up. “I still do—sometimes.” She found the page she was looking for and quickly skimmed the contents. “Shoot.”
“What?”
She pushed the paper in front of him. “No first names.”
Simon glanced down the list. “Here's Marshall again.” He frowned. “But it's a different address than the two previous records.”
Frankie snatched the page back from him and skewered it to the corkboard on the wall with a green pushpin. Then she bolted out of the kitchen. The swinging door rocked on its hinges as he heard her rapid footsteps up the stairs.
Curious, Simon followed, standing and stretching for the first time in what seemed like hours. He took the stairs to the second floor of the little house at a more leisurely pace.
The sun was starting to set, and Frankie had turned the light on in her room. Simon stopped in the doorway, watching as she moved from bookcase to bookcase, pulling spiral notebooks of all shapes and sizes from her shelves and tossing them onto the bed.
There were about thirty-five notebooks already there, and she showed no sign of stopping.
“Diaries,” she said in response to his unspoken question. “I've always kept diaries. All we need to do is search through these for any mention of Jazz, and we'll have the dates that he was here on the key. We can cross-reference those dates with the rental records and hopefully come up with his stepdad's last name.”
She dumped another armload on top of the pile, then sat down, cross-legged, her back against the headboard.
“I know it looks like a lot,” she said, “but in the front of each book I always wrote the year. We can ignore the ones that I wrote before I turned ten, before Jazz first came to the key, and after I turned eighteen.”
Frankie flipped open a notebook, quickly checked the date, tossed it onto the floor, then did the same with the next one.
Simon couldn't believe it. Was Frankie actually going to let him read her diaries?
She wasn't kidding when she said she'd been writing them forever. The bed was covered with pages and pages of her deepest thoughts. And passions. And desires ….
Simon sat down on the edge of her bed and picked up one of the slim, spiral-bound books. He opened to a page in the middle.
December 20th, he read silently. Frankie's hand writing was bold and messy, but not un readable.
God, it's dark up here in Vermont. And cold. I knew when I took this scholarship that there wouldn't be enough money to go home for the holidays, but after two years in a row, I'm tired of being alone, and knowing how much Gram misses me doesn't help. The snow that I found so amusing back in No vem ber falls relentlessly. It's beautiful, but I want to go home. Five more months, and then two more years ….
College. Frankie had written this when she'd gone away to college, Simon realized. It had taken her nearly three years after high school to save enough for her college tuition, even with the scholarship she'd won. But she'd never finished, never gotten her degree. He vaguely remembered her grandmother having a stroke or something that required Frankie's full-time care. He flipped ahead several pages, knowing that there was no reason for him to continue looking in this notebook, but unable to stop himself.
February 4th. Gram is in the hospital. Heart attack. Doc West called the school. I'm on the plane home, flying into Fort Myers, scared to death. She can't die. I won't let her die.
It's been years since I've prayed, but I'm praying now. I thought I'd forgotten how.
Charlie drove me to the airport.
Charlie? Who was Charlie?
He knows I'm not coming back, but he told me that's okay. He said after he finishes grad school, he'll come down to Sunrise Key and then we'll get married.
Simon felt a twinge of jealousy, then forced himself to be rational. This Charlie was someone Frankie had known years ago. Clearly, things hadn't worked out between them. Whatever Frankie had felt for this man was well in the past. Simon read further.
I told him I didn't want to marry him, and he got mad, but then he got all mushy and suffocating. He figures I'm talking that way only on account of my being upset about Gram. He told me that if I needed anything, all I had to do was call him. He's two years younger than me, but he's a senior and a man and he clearly thinks that he's got one up on me in the brains department. But he's the one who's slightly addled. He actually thinks I want to be taken care of.
Simon had to smile. Charlie may have been about to graduate from college, but clearly, he had a little bit more to learn—about Frankie in particular.
I wish we didn't have to talk, Frankie's diary continued. I wish we could spend all our time making love—
The jealousy was back, sharp and stabbing, bigger than a twinge. Simon glanced up at Frankie. Her full attention was on sorting through the other notebooks, so he read further.
I wish we could spend all our time making love, lost in pure physical pleasure, surrounded only by need, separate from what should be and what ought to be. When we make love, for a moment he forgets about being so damn pompous, so steady and down-to-earth. I can pretend that he brings me flowers, and that he believes love is something wild and uncontrollable, something he didn't plan to feel, something that makes him burn and shake.
But I know the truth. He loves the sex. And he loves my southern accent and the color of my eyes and the shape of my face, but he doesn't truly love me. He thinks if he can get me to dress the way he does in those boring sweaters and chinos, I'll make a cute little wife. He thinks that our babies will be pretty. They would be pretty, that's no lie.
But when I fell in love with Charlie I fell in love with a fantasy. I think his blond hair and blue eyes reminded me of Sunrise Key. To be brutally honest, the truth is, Charlie's handsome face reminded me of Simon Hunt—
Simon looked up, startled as Frankie snatched the notebook from his hands, shutting it in the process.
“You're not supposed to read ‘em!” She stared down at the notebook, flipping open
the cover. “You're just supposed to check the date and either put ‘em in this pile, or toss ‘em onto the floor.” Her cheeks flushed as she saw that the book he had been reading dated from her years at college. But she pretended not to be embarrassed as she tossed the notebook onto the floor.
Charlie reminded me of Simon Hunt ….
She glanced up at him. “Are you helping or not?”
I wish we could spend all our time making love, lost in pure physical pleasure, surrounded only by need, separate from what should be and what ought to be ….
Simon picked up another notebook, suddenly very aware that he was in Francine's bedroom, sitting on her bed. There was no place on earth he'd rather be. Now, if he could only figure out a way to get all these notebooks off the bed and Frankie into his arms …. He leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow. “How come I never heard about Charlie?”
She didn't answer right away. “I don't know. It wasn't as if he were some kind of secret.”
He flipped open the cover of the book he held, glancing down at the date. This diary was from only a few years before. Was he mentioned in there? Did she ever write about him? What did she say? He had to look ….
“You wrote that Charlie reminded you of me,” Simon said.
Frankie took another notebook. “Did I really?” Her voice was even, matter-of-fact, and she didn't look up. “I don't remember.”
She was lying. Simon was willing to bet she remembered every single intimate thought she ever wrote in these diaries. She was doing her best to ignore him, so he took advantage and put the book he was holding in front of him on the bed and quickly opened it to the middle. He picked up another notebook and lifted the cover, pretending to check the date as he read Frankie's now-familiar bold handwriting from the open book.
Work, work, and more work. One fishing trip after another. I pull into the dock, let the happy fishers off, pick up the next group. I'm up before dawn and don't get home until way after dark. Maybe sometime next week it'll rain, and I'll sleep all day long. Maybe sometime in the next century I'll actually get a date ….
Simon turned several pages, looking for his name. Ah-ha!
Saw Simon downtown. Leila's due in for a visit next week. I can't wait to see her—it's been too long …. She went on to write about her longstanding friendship with Simon's sister. Not one more word about Simon. He turned toward the back of the notebook.
… the last time I'll ever wear a two-piece bathing suit, she'd written at the top of the page, the underlined words catching his eye.
I should have known. I should have kept my T-shirt on, but it was so damn hot. I should have just sweated. I should have known that bunch was going to be trouble, with all their rude comments and innuendos.
I was helping the skinny guy pull in a fish. I didn't even feel the knife blade as the fat guy cut the back strap of my bathing suit. But just like that I was half naked.
It happened so fast. It's all a jumble of noises, hoots of laughter, and shouting. My own shouting. A blur of sensations, streaks of movement, action caught in a strobe light, embedded forever in my memory, playing over and over and over. I want it to go away. Maybe if I write it down ….
I let go of the fishing pole, try to cover myself. A splash—the pole and the skinny man go overboard. The fat man laughs loud, wheezy laughter. His eyes are red and watery from too much beer and sun. “Hey, Hank, that's one hell of a pair you caught!” Anger—
I was furious. How dare you? Groping hands, squeezing, touching my body, the stink of alcohol on his breath, more laughter—they're all laughing. I kick out, miss my target, connect with his thigh, mad as hell, how dare you? How dare you?
Simon felt as if he were choking, knowing that he was reading the words Frankie had written mere hours after she'd been attacked. He knew without a doubt that this was the incident that had made her quit her job at the marina, the job she had chartering Preston Seaholm's fishing boat. He turned the page, no longer even pretending not to read the words written there.
I kick him again and he's mad too, rips off what's left of my bathing suit top, pushes me down hard. On the deck on my back, knock over a bait bucket. Awash with briny water, little fish jumping, flopping, just like me, skittering on my elbows, trying to get away.
He read what she had written, heard the fear now mixed in with the anger. His heart was in his throat. Dear God, had she been raped? Had she not even told Leila the truth about what had happened that awful day? Simon knew with a dreadful certainty that whatever had happened, the truth was written right there, in that notebook. All he had to do to find out was to keep reading.
This can't be happening. Can't be …. He's on top of me—
Frankie whisked her diary away from him. “Dam mit, Simon, didn't you hear what I just said? Doesn't privacy mean anything to you?”
Simon looked up into the hot brown of Frankie's eyes and saw her gaze falter at the expression on his face. He reached for the diary, needing to finish reading, needing to know what had really happened. She pulled it away from him, so he reached for her instead.
Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth opened slightly, and Simon realized there were tears in his own eyes.
“God, Frankie!” He pulled her toward him, enveloping her in his arms, burying his face in the sweetness of her short dark hair.
He was shaking with anger and outrage and fear. How could something that awful have happened to her here on Sunrise Key? He had prob ably been sitting at his desk that day. He'd probably been looking out the window of his home office at the crystal blue of the ocean, talking on the phone, laughing and joking—while she was lying on her back on the deck of the fishing boat. It killed him that he'd never known. It killed him that she'd never sought comfort from him.
He was comforting her now, but it was much, much too late. He felt her arms go up, around him, and suddenly she was holding him, comforting him. She didn't know why, didn't have to know why. Her friendship was unconditional, it always had been. And, oh, man, she smelled so good, felt so right in his arms But even that couldn't overpower his need to know the truth.
“Simon, what on earth is the matter? You're shaking ….”
“You've got to let me finish reading that.” Simon's voice sounded harsh and strained even to his own ears.
“Reading what? I can't believe something I wrote in my diary could make you so—”
“The rape.” He tried to say it flatly, but his voice faltered.
He felt her stiffen, felt the tension suddenly appear in his shoulders and back. She swore, just once, under her breath, and pulled away from him. He let go, suddenly afraid to touch her, afraid to move.
“Figures you had to read that one,” she said, and swore again. She was unable to hold his gaze, looking down at the book in her hands, at the notebooks that she'd tossed onto her throw rug, out the window at the deepening twilight, looking anywhere but into his eyes.
“Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“I couldn't. I could hardly tell anyone.”
“Not even Leila?”
She glanced up at him then, her expression guarded. She carefully closed the notebook. “I told Leila.”
“Everything?”
A slight hesitation, but then she nodded. Simon's stomach hurt. She hadn't.
“You told Leila that you were being hassled and you feared for your safety so you made the men who chartered the boat all jump overboard, and towed them back to harbor.”
Frankie nodded again. “That's what happened.”
He had tears in his eyes again, and this time he couldn't blink them back. This time they threatened to overflow. “Dammit, tell me the truth.”
She shook her head. “That is the truth.”
“I don't believe you.”
Her eyes flashed. “Okay, so I didn't go into detail. Can you really blame me for not wanting to talk about what it felt like to be completely, utterly, vulnerable? Is it my fault for not wanting to discuss what it felt like to have som
e awful stranger's hands in my shorts? It was easier to tell her that I was just …. hassled.”
Simon's voice felt tight. “I wouldn't call what I read in your diary hassled. You were sexually assaulted.”
She looked down at the rug again. “Yeah,” she said, her voice very quiet. “I was.” She looked up at him. “But not raped.”
Was she telling the truth? Simon didn't know what to believe. He looked down at the notebook she held in her hands. “You have to let me read what you wrote.”
“So you'll believe me.”
He nodded.
She gazed at him for a long, long time, as if deciding whether or not to let him in on her terrible secret. Finally, she handed him the notebook. “It's so nice to know I have your trust.” The words were sarcastic, but her voice held only sadness. She stood up. “I need some fresh air.”
Without looking back at him, Frankie walked out of the room.
Simon looked at the notebook in his hands with a feeling of dread. Slowly, he opened it. Slowly, he turned the pages to where he'd been reading.
This can't be happening. Can't be …. He's on top of me, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, slobbering, suffocating me, violating me. They're laughing as he tugs at my shorts, as the denim rips. His fingers, touching, hurting. There's nothing I can do. Powerless, numb with fear. There's nothing I can do to stop this. A fish flops near me, eyes glazing as it gasps for breath, dying, but still it struggles, still it fights to find the water.
The fish won't quit, so neither will I. My arms are pinned, but not my teeth. I bite. Fat man pulls away. One arm freed—it's all I need. One thrust up, the heel of my hand to his nose, just the way Gram taught me. Gush of blood. Howl of pain. He jerks back. I scramble free. But, God, there's five of them, and they're not laughing anymore. I make it to the flare gun, cock it, and aim it at the fat one. Everyone freezes—everyone but the last fish, still flopping on the deck. I bend down, scoop it up, and toss it overboard. Free at last. Then, standing there like some kind of wild creature, shorts torn, breasts bare and covered with the blood from the fat man's nose, I tell my merry band of fishermen to join their skinny friend in the gulf or one of ‘em's gonna find out what an incandescent flare feels like, fired at close range.
The Kissing Game Page 6
