For My Daughters

by Barbara Delinsky

  She was on her feet in a minute, clutching the afghan. “I’d love to, but I’m not dressed right. Either I’ll freeze, or this’ll get wet.”

  He rolled to his feet. “I have old sweaters at my place. They’ve been wet so many times once more won’t matter, but they’ll keep us warm. I’ll run back.” He paused. “Or walk. Want to come?”

  Leah hesitated only as long as it took to realize that while Ginny might be shocked by what her youngest was doing in the middle of the night with the gardener—a nobody in proper society and a pauper, to boot, but more man than most women met in a lifetime—the fact of the matter was that Ginny wasn’t there.

  “Sure,” she said with a smile and set off beside him.

  The cottage was an amber glow that grew and beckoned with their approach. Jesse held the door and followed her in.

  “Be right down,” he said and took the stairs to the loft two at a time. With a single lamp lit below, the loft was shadowed, but not so deeply that Leah couldn’t see him tug sweaters from a closet, then open a dresser drawer, strip down, and pull on dry shorts.

  Leah suffered a sudden hot flash and looked away. The large woven throw that hung over the loft rail prevented her from seeing anything of him from the waist down, but her imagination wasn’t as obliging. It painted his body in large, bold, bare strokes, and had her heart pulsing in record time.

  “Still there?” he called.

  “Still here,” she answered in an absurdly high voice. To make it sound less absurd and more deliberate, as though the highness was necessary for projection to the loft, she called in a voice not much lower, “I like your place.” Her periphery registered photographs on the walls, though she didn’t have the wherewithal to approach them. “It looks very comfortable.”

  He trotted down the stairs, wearing jeans and one sweater and carrying another, which he gently pulled over her head. She released her hold on the afghan and slipped her arms into the sleeves. He rolled them back to her wrists, then began freeing her hair from the neckline, one handful after another.

  Leah’s heart was on a runaway track. “Sorry. There’s so much. It’s unruly.”

  But his eyes were appreciative, his voice deep. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He admired it for another minute, then said quietly, “All set?”

  She nodded. He guided her outside and led her toward a point farther down the bluff. At its edge, he took her hand.

  They worked their way over the rocks and down a path that was steep, but worn by the years into a tiered decline. Negotiating it in bare feet was the easy part. The tough part was experiencing close-up the shock of the ocean as it rushed forward, crashed against the rocks and shot skyward, then fell, foamed, and ebbed. Leah felt small and helpless. The feeling increased the lower they went and the more deeply the crashing echoed inside her.

  She should have been frightened—certainly would have been, had she been alone, even in broad daylight. But Jesse had her hand. He was her protector, the difference between terror and awe.

  He led her to a sprawling boulder that would keep them out of the spray, but just, and drew her down between his legs. Around them the tide surged and fled, swirled, burst, and retreated, seeming far more a tempest than it had from above and, in that, fascinating. She tucked her feet under her nightgown, which was largely covered by Jesse’s sweater, and gave in to mesmerism.

  “Doin’ okay?” came a gentle breath by her ear.

  She sighed. “Oh, yes.”

  “Warm enough?”

  “Perfect.”

  He drew her back once, laughing, with an arm around her waist, when the tide threatened to wet them—then again, a while later, and each time she landed more snugly against him. Later still, when a third move became imminent, he suggested they head back.

  Leah would have stayed there all night. She was thoroughly enjoying herself—exhilarated by the sea and by being near Jesse. But though she had nothing better to do than to sleep in that day, the same couldn’t be said for him. So she took the hand he offered and trailed him up over the rocks. When they reached the bluff and started across the grass, their hands remained linked.

  “That was special,” she said. “Do you go there often?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. It can be lonely sitting out there. It’s best seeing it with someone else.”

  As they walked, she realized how pleased she was that he had asked her. He hadn’t had to. He might have just climbed out of the pool and gone off to bed, which was what the men at home would have done. They weren’t into going out of their way to share something purely for the fun or the beauty of it, and in the instances when they did, there was an ulterior motive. That motive was usually less than noble.

  A cynic would have said that Jesse Cray had a less than noble motive. Leah was the boss’s daughter, and loaded.

  But she wasn’t a cynic. She believed that Jesse was his own man. He didn’t have to punch in a time clock or brown-nose for the sake of a promotion. He didn’t have to impress anyone. His work spoke for itself, and what he did on his own time was his own business. He chose the way he lived.

  And he had chosen to show her the midnight sea.

  “Thank you for taking me.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  They walked on. The grass was soft under her feet, as seductive as the tide had been hypnotic. The breeze lifted her hair and whispered against her neck. Jesse’s hand held hers.

  She heard a sound from the woods.

  “Owl,” he said. “It’s their time.”

  Which brought reality home. “It’s very late. I’ll change back into my afghan and leave. You’ll want to sleep.”

  “I don’t need much.”

  “But you start work so early.”

  “This is worth being tired for.”

  The farther they walked from the sea, the quieter the night, and by contrast the louder the echo of the sea within. She felt stirred—heart hammering, pulse racing—because Jesse was close. None of it had ebbed by the time they reached the cottage.

  He held the door for her, and, once inside, eased the sweater over her head.

  She looked up at him then. He was wearing his solemn face, but there, stark amid the gravity, she saw desire and need, even fear—everything she was feeling—and it was suddenly too much to resist.

  His mouth brushed her cheek. She turned toward it. Their lips touched once, then again, sweetly. She sighed—in relief, pleasure, excitement. He tasted just the way he smelled, pure and male, and when he drew her close and moved her against him, she thought she would die. His body was large and hard. He excited her beyond belief.

  He kissed her again, but she needed more. She had from the start—and only in part because her loneliness craved it. The loneliness was nothing new. Nor was the availability of a man. Over the years she had had opportunities aplenty, but she had never taken any, until now.

  Jesse Cray fascinated her. He was unpolished. He was physical. He was forbidden. He was also virile and aroused, and she wanted him.

  More. He looked at her as though she were special, precious, one of a kind. She wanted to be those things, too.

  She slipped her arms around his neck at the same time that he caught her up, and the sheer relief of the full physical contact made her cry out. He was strong and hard, so intent on holding her that his body trembled.

  He held her back only to take her face in his hands, and when he kissed her this time, it was no simple touch of the lips. It was deep, wet, and long, a statement of a raw, carnal need.

  It never occurred to Leah to break it off—not then, or when he led her up the stairs to the loft, removed her nightgown, and touched her first with his eyes then his hands, or when he tore off his own clothes and lowered his naked body to hers. He was an icon of grace and power, all long legs, hair-spattered skin, and magic hands that took her to the point of release and beyond, then, even before she had caught her breath, began again. He was a h
ighly physical man with fluid moves and bold thrusts that lifted her up and away from the woman she’d once been in ways that would have been terrifying, had he not stayed with her. He kissed her eyes. He touched her face. He drew her hands to his chest and moaned his encouragement when they lowered. At his most untamed, when he reared back, drove her higher, then higher still, and threw back his head, her name was the sound on his lips.

  She rested, curled against him. She might have even slept, but when he turned to her again, she was ready. There was a starved spot inside, it seemed, that hungered for everything he did, and he fed her—fed her with wet kisses, hands on her breasts and between her thighs, and an erection that stretched her and filled her and lasted forever.

  Shortly before dawn, he walked her back across the lawn, an arm around her shoulder, holding her close.

  “So,” he said, “what do you think?”

  She didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “I think that this has been the most improbable night I’ve ever spent.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No. A little confused, maybe.”

  “Because I’m not the kind of man you’re used to?”

  “Partly. Mostly because what I felt was so strong.”

  “Felt, past tense?”

  “Feel.” She stopped walking, slipped one arm around his waist and another down his thigh—and there was nothing coy in the gesture. She loved the feel of him beneath her hand—better bare than through jeans, but through jeans was better than nothing. “I wanted more. You were the one who said we should get up.”

  “It’ll be light soon. You need to be back in your own bed, and I need to work.” He took her face in his hands. They were large, work-roughened hands that held her with exquisite care. His voice rumbled from a place deep inside. “Remember when you asked if I’d ever been seriously involved with anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I told you that the right one hadn’t come along?” His eyes were intent. “She has now.”

  Leah caught her breath. He meant it. She could see. One part of her could even agree. The other part had her shaking her head in denial, but he held it still.

  “I believe that for every man there’s one woman, for every woman one man—only one, who grabs you, body and soul. Most people go through life without ever finding that one. They look around and experiment and settle for second best without knowing what they’re missing. You’re it for me, Leah.”

  “How do you know?” she cried, terrified mostly because what he said struck a chord. She had felt the pull, had felt it the first time she’d seen him. It was like nothing else ever in her life.

  “I just know,” he said with conviction. “When was the last time you were with a man?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “It’s been a while. And you’ve never done it after knowing a guy just two days. You’re not loose.”

  “No, but—”

  “You’ve been married twice. Did you ever have a night with either of them like the one we just had?”

  “Sex doesn’t make a relationship.”

  “What we did does.”

  She knew what he meant—which was totally unnerving. Jesse Cray was a gardener. He might be intelligent and articulate, but he had neither a pedigree, not a formal education. He lived in a one-room cottage on his employer’s property, indeed at his employer’s will. He was the antithesis of the kind of man she had been looking for.

  But he was the most exciting one she had ever found, the most frank, the most gentle, the most passionate, and when she thought about the way he made her feel—not only in bed, but on the bluff, in the heather garden, among the flowers—she could almost believe what he said about there being only one for one. She had never felt so—loved—in all of her thirty-four years.

  eleven

  WENDELL COOMBS AMBLED ACROSS THE porch of the general store and lowered himself onto the long wooden bench.

  “Clarence,” he said by way of greeting to the man who sat at the other end.

  “Wendell,” came the reply.

  Wendell warily sniffed the contents of his coffee mug. The coffee that day had been made from beans grown in a place he couldn’t pronounce, much less pin on a map. Not on his map, leastways. His map was thirty-seven years old. It didn’t have places he couldn’t pronounce.

  Not up for taking a sip just yet, he set the mug on his thigh, where it might do some good warming the spot that ached. “World’s goin’ to pot,” he grumbled. “Nothin’s the same, lately. Can’t get a cup’a coffee like Mavis used to make. Can’t get a sandwich on white bread.”

  “Wheat’s fine.”

  Wendell made a sound that said what he thought of wheat, and of coffee made from beans from countries he couldn’t pronounce. “Doesn’t seem to bothuh them up at Stah’s End. That lady—Gwen—was buyin’ all the fancy stuff.” He grunted. “Gotta rememba who she’s cookin’ foah, I s’pose.”

  “I heea she ain’t the cook. They cook themselves.”

  “Who said that?”

  “My June. She was talkin’ with Sally Goode, who was talkin’ with’a cousin, Molly, who was talkin’ with that lady. Gwen.”

  “So what’s Gwen do?” Wendell barked.

  “Manages the house.”

  “That’s fancy fa keepin’ the books. Lawd knows what’s on those books to make so much money. The two oldest been throwin’ it around in town, all flashy and hoity-toity.”

  Clarence took his pipe from his mouth and turned it this way and that, studying the stem, before putting it back between his teeth. “I heard different.”

  Wendell stared.

  Clarence took his tobacco pouch from his pocket. He dipped the pipe inside and pushed tobacco into the bowl. When he had it tamped to his satisfaction, he said, “Heard they was nice.”

  Wendell’s stare became a glare. “Who said that?”

  “Edie Stillman. She was talkin’ with the one from St.Louis.”

  Wendell sputtered. “Edie Stillman.”

  Clarence liked Edie. She had lived in Maine all her life. Sure, she was an artist, but there was nothing loose about her, like Wendell wanted to think. If she hadn’t been an artist, she might have moved away long ago. Most of them did, who wanted to do things that needed people around. So artists came to Downlee because there were other artists there, and because it was a fine place to work. Town could do worse.

  “What’d she say about the mothuh?” Wendell asked.

  Clarence put the pipe in his mouth. “Said she was livin’ in a mansion in the city.”

  “Yes, suh. That’s flashy.”

  Clarence tucked the pouch in the pocket of his canvas jacket in exchange for a match. “Could be just fact.”

  “I’ll tell you fact. Fact is the one from Chicago has mob friends and ahtsy friends. Simon says so. We got trouble.”

  Clarence put a flame to the tobacco and drew on the pipe until the tobacco caught. “Only if the friends come,” he said through the smoke that escaped.

  “And anothuh fact,” Wendell stated. “The fathuh’s been dead three yeahs. That’s all it took f’ha to turn around and sell everythin’ he had. I tell ya, she’s lookin’ for somethin’.”

  “How can she be lookin’ for somethin’ if she ain’t even heea?”

  “And why ain’t she heea?” Wendell asked.

  Clarence’s sources had various theories, none of which had him convinced. There was the idea she was partying so much she didn’t have time to come, but none of the people Clarence talked with could imagine a woman their own age carrying on like that. More likely she was taking it easy. “Mebbe she’s leavin’ all the movin’ in to the daughtuhs.”

  “Movin’ in’s all done, and she still ain’t heea.”

  “Mebbe she’s seein’ friends.”

  “While the daughtuhs wait?”

  “What’s Elmira say?”

  Wendell glowered. “Elmira says the woman’s scared’a comin’ here, but what does Elmira know. I
’m tellin’ you, Ginny St. Clayah’s lookin’ fa somethin’.”

  Clarence chuckled. “Ain’t much to find at Stah’s End, but flowahs and Jesse.”

  Wendell liked Jesse. Feeling stronger at the mere thought of the man, he put the coffee mug to his mouth and took a drink, swallowed it, shivered. When the spasm had passed, he said, “Jesse’s one’a us. No doubt whose side he’d be on, if it came to keepin’ dignity at Stah’s End. He loves the place.”

  Clarence couldn’t argue with that. He touched the tip of his cap when Callie Dalton came up the steps. “Mawnin’, Callie.”

  “Mawnin’, Clarence.”

  Wendell stared straight ahead until Callie Dalton, wife of a turncoat, was inside the store, but his thoughts were in a stir. With relish, he said, “Jesse’ll hate those women. Flashy stuff don’t fool him. He’s seen t’all.”

  Quietly, Clarence said, “They don’t look flashy, Wendell.”

  “Whadda you know.”

  “I seen ’em. Walkin’ ’round town. They look just like the rest’a us.”

  “Looks can fool a fool.”

  “They ain’t loud, not even last night at Julia’s.”

  Wendell grunted. “Talk’a trouble, Julia’s it.”

  Clarence wasn’t so sure. He and June had had a fair lunch at Julia’s the week before. If he ignored the funny look to some of the food, and the fancy names, and just concentrated on the taste, he had to admit that it wasn’t bad at all.

  Not that he’d tell that to June. She and Sally were thinking of updating the Church Ladies’ Cookbook. They were thinking of asking Julia to be their advisor. He didn’t know about Sally, but June was already putting sprouts on her salad.

  Not that he’d tell that to Wendell, who would start grouping June with the St. Clair women. But she wasn’t in the same group at all. She was quiet and loyal and polite and hard-working and bossy.

  “Got somethin’ to say?” Wendell asked.

  Clarence pulled deeply on his pipe and let the smoke out in a stream. “Nope.”

  “Gawd, that smoke stinks.”