Where Dolphins Go

by Webb, Peggy

  He watched Susan's emotional struggle as she pushed her hair back from her flushed face with one hand and stared at him with eyes as green as the sea. "Are you sure it's all right?"

  "I'd love to have you."

  Smiling, she reached for him. Their hands joined and they walked down the beach. Together.

  o0o

  The Dolphin, Paul's sloop was called. And Jeffy loved everything about it. Ensconced in a deck chair with his teddy bear, he asked a million questions.

  "How fast does it go?" "Can I drive?" "Are we going all the way around the world?" "Will we see Fergie?"

  Susan looked just the way Paul had imagined. Feminine. Delectable. Dangerous.

  Beside them, Jeffy's laughter rose high and bright like a kite turned loose on a windy day.

  "We'll go to Horn Island," Paul said, setting the course. "If we get very lucky, we'll see dolphins."

  "We're going where dolphins go?"

  "That's right, pal."

  "Will we see Fergie?"

  "We might. You remember the sea gate?" Jeffy nodded. "All dolphins at the center are free to come and go through the sea gate. At night and on weekends, many of our dolphins leave and go back to the sea."

  "Why do they come back?"

  "Because they love you, pal." Paul ruffled the little boy's hair. Susan smiled at them.

  Careful. They don't belong to you.

  Halfway across the sound, dolphins joined the boat, their sleek gray bodies crisscrossing the waves.

  "Look!" Jeffy yelled. "Look!"

  The dolphin escort stayed with them all the way to the barrier islands. Paul anchored in a quiet cove, then stood at the railing with Jeffy held high in his arms so the little boy could see.

  "Can I swim with them?"

  Susan slid her hand into the curve of Paul's arm. A simple gesture, and yet it told him everything he needed to know. She was giving him both her blessing and her trust.

  "Someday," he told the little boy. "Someday I'll bring you back to this island and we'll swim with the dolphins."

  "Promise?"

  Susan's eyes held his. Both of them knew: there might never be a someday for Jeffy.

  "I promise." Please, God. As prayers go, it wasn’t much. But it was the closest Paul had come since Sonny died.

  o0o

  They spent the day at the islands, laughing together in the sunshine; and when the late evening sun turned the wings of sea gulls gold, they sailed home. Jeffy was in the cabin below, curled on the bunk fast asleep with his teddy bear, and Susan stood at the railing, gazing off across the water.

  "It's been a perfect day, Paul." She turned to face him. "Almost too perfect." She hugged herself, shivering.

  "Cold?" He got a windbreaker and draped it over her shoulders. His arms went around her and she leaned against him.

  "Don't make me want too much, Paul," she said, as if he were worthy, as if he were special.

  Waves rocked the boat, and they swayed together, their bodies touching in intimate ways, her legs close to his, her head on his shoulder, her hips against his.

  A breeze freshened on the gulf, blowing her hair across her face, and she lifted her hand to brush it back. The moonlight illuminated an angry red welt on her inner arm.

  "You've hurt yourself." He traced the scar with his finger.

  "It's nothing. A crazed screwdriver attacked me while I was trying to take down storm windows."

  He wished he had the right to do those things for her, to take down her storm windows and repair her old clunker of a car, and in the wintertime to bring her hot chocolate so she could sit on a cushion beside the fire and warm her feet.

  When he kissed the spot where her skin was broken, shivers ran through her and chill bumps raised along her arm. The taste of her was sweet; the feel of her, silky. He dreamed new dreams, and almost believed in second chances. Almost.

  "If it were in my power, you'd never be hurt again."

  "Oh, Paul.” When she leaned closer, he thought he heard her sigh. That, more than anything, tore at him.

  He knew that what he was about to do was foolhardy; but she was there, soft and appealing, and he was tempted beyond all reason, beyond what a man could endure.

  Whether he moved first, or she did, he couldn't say. All he knew was that her arms were around him and her lips were heaven, and at that moment he would gladly have died for the privilege of kissing her.

  Special. This woman is special.

  The shock of his discovery rocked him, though why he found the knowledge shocking was beyond his comprehension. The signs were there, had been there all along. The way he thought of her at random moments, when he was shaving or while he was pouring his first cup of coffee. The way he'd sometimes look out his window at the sea and be reminded of her eyes. The way he dressed for her, hoping she'd notice.

  She wove her fingers into his hair and moved closer. Her filmy dress felt more erotic than bare skin. They swayed together, clinging, feeling, wanting.

  A while longer. He had to hold her a while longer, and then he would let go.

  "You make me crazy, Paul." She rained soft kisses on his chin, his cheek, along the side of his ear. Her breath was warm and there was a small catch in her voice.

  God, she wanted him too.

  The boat rocked, and they held onto each other. Paul found himself praying for heavy waves as the sloop's movement caused her to fall into him. He caught her face between his hands. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight. Love shining through.

  Was it love or was it merely passion, a hungry need to match his own?

  He didn't dare find out. Too much was at stake. The well-being of two precious people—Jeffy, who needed so much, and Susan, who asked for so little.

  "Forgive me, Susan. I didn't mean to take advantage of you."

  "Don't say that."

  He tried to release her, but she wouldn't let him. With a strength surprising in a woman her size she held his hands firmly in place.

  "This is wrong," he said.

  "For me or you?"

  "For both of us."

  The moon tracked across the sky, and a lone sea gull winged its away over the dark waters. All the green in the world seemed to be collected in Susan's eyes as she stared up at him. He felt the dampness on her cheeks.

  He gently caressed her cheeks. "I don't want to make you cry. Not now. Not ever."

  "You didn't make me cry. I'm crying ... for me, for you, for us . . . for what might have been." Her damp cheeks glistened in the light of stars flung across the night sky and a full moon that hung so low it looked as if it were floating on water.

  He bent down then and kissed her, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Then he lifted her arm and pressed his mouth over the scar.

  Her skin had no right to taste so good. Her body had no right to look so lush. Her eyes had no right to be so trusting.

  As they watched each other, suspended, a giant dolphin leaped upward, then spun, shiny as a moonbeam, over the deep waters.

  Susan's smile was poignant; Paul's accepting. And both of them knew.

  "I'm married, Susan."

  "Almost divorced.”

  He opened his arms, and she leaned her head against his chest.

  "I can't make promises."

  "Neither can I."

  "I'll never ask you to do anything you don't want to do."

  "Nor will I."

  Their lips touched, joined, clung. It was a bittersweet moment, tinged with sadness.

  "We'll live for the moment, Susan."

  "Only the moment."

  o0o

  When they got back to shore, Susan watched another man enter her house, another man carry her sleeping son down the hallway and tuck him in. Paul.

  Afterward he took her face between his hands and stood close, holding her, just holding her. His tenderness was almost unbearable. After years of struggle, years of always being strong for Jeffy, for her Mother, even for Reverend Silas, Susan found herself wanting to close he
r eyes, curl into Paul and not move.

  "You and Jeffy gave me a gift beyond imagining today."

  "You were the giver, Paul."

  His held her a while longer, then bent down and kissed her.

  "Good night, Susan. I'll call you."

  She walked him to the door, then stood in her den until the sound of his car had vanished. In the kitchen, the cat clock meowed the hour. Moving in the dark, Susan went straight to the clock and took it off the wall. Then she put it in the pantry and shut the door.

  Somehow that small defiance made her feel free.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maggie sat at her dressing table while Beth Ann styled her hair. Her daughter piled it on top of her head, then made faces in the mirror as she tried to get it to stay.

  "It's like dandelion fuzz, Mother."

  "Your father says it's like silk."

  "Jeez." Beth Ann rolled her eyes.

  "Some young man is going to say the same thing to you one of these days, and you're going to think it's romantic."

  Beth Ann wanted to barf. All her parents ever thought about was each other. She wished they'd act their age like her friend Ruth's parents.

  Maggie scooped up a handful of rhinestone bobby pins and handed them to Beth Ann.

  "Why don't you stick these all over my hair? Tonight I want to shine."

  Ruth's mother would never wear rhinestones in her hair.

  "Wow!" Bill leaned in the doorway and gave a long wolf whistle. He swooped into the room and pecked Beth Ann on the cheek. "Hi, sweetie."

  He didn't even wait for her to say hi or anything. He just wrapped his arms around Maggie and began to nuzzle her neck.

  "You look good enough to eat."

  "Don't you dare try. We'll be late to the ballet."

  Beth Ann felt as if she didn't exist. They didn't even know when she left the room. Her sneakers slapped angrily on the stairway as she ran to the kitchen.

  There was a half gallon of ice cream in the freezer.

  o0o

  Susan's home was in a quiet neighborhood of modest but neat houses. It was a clapboard cottage, painted blue with white trim and surrounded by flowers of every description and color. They bloomed around the foundation, burst forth from clay pots, cascaded from trellises, and hung in baskets on the front porch.

  Paul parked his car in the driveway, then sat for a moment taking it all in. It was exactly the way he'd remembered, charming and warm and welcoming, much like the woman who lived there.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if his tie was straight. Primping. Eager to look good for her.

  He held on to the steering wheel, racked by indecision. They would live for the moment. They'd both agreed. But now what he'd said, what he'd done, seemed foolhardy, even dangerous. He knew the price of caring too much.

  Darkness gathered, coming down softly over the house and grounds, giving them a fairy-tale look. Outside his car window crickets hummed and cicadas sang their summer song. Fireflies darted among the colored flowers, glowing then fading like miniature stars.

  He couldn't lie to himself. He hadn't come to Susan's merely to take her to the ballet. He'd come to be close to her, close enough to smell her sweet perfume and bask in her sweet smile, and feel her sweet touch.

  Leave now before you hurt her, too.

  His hands were fumbling with the ignition key when she came through the door. Her hair was loose and softly curled around her face, and her dress was the color of flame.

  When she saw him, she smiled and waved. A woman waiting for him at the door, smiling just for him.

  He sat in the car guarding the moment, knowing how quickly such moments could be snatched away.

  "Paul! Come in." She called to him from the porch, her voice floating across the darkening yard.

  Memories stirred, and for the briefest instant Paul stepped beyond who he was and where he was to the golden days when he'd been invincible.

  Susan descended the steps.

  "Paul? Are you coming in?" She was laughing.

  He got out of the car and started toward her. They met in the middle of the yard, then stood uncertainly like travelers finding a fork in the road and not knowing which way to turn. Her perfume mingled with the scent of gardenias, and the air became heavy with . fragrance and possibility. Paul felt the waters begin to close over his head. Just before he drowned, he reached for her hand.

  She held on tight.

  Rescued.

  "Hello, Susan."

  "Hello, Paul."

  "I'm glad you're here."

  "So am I."

  A whippoorwill called from somewhere close by, and the cicadas picked up volume.

  To break the tension he told one of Fergie's latest antics, then held on to her hand, watching her laugh. He was selfish. He wanted to stand in the sweetly scented darkness of her yard listening to the musical lilt of her laughter and pretend that the moment could go on forever. He wanted to hold on to the magic and pretend that nothing could ever take it away.

  "Well . . ." Susan released his hand and fussed with her hair. It was a lovely, feminine gesture that made Paul feel exhilarated and heart-sad at the same time. "I suppose we have time for a glass of lemonade."

  "Yes."

  They walked side by side, not touching. Inside, he studied her house the way he would study a new case. There was much he'd missed when he'd brought Jefiy home, much of Susan in her house—cut flowers arranged in crystal vases, an antique lamp with a golden cherub holding up the cream-colored shade, family photographs framed in silver and brass and scrolled pewter, lace curtains at the windows. A music box shaped like a crystal dome was playing the theme from Camelot, and inside, a blue and gold dragon holding a shiny crystal ball smiled out from a curtain of iridescent snow.

  Waiting on the sofa while Susan fetched lemonade, Paul spotted a photograph of the missing husband. He'd been a big, handsome man with curly hair, an easy smile, and bright blue eyes.

  Paul clenched his hands in his pockets. Jealous. Of all the foolish things.

  "I'm back." She sat beside him, flushed and smiling. Their hands touched when she handed him the lemonade. So simple, that touch, so innocent. And yet it felt like a promise.

  He was playing with fire.

  o0o

  The Grand Biloxi Opera House was a monument to the Old South. With its massive columns, arched porticoes, ornate balconies, and imported French chandeliers, it was an imposing reminder that a way of life both gracious and brutal had slipped away after a war that had pitted brother against brother. The street that had once been nothing more than a muddy lane for carriages was now clogged with sleek cars disgorging passengers, who were dressed to kill and hoping to be entertained.

  Jean Tyler's spirits lifted as she was handed from the limousine by Curtis Blake. The ballet was civilized and safe. Lately Curt had been taking her to places with dark corners and sexy music. She wasn't ready for the deep, visceral longings that were slowly coming back to life.

  "I promised to meet friends under the portico," she said. "I hope you don't mind waiting."

  "Not at all." His quick flash of irritation was barely visible. If Jean hadn't known him so well, she would have missed it.

  "Perhaps I should have told you earlier."

  "Come here." He draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine."

  It was a clever, pretty lie, but Jean didn't mind. Being in the protective lee of his arm felt good.

  o0o

  As soon as he entered the portico, Paul spotted his estranged wife . . . with Curtis Blake. His first instinct was to rush over and protect her, though from what he couldn't exactly say. Blake was not one of his favorite people, but he was a fair surgeon and as far as Paul knew a fairly decent man. There certainly was nothing menacing about him.

  As always, though, Jean aroused that swashbuckling knight in shining armor that dozed in him. Perhaps it was because she was wearing pure white as she so oft
en did.

  Hard on the heels of the protectiveness came the sadness, about Sonny, about the death of a marriage. Loss. How was it possible to move beyond?

  As he steered Susan in the opposite direction, he figured there was no use courting trouble. Not that Jean would make trouble; she was too civilized. But he saw no need to set up a situation that might make Susan uncomfortable.

  He positioned Susan so her back was toward Jean. In the holiday atmosphere that accompanied cultural events in small towns, Susan's color was high.

  "I love Tchaikovsky," she said. "I love him so much, he sometimes makes me cry."

  "Why does that not surprise me?"

  "Because you've learned all my secrets."

  "Not all of them."

  Her color deepened and a quick surge of desire hit Paul. He felt the whisper of Susan's skirt against his trousers. Seduced, he studied her. Her smile was sweet and her cleavage low. Sexy innocence. A powerful combination.

  He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. She smiled up at him. His brave, sweet Susan. His soldier with the heart of a marshmallow and the will of a Sherman tank.

  She deserved an evening at the ballet. And he'd walk through hell before he'd let anything mar it for her.

  o0o

  Bill drove with one arm, holding his wife with the other.

  "We're late," he said.

  "Hmmm, I know." She kissed him on the side of the neck. "Was it worth it, honey?"

  "Always." He glanced at his watch. "I just hope Paul doesn't give up on us."

  "Paul?" Maggie bolted upright. "What about Paul?"

  "We're meeting him and Susan at the ballet."

  "Oh, my God."

  "I thought it would be a nice surprise."

  "I have a surprise for you too."

  "What?"

  "We're meeting Jean and Curt at the ballet."

  Bill swore until his face was red.

  "You're going to wreck the car."

  "I think what we're about to do is wreck two people's lives."

  "I hardly call sitting together at a ballet wrecking their lives. Paul and Jean are sophisticated enough to handle it."