by JoAnn Ross
She smoothed her hair with a trembling hand and pinched her cheeks. “Speakin’ of your pappy,” she said, “I think you’d better send him in.”
“Gram...”
“It’s my time, Caine,” Maggie said soothingly. “And as much as I do truly love you, I still need to say goodbye to the best rumba dancer in Tribulation.”
Caine no longer attempted to check his tears. They flowed down his face, onto the sheets, and splashed on his grandmother’s blue-veined hand. He wanted to drag her into his arms and beg her not to die, but since she looked as breakable as a piece of fine porcelain, he forced himself to simply press a kiss against the top of her freshly brushed hair.
“God, I love you,” he said in a choked voice. Then, before he lost it completely, he turned and walked toward the door that his grandfather had already opened, as if answering some unspoken call.
Devlin patted Caine on the shoulder, then squared his own broad shoulders and crossed the room, forgoing the chair to sit on the edge of the bed.
“You are still the most gorgeous girl in Tribulation,” he said, running a hand down her hair.
Rather than accuse him of exaggerating, as she had Caine, Maggie turned her head and pressed her dry lips against his palm. “And you’re still the handsomest man.”
He stretched out beside her, drew her close and knew he’d never see a lilac bush without thinking of Maggie. They stayed that way for a long, silent time, her head on his shoulder, his lips against the top of her head.
“I love you, Margaret Rose Murphy O’Halloran,” Devlin whispered after a time.
“And I love you, Devlin Patrick O’Halloran.” She tilted her head to smile up at him, but her eyes were earnest. “I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Just in case that shortstop friend of Caine’s is right, and some day, in some other life, you meet a woman—maybe an aviatrix or even an astronaut—who asks you to rumba, promise me that you’ll say yes.”
“I promise.” He touched his lips to hers and covered her breast with his broad hand. “Yes. Always.”
Devlin felt the quick flutter of her heart, like that of a wounded sparrow, against his fingertips. Then it was still. The light outside the window turned from ebony to gray to a pale, misty silver. Pink fingers of dawn began creeping into the room.
And still Devlin remained, with his bride, the light of his life for more than half a century, in his arms.
Remembering.
Chapter 12
The memorial service for Maggie was held, at her request, at the airport. Hundreds came to pay tribute to the woman who’d brought so much life and laughter and spirit to Tribulation.
The mourners who overflowed the tent stood beneath black umbrellas, until finally, when the drizzle escalated into a downpour, the services were moved inside the hangar.
When the rain stopped and the pewter clouds parted, Caine and Devlin—the older man fortified by the Dramamine tablet Nora had given him—took off in Maggie’s beloved Cessna to spread her ashes over the mountain meadows she’d loved.
The others retired to Mike and Ellen’s, where they shared a potluck supper and swapped Maggie stories, each more outrageous than the last, all of them true.
It was late when Nora returned home, but she wasn’t surprised to see Caine sitting on the porch in the wicker swing, waiting for her. Neither was she surprised by the surge of pure pleasure that flowed through her.
“Hi.” She slipped her hands into the skirt pockets of her black dress. “How’s Devlin?”
“About as well as can be expected,” Caine replied. “I offered to take him back to the cabin with me, but he wanted to stay at the house. He says he can feel Maggie’s spirit there.”
“I suppose that’s not surprising.”
“I guess not.” Caine raked his hands through his hair. “He feels she’s hanging around to make sure he’s okay with all this.”
“That’s not surprising, either. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Okay with all this?”
Caine shrugged. “I suppose. As much as I can be.... By the way, I got a call today from my lawyer. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be a free man.”
Her heart soared, even as Nora attempted to bank her joy. “I guess congratulations are in order.” Wicker creaked as she sat down beside him.
“Thanks. The entire process looked like it was going to last until the next century, so I decided to make an end run around the legal eagles and wrote out a generous enough check to send her to the Dominican Republic.”
“That’s football,” Nora murmured.
“What?”
“An end run. That’s football.”
He chuckled. “I can remember when you thought a tight end was a groupie in too-snug jeans.”
“You can’t escape sports talk in the doctors’ lounge.”
“I thought doctors only talked about golf.”
“I suppose they do, mostly.”
“Did you ever take it up so you’d have something to do on Wednesday afternoons?”
“Golf? No.” Nora shook her head. “I never could figure out whether to hit the ball when the dragon’s mouth was open or closed.”
He laughed and put his arm around her. Nora didn’t move away. For a while there was only the soft sigh of the night breeze in the trees and a swish-swish sound as they swung gently.
“Was it hard?” she asked finally. “Scattering Maggie’s ashes?”
“I thought it would be,” Caine admitted. “But the meadows were in full bloom and while we were circling, looking for a space, a ray of sun came out of the clouds, and gilded this one spot on the mountainside pure gold. I looked at Devlin and he looked at me, and we both knew that somehow, Maggie was guiding us.”
“She probably was,” Nora said quietly. “I worried when you didn’t show up at the potluck.”
“Devlin just wanted to go home. After I dropped him off, I drove to Port Angeles and played a little catch with Johnny.”
“That was nice of you.”
“I did it more for myself than for him. I like the kid. A lot.”
“And he idolizes you. How’s he doing?”
“Okay.” Caine shrugged. “He’s worried that no one will adopt him because people would rather have a new baby.”
“Most people would, I suppose. But Johnny’s a wonderful little boy. He’ll find a family.”
“That’s what I told him,” Caine agreed.
They fell silent again. Somewhere in a distant treetop an owl hooted.
“I brought you something,” Caine said.
When he reached into his pocket, Nora thought he was going to give her some small memento of his grandmother, but instead, he handed her a legal-size white envelope.
Slanting him a questioning look, she slid her fingernail under the flap and opened it. “A check?”
The moon was riding high above the horizon, the cool white light bright enough to enable Nora to read the amount. “I don’t understand.”
Stunned, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her, she slowly counted all the zeros again. “It’s made out to the Dylan Anderson O’Halloran Memorial Pediatric Trauma Center.”
Caine nodded. “That’s right.”
“But there isn’t any such center.”
“Not now. But there will be.”
She couldn’t believe he was serious. Her first thought was that this was some sort of grandstand play to win her approval. Her second thought was that Caine was not the type of man to indulge in such subterfuge.
She stood and began to pace. “But a trauma center is so very expensive.”
“Tiffany didn’t get all my money, Nora.”
“But even you can�
��t fund it by yourself.”
“I know that. But I’m a helluva fund-raiser. You should hear my after-dinner speeches. Besides, I’m going to have help.”
She stopped in her tracks. “What kind of help?”
“There’s going to be an All-Star baseball game in October, after the World Series and before winter ball begins in South America,” he informed her. “All proceeds going to the center. ESPN has committed to broadcasting the game and here’s a list of people who’ve signed up to play. I expect more when the word gets out.”
Nora scanned the list he’d pulled from his pocket. The names represented the top stars, past and present, of the game.
“You’ve been busy.”
Caine shrugged. “I spent the past few weeks making some phone calls. It kept me out of the pool halls.”
He’d done more than make phone calls. It was obvious that he’d spent a great deal of time and effort on the project. Not to mention money. “I can’t let you do this.”
“It’s too late to stop me, Nora. Besides, I’m not doing it for you,” Caine argued calmly. “I’m doing it for all the little kids like Dylan who need a fighting chance.”
Caine’s incredible plans left Nora feeling drained. She sat back in the swing and stared up at the star-spangled sky.
“After all these years, I didn’t think there was anything you could do to surprise me,” she said finally. “But you’ve succeeded.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But I didn’t do it as some elaborate scheme to get you back in my life, Nora.”
“I know.”
They resumed swinging.
Need was a fist, twisting at Caine’s gut, crawling beneath his skin, burning him from the inside out. With effort, he pushed it down.
As if reading his mind, Nora turned her head so that her face was inches from Caine’s. His arm was stretched along the top of the swing; the slightest movement would have it around her shoulders.
“I guess I’d better go home,” he said quietly. “Before I stoop to begging.”
When he began to rise—fully, honorably, intending to leave—she placed her hand on his arm. Her eyes, more gold than brown in the streaming moonlight, revealed her own desire.
“You wouldn’t have to beg.”
He couldn’t resist. He had to touch her, if only to cup her face with his hand. “I want you to be sure about this, Nora. Very sure.”
“I am.” Her answering laugh was as quick and shaky as her pulse. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been so sure about anything in my life.”
She slid her arms around his neck, her smile a seduction in itself. If Scheherazade had flashed that fatal, womanly smile at the Sultan, Caine mused, she definitely wouldn’t have needed to tell the guy stories to keep him interested during those thousand and one nights.
“Kiss me, Caine.” Nora’s soft voice curled around him like smoke. “Kiss me the way you were going to kiss me at the festival.”
He combed his hands through her hair, gathering it into a knot at the nape of her neck, and held her gaze to his. “If I do,” he warned, “it won’t stop with a kiss.”
“Good.” Her fingers were playing with the curls at the back of his collar. “Because I want you to make love to me.” Her eyes were open and fixed on his. “Nobody has ever made me fly so high.”
Caine hadn’t come to Nora’s house to take her to bed. He’d only wanted to be with her, to tell her about the center, and, perhaps, ease the pain of losing his grandmother just a little.
He thought of his promise to Maggie, to stay away from Nora until he was free.
But dammit, Tiffany was on her way to the Dominican Republic—along with a cashier’s check—and in a matter of hours a marriage that should have been declared dead at the altar would be legally dissolved.
Reminding himself that he’d never been bucking for sainthood, Caine tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her—a deep, drugging kiss that had heat pouring out of him and into her.
Kissing Nora was like partaking of a feast after a long fast. Hunger. Greed. Need. They rose like ancient demons, battering at his insides.
Fighting for patience, Caine buried his lips in the soft scent of her hair. Every ragged breath he took was an agony of effort.
“I want to make love with you, too, sweetheart.” He ran his palms down her arms and struggled valiantly for some semblance of control. “But let’s try to keep this flight from being over too fast.”
“I’ll try if you will. But I’ve never had a great deal of self-control where you’re concerned, Caine.”
“I know the feeling.” Caine laced their fingers together and stood, bringing her to her feet with him.
When he led her into the house and up the stairs, Nora experienced a moment’s hesitation—one that did not go unnoticed by Caine.
He stopped on the landing and framed her face between his hands. “If this isn’t what you want—”
“It is.” She pressed her lips against his quickly, cutting him off. Although she was thirty-two years old, there was no artifice in her kiss, no clever experience; only honest, feminine need.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you right now, Caine,” she whispered when the brief flare ended. “I’ve never needed anyone the way I need you at this moment.”
It was all he needed to hear. Holding hands again, they walked the rest of the way up the stairs and into her bedroom.
The room was a direct contrast to the proper, professional image Nora showed the world. It was pretty and feminine and smelled of flowers. It was the kind of room a man would only feel comfortable in if invited.
Antique perfume bottles stood atop her dresser along with a trio of fat white candles and a dish of potpourri made from the petals of the scarlet roses Nora’s grandmother had planted behind the house.
Framed photos, of friends and family, covered most of the rest of the dresser top.
Caine smiled when he saw a picture of Maggie, standing in front of a red Stinson four-seater she’d owned back in the 1950s. She was grinning with the sheer confidence of a woman who had never let any obstacle stand in her way.
Caine’s gaze moved to an open sandalwood box where a strand of polite pearls was hopelessly entangled with gold hoops, and a pair of discreet silver stud earrings rested on velvet beside a funky ceramic pin shaped like a gray whale.
Caine remembered the pin well; he’d bought it for Nora on impulse one April day when they’d taken a cranky, teething Dylan on a ferryboat ride to Orcas Island. He was moved and vastly encouraged by the fact that she’d kept it all these years.
The hand-carved bed was wide and tall; the four posters reached almost to the ceiling. The mattress was covered with a wedding-ring quilt from some Anderson bride’s hope chest. Piled atop the quilt were dozens of pillows—too small to be useful for anything other than feminine ornamentation—covered in lace and satin and pretty floral-chintz prints.
Beside the bed, he was pleased to see, his wildflowers sat in a white china pitcher he remembered Anna Anderson pouring milk from. He plucked a petal and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, releasing a burst of sweet fragrance.
“I dreamed of you that night,” Nora murmured. “On Midsummer Eve.”
He’d known she would. Just as he had dreamed of her.
Centuries of folklore hovered in the perfumed air between them. “But I don’t think it counts,” she whispered, “because I’ve been dreaming of you every night since you came back to Tribulation.”
The soft admission was more than he’d dared to hope for. “Every night?”
“Yes.” The single word shuddered from between her lips on a soft sigh. “Every single one.”
A fierce burst of primitive satisfaction surged through his veins. “Although I’ve never been a man to worry about
setting the scene for romance, I wanted to do this right.” His gaze moved lingeringly over her face; he was making love to her with his eyes. “I had it all planned: champagne and red roses and music.”
“I don’t need champagne. Or roses. Or music.” He was standing so close to her, Nora couldn’t tell if it was Caine’s heart beating so wildly, or her own. “All I need is you.”
His eyes didn’t waver from hers as he slowly traced the exquisite shape of her mouth with his thumb. His fingers explored the planes of her face and found her perfect. His mouth drank from hers with a gentleness he hadn’t known he possessed.
When his tongue slipped between her parted lips to touch the tip of hers, Nora wondered how it was that her body could be so thrillingly alive while her mind remained so clouded.
Refusing to dwell on it, she let herself slide effortlessly into this seductive, misty world. She lifted her arms, entwined them around Caine’s neck and pulled him to her. Their bodies fit just as she remembered. Perfectly. Wonderfully.
The more she gave, the more Caine wanted. He ached for her—body, mind and soul.
“All these years,” he told her, “I’ve tried to forget the way you felt in my arms when we made love. And the incredible, terrifying way you make me feel.”
“I know.” She ran her fingers over his dark face. “I’ve tried to forget, too. And I’ve tried to pretend that it wasn’t real—that it had been only a fantasy, a trick of memory.”
The wonder of her admission shimmered in her voice. “But it was real.” Her fingers moved down his neck, to the open collar of his shirt.
Something about Caine had always had Nora wanting to give him more than she’d given to any other man. Something about him always had her wanting more from him than any man had ever given her.
She pressed her lips against his warm skin, drinking in his mysterious male taste. “It’s only ever been that way with you, Caine.” Very slowly, he unbuttoned her dress. Caine O’Halloran had always made love the way he played baseball: with a skill that made every move seem eminently natural.
Yet, as his fingers fumbled with the small pearl buttons running down the front of her dress, he wondered why it was that this act, which he’d performed so many times before, could suddenly seem so different. So new. So frightening.
