by Amberlee Day
He pounded his fist into the table so hard the lid bounced off-kilter on the taco platter. A voice from across the room made him look up with the start.
“What happened?” Mrs. Fortney stood in the doorway, looking exactly as she had when he was nine years old and threw a baseball through the dining room window. She was asking, but she already knew.
“I blew it,” he said.
Mrs. Fortney exhaled, and moved inside to start stacking dirty dishes. “You like her,” she said, “and you didn’t want to do that.”
“I more than like her,” Van said, his voice low but desperate. “It’s not that I don’t want to. You know that, Mrs. F. I can’t.”
“You know I don’t agree.” She had the dishes piled up, and carried half-empty glasses of water over to the potted plants. “I’ve never agreed with that. Nothing says you can’t have your own happiness.”
Van began to pace again. “Everyone thinks they can have happiness, but what is that? It’s just tying yourself and your baggage to someone else and theirs.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that. It wasn’t like that for Bill and me.”
“Maybe not,” Van said, “but that’s because you and Mr. F didn’t have that much baggage to deal with.”
Mrs. Fortney turned a stern eye on her longtime employer. “Didn’t we? Didn’t we have things to deal with? Just because you didn’t know about it, doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. And let me tell you, working through whatever baggage, or whatever you want to call life’s difficulties that I had in life, or that Bill had in life ... it was a thousand times easier working through them together.”
“But what about the inevitable? You know what I’m afraid of, Mrs. F.”
She nodded. “I do.”
“What about when it happens? Won’t we both regret making those commitments if bad things come of it?”
Mrs. Fortney put the dirty dishes in a bucket, and headed for the door. “It doesn’t have to happen. But if it does ...” She gave him one last look. “I think this Mermaid Cleo might be someone who doesn’t shirk the hard stuff. I think you should give her a chance—give you both a chance.”
With that she exited, leaving Van to feel like the frightened idiot he was.
SHE WASN’T IN HER ROOM, or with Lily, or by the pool. In fact, he’d searched half the house when Mrs. Fortney found him.
“Have you seen Cleo?” Mrs. Fortney was out of breath.
“No, I’ve been looking for her. What’s wrong?”
“I think she may have gone outside.”
From where they stood in the front entry, they could see the storm out the front windows. It was a bad one. Van swore. “Are you sure? Why would she go out?”
“I’m not sure, but the kitchen door’s been opened recently. Snow got in as far as the mudroom door and there’s already a puddle, so it’s been awhile. And Samson might have gone out with her.”
“He’s not here?” In three steps Van had crossed the entryway and opened the library door.
“No, I just looked. I don’t know what made me think to check, but ...”
Van made an abrupt turn toward the kitchen. “Get Gus,” he said. “We’re going to need to go find them, before this weather takes them.”
Chapter 19
Cleo could see about six feet in front of her, and no matter how fast she moved, that’s as close as she could get to Samson. His lanky hindquarters and tail bobbed as he picked his way through the snow, always just out of reach. She called him, she rushed after him, but her pretty black boots weren’t meant for actual winter storms. She slipped a lot, stumbling after the Great Dane. Clearly he had something in mind, and he didn’t stop or even turn back to look at Cleo.
After a minute, realizing that she wasn’t going to succeed in overtaking him, she worried that she might not be able to find her way back. When she began passing massive tree trunks and having to duck below branches, it dawned on her that Samson was heading into the woods.
She thought about turning back, several times. Probably Samson could find his way home on his own, right? He seemed so confident navigating through the snow. He never even slowed down, despite her yelling over and over for him to stop, to come, to heel. What other commands would a dog respond to? But maybe he just couldn’t hear.
Cleo had never experienced anything like this storm. Snow was supposed to be soft and fluffy, but this lashed at her face, and the wind made her skin feel like it would freeze and crack. She still wore her false eyelashes, and she could feel the snow freezing on them, but she didn’t dare stop to try peeling them off. From her synchro training, Cleo knew how to push through pain, and she drew on that with every exhausting step. But this was different. The wind and bitter cold sucked the energy right out of her. Every part of her protested the journey she’d accidentally set out on, and if she could have, she would have quit.
But she didn’t. Two things kept her on her pursuit of Samson: the hope that he’d lead her back to the house, and the thought of Van’s face if he found out she let his dog get lost in a blizzard.
It seemed like forever had passed when Samson suddenly stopped. He’d found some kind of building. She hoped at first that it was Eagle Hill, but the stone looked older and rougher, not as refined as that on Van’s home. If there were windows, no light shown through them, or at least not enough to break through the blinding storm. Samson sniffed the air, and—still apparently confident that he knew where he was—stepped over a snowdrift, and rounded a partially enclosed alcove that led to a door. The snow hadn’t reached all the way inside the covered area, so there was still a dry spot right at the door’s step. There, Samson dropped down on a doormat, and began licking at the snow on his huge feet.
Cleo was right behind him. She banged on the door, tucking her cold hands in the coat sleeves to protect them from the pain. “Hello!” she called. “Is someone there? Please, open up!”
No one answered, and all she could hear was the wind. Deciding that her life might depend on getting out of the cold, she tried the knob. It didn’t budge. Maybe a hidden key? She felt for one with numb fingers: around the doorjamb, under an empty flowerpot, along especially jagged stones on the wall. She even made Samson move for a minute to check under the doormat, holding his collar tightly until he lay down again. Still, no key.
She told herself to calm down, and think. What were her options here? If she couldn’t get inside, this might not be a bad place to wait out the storm. Better if she and Samson could make their way back to the house, but what if they just wandered farther into the forest? She didn’t want to think what would happen then.
Looking around, Cleo tried to understand where this building had even come from. Now that she was on the porch, it definitely looked like the back door of somebody’s house. She hadn’t spent much time outside since coming to Lake Louise, but from looking out the windows it hadn’t looked like there was much besides trees surrounding them. Where had this come from? Surely Samson hadn’t led her that far from home.
A memory flashed in Cleo’s mind. When she was about ten—Lily’s age—her school class journeyed to the Everglades for an overnight field trip. Her grandfather had set her down the morning they left, wanting to prepare her for the adventure. The only way he knew how to communicate, though, was via gruff lectures.
“Whatever you do,” he said, “stay with the group. If you get lost and eaten by an alligator, it’s your own fault.”
Alligators terrified Cleo, and she’d asked, “If I get lost, I’m going to get eaten? For sure?”
Her grandfather had grunted. “Probably. But the best thing is, if you get lost, just stay put. That’s the best chance you have of somebody finding you.”
She’d clung to that, her only hope of survival if she was lost in the Everglades. Just stay put. Now, looking out into the blinding storm, stay put sounded like the right thing to do. Samson had stopped licking his feet and curled up into a Great Dane–sized ball. She decided to lie down beside him.
“I hope you’re a cuddler, Samson.” Cleo gently positioned herself between the dog and the door, spooning herself around his back as best she could. When he didn’t seem to mind, she relaxed. “Okay, buddy. Now we just have to pray that this storm ends soon, before they start missing us at the house.”
Samson, worn out from his adventure, was already snoring softly.
IN VAN’S LIFETIME, Eagle Hill had only needed to rescue someone lost in a storm once. His father and Gus had run that operation, and at twenty-two and just home from college, Van had gone out to help. Now it was Van and Gus planning things out, and while he wished that age had given him the calm confidence he’d always seen in his father, he determined to swallow his fears and get the job done. Cleo and Samson needed him.
Gus spotted the footprints, nearly obliterated by the wind and snowfall. To Van they were just dimples in the drifts and falls, but Gus felt sure they were heading toward the old guesthouse, which—if Samson was leading the way—made sense.
They tied a rope to the tree nearest the kitchen door, and let it out as they followed the path. When they ran out of rope, they tied off to the next tree, and began another. Van did the tying, while Gus dropped flares into the snow along the way and occasionally checked his compass. They were well dressed for the frigid temperatures, and still the wind and cold bit at them. Van couldn’t help but worry how Cleo would manage in it, and swallowed the fear that he’d look down and find her half-buried in the snow.
When they finally reached the guesthouse, Van thrust the remainder of rope at Gus, and hurried through the thick drifts to the back door. That’s where they sometimes found Samson when he wandered off, and it was the most protected spot near the house. Hopefully, that’s where they were now, both of them.
Somehow, Van had expected when he found Cleo that she would be a bright spot of color against the endless white. That was Cleo, after all: colorful and warm. When he saw the dark bundle in front of the door, he thought at first someone had left a package there. As he got closer, Samson’s head lifted in recognition, and Van’s heart raced. He’d found them, and Samson was alive. The brown lump with snow scattered on top behind Samson had to be Cleo, but she hadn’t yet moved. Kneeling down, Van peeled off his gloves and reached under the downy hood until he found skin.
Warmth! Warm enough to be alive. He lifted her up, and she groaned.
“Cleo, wake up,” he whispered. Her eyelashes had ice crystals on them, and looked like they might be frozen shut. He cupped his hands around her face, and tried thawing them with warm breath. Cleo gasped. “It’s okay, it’s me. It’s Van.”
“Van? You found us. I stayed put.”
“You did good,” he said. “We found you.” Emotion welled up. Oh, yes. Only two weeks in the same house, and he already loved this woman. How did he think he could deny it? How had he talked to her the way he had? His hands still on her face, he kissed her forehead. He put his cheek on hers.
“Van ...”
He kissed her nose, the corner of her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. I was stupid. Forgive me. Please, Cleo. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes,” she breathed, and he kissed her properly. He’d been supporting her, but she found her strength and pulled herself closer to him. Her padded arms wrapped around his neck, and Van pulled her as close as he could manage when she kissed him back.
“Please don’t leave,” he said between kisses. “Tell me you won’t leave.”
“I won’t leave,” she said. “But don’t do that again.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Until then, Samson hadn’t minded the warm bodies pressing in on either side of him, but he apparently decided he’d had enough. When the goliath suddenly stood up, he separated his master and the mermaid.
“Just as well,” Gus said from behind him. “Samson and I hate to break up this reunion, but the storm isn’t letting up any. We need to get going.”
Van helped Cleo to her feet. Her eyes were wide and bright, and he saw his own feelings mirrored in them. “We got your eyes thawed open,” he said.
“Thank you. Thank you for coming for me.”
“I’ll always come for you.” He put his arm around her. She moved stiffly. “Your muscles will warm up, but we need to start moving.”
“I can do it. How will we get Samson home? I don’t have a leash.”
Van hadn’t thought of that, but saw Gus had. Samson was already harnessed and leashed. “Good thinking, Gus. It didn’t occur to me.”
“You had other things on your mind, and you did just fine helping us get here. Now let’s get these two home and warm them up.”
IT TOOK LESS TIME GETTING back to the house, as they only had to follow the ropes and flares instead of marking the path. Mrs. Fortney met them at the door, and instructions issued from her in rapid succession.
“Everything off, right here. Boots and outerwear in the tubs. Gus, dry that dog off with this. Make sure you get his feet. Rub them good and gentle; he probably has some frost bite.
“Van, take care of yourself, I’ve got Cleo,” she continued. “There you go, let’s get those boots off—for pity’s sake, Van! The next time you hire a mermaid in the middle of winter, at least buy her some decent winter boots!”
“I—” Van tried.
“Hush. Gus, when you’re done with that dog, get him in by his fireplace. There’s a mug on the warmer in your room, and someone should be up there now running you a hot bath. Van, pick that girl up and come with me.”
Cleo, who was only a few inches shorter than Van, was momentarily horrified. Van had a sturdy build, but she wasn’t sure he could carry her up a flight of stairs. She wasn’t about to argue with the commanding Mrs. Fortney, so she looked pleadingly at Van. “How about if we just walk? You can help?”
“Are you kidding?” he asked. “Now that I’ve found you, you think I’m going to give up a chance to hold you close?”
Cleo, still shivering, felt a welcoming burst of warmth at the look in Van’s eyes. He wasn’t holding back anymore. She didn’t know what had brought about the change, but his feelings were written all over his face.
From over his shoulder, though, she could see Mrs. Fortney’s eyes roll. “Good heavens,” the housekeeper said. “Well, at least you got that taken care of. Go to it, then. Get her off to her room, then you to yours. You should each have cocoa and a hot bath waiting.”
Cleo wrapped her arms around Van’s neck. She couldn’t take in enough of him, and smiled at him the whole time he carried her to the north wing staircase, and up to her room. “You didn’t even make that look hard,” she said, teasing, when he stood in the middle of the room still holding her.
“I don’t want to put you down. You might disappear again.”
She wiggled until he finally put her down, and when he moved in to kiss her, she met him halfway.
“Stop!” came Mrs. Fortney’s voice from the doorway. She passed them, carrying several towels on her way to Cleo’s bathroom. “Time for that later.”
She handed Van some towels and steered him out of the room. When he stood there looking longingly at Cleo—whose exhaustion and elation were both making her knees weak—Mrs. Fortney shut the door on him.
“Come on,” she said, pulling Cleo with her into the bathroom. “You need a bath and then bed. That storm is still raging, and I want you in bed before we lose power.”
“Thank you,” Cleo said, grateful once again for Mrs. Fortney’s kindness. “I can’t think of anything better.”
Although, really, she could.
Chapter 20
As Mrs. Fortney predicted when she tucked Cleo into bed, the next morning arrived with sunshine and blue skies after the night’s blizzard. A foot of fresh powder covered the landscape, and Cleo woke with a smile. She touched her lips, remembering Van’s kisses the night before. It wasn’t a dream, she knew that, but it felt like one. The storm had hit, and when Van found her in the woods, that look in his eyes ... He’d been scar
ed something had happened to her. All his brooding, scowling. His idiotic meanness. But she’d been right about him. He felt something for her, but for some reason he was scared of those feelings. Underneath Van’s dark looks, he’d been drawn to her by something deeper than obvious attraction, just as she had been to him. It wasn’t her imagination. And now the morning had come, and she hoped he planned to spend it with her.
Mrs. Fortney burst through Cleo’s bedroom door just then. “We got lucky, didn’t lose power. Here’s your oatmeal, dear. And some of my snow things for you. Mr. Rivers says he’d like to take you cross-country skiing this morning, if you’re up for it. If you want to have time for lunch and a break before swimming with Lily, you’d better get moving. He’s already raring to go.”
Cross-country skiing? Cleo’d never done that before, but she was game, especially if it meant spending time with Van. She jumped out of bed, stopping short when she saw Mrs. Fortney’s face. Her voice hadn’t betrayed her, but the older woman’s expression showed concern.
“What is it?” Cleo asked.
“It’s none of my business,” the housekeeper began. “I don’t know much about you, but you seem like a nice girl. Just ... Just be kind to Mr. Rivers, if you can. I know he’s a wealthy man, and that’s tempting—”
“Mrs. Fortney—”
“I know, it’s none of my business. And I know he can be a fool at times, but none of us are immune to that. Just bear in mind, he takes a lot on him. Things haven’t been as easy for him as they may look. He can be hurt, just like anybody.”
