Beside a Dreamswept Sea

by Hinze, Vicki

  Bending, she gathered her purse. “I’ll be back in a couple weeks,” she told Bryce, then swung her gaze to Suzie. “Try to improve your table manners while I’m gone.”

  And she’d walked out of the restaurant without a backward glance, leaving them sitting there, without farewell kisses or hugs or even a token “I’ll miss you.”

  What had Bryce felt? Really?

  Relief. Anger at her demanding perfection in them, but even more so, he’d felt relief that she was gone and they could all breathe easier again.

  It was always that way, Bryce realized. He missed her, honestly. But he was always relieved by the immediate drop in tension in him and the M & M’s when Meriam left.

  Tony claimed Bryce’s attention. That was a more accurate assessment of your marriage, Bryce, and of how life with Meriam was for the family.

  She was never really a part of us. That hurt. Deeply. Yet it had a cleansing effect, too. As long as Bryce lived, he’d never forget the fear in Suzie’s eyes that day. Or his own anger that Meriam didn’t see it and do something to reassure Suzie and put an end to her fear. But she hadn’t. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe that was asking too much from her, after the life she’d been forced to live. Still, Suzie was an innocent, and yet she’d paid the price for Meriam’s not resolving the problem. And Bryce was every bit as guilty. He’d run interference, but not insisted on a resolution. He’d understood, and suffered, too.

  Yes, Counselor. You all suffered. But now it’s time to let go of that and of your fantasies of a marriage that honestly never existed. Which, incidentally, brings us back to Miss Tate. Are you going to show her?

  Reeling, Bryce forced himself to make the mental shift to Cally. He owed her. Yeah. Yeah, I’m going to show her.

  You’ve got to be sincere, Bryce. She’ll know, if you’re not sincere. Women have radar on that.

  If I couldn’t be sincere, then I wouldn’t do it. Hell, Tony, look at her. Who couldn’t be sincere?

  Valid point. But I had to be sure. I don’t want her hurt anymore.

  Neither did Bryce. Tony?

  Hmm?

  Thanks for the assist. I’m a little out of practice at taking cold, hard looks. It’s been a while since I’ve been close to a woman, too.

  Tony sighed. Relax, Bryce. The heart never forgets.

  The heart has nothing to do with this.

  Ah, I see. Justice, eh?

  Yeah, justice.

  After Tate, I agree, she’s due a little.

  Yes, she is. Pride, too. And not from a bottle.

  I’ll leave her in your capable hands, then.

  Tony had gone. Bryce sensed it, and the heat flooding the hallway confirmed it. Talking with a ghost was odd, but it didn’t seem odd when it was happening. Only afterward, when thinking about it. Maybe it’d be healthiest to just not think about it. To just be grateful T.J.’s friend was helping Suzie and, through Bryce, Cally.

  Cally opened her eyes, stared up at Bryce, then pressed her hand flat against his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  He shouldn’t tell her. He knew he shouldn’t, but inside him the dam broke. “Meriam’s content without us.”

  “What?”

  “She’s content without us.”

  Cally frowned. “He told you that, didn’t he?”

  Knowing she meant Tony, Bryce nodded.

  “I’m sorry.” She feathered a hand over Bryce’s jaw. His beard crackled against her palm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I should be happy she’s at peace. I know I should, but—”

  “But you’re still angry with her for leaving you. Angry because you’ve got to deal with Suzie and her dreams and the kids not having a mom, and everything else.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Bryce?”

  Thoughtful, mulling over all she’d said, he answered with a “Hmm?”

  “What did she do for you and the kids?”

  Bryce opened his mouth to answer, then realized he had no idea what to say.

  After a day of sunshine and a trip with the kids to Boothbay Harbor and the train museum, Bryce felt comfortably tired. He got the kids ready for bed, settled in, and Miss Hattie had gone up to bed a half hour ago, still looking disturbed and swearing she was fine. Maybe Vic would know what was wrong with her. In the morning, if she didn’t seem better, Bryce would talk with Vic about it. Or maybe with Tony. He’d know. He said he knew everything here. More at ease about Miss Hattie now that he had a plan, Bryce took up his seat on the hallway floor.

  Cally joined him. He schooled the pleasure of her being there from his voice and expression, then looked up at her. “This is becoming a nightly ritual.”

  She dropped her pillow and the afghan onto the floor. “Guess so. Why waste all your worrying time alone when you can have company, I always say.”

  The opportunity to begin his campaign to prove to Cally she was a desirable and lovable woman had come. “We could do something other than worry.”

  She grunted. “Is that a hormone call?”

  “Well, it wasn’t, though the idea holds merit.”

  “Don’t start.”

  A bubble of pleasure tickled his stomach. “Actually, it was a suggestion that rather than just worry, we can worry and see what we can fix.”

  “Ah, solutions.” She sat down beside him, flipped the pillow behind her back, then fingered closed the gap in her robe at her breasts. “I always did like solution-oriented men.”

  “And you didn’t like liking them, right?”

  “Right.” She grinned. “I brought us a snack.” She dug under the afghan for a bag of potato chips. “You guys are killing me with all this healthy food.”

  “Your junk food low-level light is on, eh?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes twinkled. She crunched down on a chip.

  His breath caught in his throat. “You’re so pretty.”

  “Knock it off, Bryce.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Would you stop?” She munched down on another crunchy chip, then dipped her hand back into the bag. It crinkled. “You know I hate that.”

  “Yes, but you love having things to hate, and I am trying to elevate my impression rating.”

  “Stop that, too.” She twisted the bag, tied it closed with a twistee, then set it aside. “I’m serious.” Brushing her hands together, she flicked off clinging grains of salt.

  Not this time. He tossed back the edge of the afghan, grabbed his cane, then hauled himself to his feet. He held out a hand to Cally. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  He held her gaze, his own unwavering. “To your room.”

  “Bryce, I’m not going to make love with—”

  “No, Cally.” He grasped her hand and urged her to her feet. “Just come on. Trust me.”

  Trust me.

  Gregory’s voice, his image, flooded her mind. On their wedding day, then later, long after he’d become a doctor and it had become Cally’s turn to have her dream. And in her mind, she was there, in their bedroom, standing naked before the mirrored closet door with Gregory behind her, his hand twisted in her hair, his face red and contorted by anger.

  “Trust me,” he spat at her. “You’re not the woman I married anymore. Look at you. Damn you, look at yourself.” He jerked her hair, forced her to look into the mirror. “You’ve let yourself go, Caline. Just the sight of you repulses me.”

  And she’d looked, seen herself through his eyes, and his damnation seeped into her pores as sterling truth. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

  He shoved her against the mirror, his fist at her back. The glass felt cold against her face and her breath fogged it, obscuring the reflection of her fearful eyes, and she prayed so hard she’d slip through its slick surface and cease to exist. Cease to be condemned by Gregory. Cease to see herself as the pitiful shadow of a woman she’d become.

  “Cally?” Bryce whispered.

  Trust me. Cally gulped in a deep breath. Two little words. Seven little letters. But boy, they inspired fear
like no others. She’d given trust. And she’d seen it ripped to shreds. Violated. Discarded as worthless. All that done by a man who supposedly loved her. Why on earth would she risk trusting a man she knew damn well didn’t love her?

  An image of Suzie threaded through Cally’s mind. Her tiny chin lifted, her trusting gaze lifted to her father’s. Her cupping her hand at his ear, whispering her secrets to him in the kitchen, knowing he was angry about chasing the frog and sliding in the oatmeal. And Jeremy. Jeremy not fearful, but remorseful, about the frog, about the bees. Knowing he’d done wrong, but not afraid of his father’s reaction. And even little Lyssie. Mimicking her dad’s “Damn” when she clearly knew it was wrong to curse. And Bryce’s bending low to face his daughter in that high chair, finger pointed and voice firm, telling her, “No. Animal crackers.”

  His children trusted him. And though neither a child nor able to trust her own judgment, Cally could trust theirs. The kids had a far better track record than she did in the love and trust departments.

  Her insides rattling like the marbles Jeremy stuffed in his pockets, Cally stared at Bryce for a long moment. Expectant, but not threatening. Patient, but eyes shining with hope. Caring, not carnal. Unable to resist, she prayed she wouldn’t regret this, gave her hands a final salt-ridding swipe, rose to her feet, then placed her hand in his.

  Moonlight streamed into the Great White Room through the turret windows. The disheveled bed looked inviting and, though Bryce had been without a woman for two years and was for the first time since Meriam’s death entertaining thoughts of making love with a woman again with only the tiniest twinges of guilt nipping at desire’s heels, he knew the woman had to be special—someone like Cally. And for Cally, this wasn’t the right time.

  He walked past the bench at the end of the bed, over near the desk to the cheval mirror.

  As soon as Cally realized his intent, she went floor-plank stiff, slowed her steps, then began dragging her feet. “Bryce, I don’t want to look into that mirror.”

  “I know you don’t.” He urged her on. “But you need to, Cally. You came to Seascape to find the you Gregory Tate stole. Looking at who you are is the first step.”

  “I’m not ready.” She squared her jaw.

  God, but she was beautiful. All rumpled from her stint on the floor, she looked tangled and sleep-tossed, though he knew as well as she that she’d not slept a wink. “You won’t ever be ready. It’s too big a leap. You’ve got to just take one step at a time. Think of little victories.”

  “More like big defeats.” She stood fast. Resolute.

  “Beats standing still. Winning or losing, you’re living. Standing still, you’re just taking up space.”

  “Are you recommending I check out, Counselor?”

  “Not hardly, sweetheart. I’m recommending you check in.” He moved to stand directly in front of her, between her and the mirror, then clasped her arms and looked down into her eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to hurt. I just want you to see all the good in you I see. There’s a beautiful woman inside here”—he touched a fingertip to her chest—“and she’s screaming to be let out. You hear her calling. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here. But you have to answer her call. You have to choose.”

  A tear rolled down Cally’s cheek. The glaring moonlight caught it and it sparkled. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  Her voice cracked. “I don’t have the courage. He was so . . . vicious. I—I can’t forget.”

  Gregory. Something inside Bryce shattered. He walked his fingers up her arms, circled her back, then pulled her to him. “Cally,” he breathed deeply into her hair. “What has he done to you? What have you let him do to you?”

  “Let him? You don’t let someone take you apart, Bryce. They’re stronger and sharper—sneakier. They snip away at you, bit by bit, until one day you wake up and find out there’s nothing left. Everything good in you is just . . . gone.”

  “You died.” Now, he understood what she’d meant.

  “Yes.” A shudder quaked through her. “I died.”

  Rage roared through Bryce. A rage like he’d suffered only twice before. On Meriam’s death. On Suzie’s first dream. In both he’d felt helpless, frustrated, out of control. But not this time. This time, he wasn’t powerless to do something. This time he could act.

  He cupped Cally’s face in his big hands. She looked up at him, so much pain in her eyes he feared he’d fall down under the burden of it. The need to kiss her overwhelmed him. He didn’t stop to wonder why, or to remind himself of his stance on her one-kiss rule—that she be- the one to break it—just lowered his lips to hers and kissed her thoroughly, letting her feel the riot of emotions raging through him, showing her with lips and tongue and the grazing of teeth, with fingertips gone from gentle to rough to gentle again, kneading and needing, reaffirming that the flesh they touched was not that of a courageless corpse but that of a living, breathing woman with a lot to offer a man with the vision to see beneath her pain.

  He tasted her surprise, felt her tense even more under his hands, and he felt her fury. Her own outrage at feeling all she felt, at suffering her own riot of emotions, and of her not knowing exactly what to do with those feelings now that they had been aroused and unleashed.

  He separated their fused mouths, softened his touch. His hand trembled on her back. He let it glide over her robe, amazed at how rough the soft fabric now felt against his fingertips, followed the contour of her body from beneath her breasts to her sides, then down her ribs to the swell of her hips. “Cally, you’re beautiful,” he whispered against her mouth. “To me, you are so beautiful.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Bryce. Please.”

  “I’m not.” He touched their lips, exhaled, feeling their mingling breaths fan over his face. “I swear, I’m not.”

  The fury in them faded, and the baser awareness of scents and sounds and textures, of man and woman and sensual instincts, surfaced. He wanted to hold her, to be held by her, to feel her against him, to be inside her. He wanted the demons robbing them both of peace to wither and die. For Cally to know she was very much alive. For her to know that, with her, he felt very much alive.

  Not like a lonely widower.

  Not like a father.

  Like a man.

  It’d been a long time since he’d thought of himself that way. And just now it seemed too long. “Cally, I—” His heart too full, he couldn’t find the words.

  She didn’t need them. She eased up onto her toes and curled her arms around his neck. Her eyes wide and luminous, reflected in the moonlight all the fear he felt. “Being lonely royally sucks,” she whispered, then kissed his lips.

  Loneliness had nothing to do with it. Desire, yes. But not loneliness. Yet maybe they both needed the lie. His mind reeling, the taste of her lingering on his lips, he let out a shuddery breath and fused their hips, silently cursing zipper and placket, her soft flowing robe that separated their skins, keeping distant those parts of them this awakening had yearning to join. He relinquished control of the kiss, let himself spiral down into the alluring web of the sensual, and gloried in her coming with him. And she had come with him. Her breathing had grown rapid, ragged, lifting her breasts against his chest. Her hands explored him, learning his feel and clearly liking it. And her lips had grown eager, inviting and eager.

  When she parted their mouths, she met his gaze, her eyes as turbulent as his insides. And from somewhere soul-deep, the words he needed came. “You’re alive, Cally.”

  “Yes,” she whispered gratingly. “God help me, I’m alive.”

  He’d expected her to run from the truth. She hadn’t. He’d like to think that the reason she hadn’t run had something to do with her kissing him specifically, but it didn’t. It was the awakening. Maybe not just any man could have aroused the feminine spirit in Cally Tate, but Bryce wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could be the only man to arouse it. For some reason, though, he’d been the chosen one. And that
reason could be no more than proximity. Whatever it was, he was grateful for it. Because while he’d been the means through which Cally Tate had awakened—his gift to her—she’d also awakened and given a gift to him. She’d reminded him that he was more than a father. And if a twinge of guilt, of feeling he was betraying Meriam by holding and kissing and caring about Cally Tate, made fuzzy the edges of his own awakening, then he’d willingly suffer them, knowing Meriam was content. He’d gratefully suffer them. Because at that moment, Bryce Richards, father and man, realized that, while Cally Tate thought she lacked courage, in truth, she didn’t. In truth, he held in his arms the bravest woman he’d ever known.

  Chapter 7

  Spineless.

  Cally stood in the bathroom, a thick white towel in her hands, her gaze darting from the antique brass shell-shape soap dish to the tan marble countertop that the light had tinged pink. She had to be the most spineless woman in the world.

  The mirror was there. Waiting. It ran wall to wall above the vanity. She wanted to lift her gaze and look right into it, right into her own eyes, but she just couldn’t do it. Bryce had been right about her never being ready—and he’d been wrong. She might one day muster the courage to look, but she’d never again feel strong enough or secure enough with who she’d become to look at herself and like what she saw.

  Think of little victories.

  “No, Bryce,” she whispered aloud. Shaking all over, she broke into a cold sweat. Her chest went tight, as if held in a vise, and she clutched the towel to it then squeezed her eyes shut. “Big defeats.”

  If only one has the courage to believe, miracles can happen beside a dreamswept sea.

  Suzie’s words. Cally covered her ears. Why did they haunt her? They were Suzie’s dreams, not Cally’s. Suzie’s. “Not for me,” she told herself. “For me, miracles don’t happen, and dreams become nightmares.” She’d learned that the hard way, hadn’t she?

  Suzie hadn’t. Though tortured every night with the same nightmare for two years, Suzie hadn’t learned that, nor had she stopped believing in miracles.