Moonlight Man

by Judy Griffith Gill

  She laughed and shook his hand off her hair. “I don’t bake cookies worth a damn!”

  His smile warmed her right to the soles of her feet in a way she didn’t want it to. “So Jason tells me. I told him you have other, more important talents.”

  Together, as if pulled by a magnet, their gazes swept to her harp. She shook her head. “No. No more.”

  He took one of her hands and pulled her a step closer to him. Their bodies touched lightly. Her heart raced. Her breath caught in her throat. “Will you tell me about it? What happened? What changed you? Was it your divorce? Did it hurt you so badly that you died inside and your music died with you?”

  She shook her head. “Not that. I was … glad for the divorce. It eased my hurts. My music died long before that. At least, the music in my heart did. I kept on playing though, trying to find it again. Finally, I just gave up.”

  “Funny,” he said musingly, “when my wife and son died, I thought everything good in me had died too, but music, which I’ve always treasured, lived on, and eventually gave me some comfort …”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You lost your family? Oh, Marc, I am so sorry.”

  He flicked at one of the tears that spilled from the corner of her eye. “Don’t cry for me. It’s all in the past. I want to look to the future. And last night gave me hope that maybe I can have the future I want.”

  “Last night was …” Her voice trailed away.

  “Was what?” he asked softly, lifting her face up, cupping his hands around it. “As magical for you as it was for me?”

  His hands, hard and callused, which had felt erotic the previous night, felt different somehow, reminding her of the wide variety of tasks they had performed, and she knew he was still being evasive. He was no manual laborer, this man. Not with his understated elegance, his educated manner of speaking, his knowledge and savoir faire. He was a chameleon who was, in spite of his attraction to her, still avoiding telling her the truth about himself.

  She would never let another dishonest man into her life!

  “Don’t touch me!” she said, jerking away from him.

  The violence of her reaction, as well as the sudden flare of anger mixed with fear in her eyes, shook him as she tore herself free, wrapping her arms around herself. “Go home, Marc. Please, just go home now.”

  He picked up his guitar and his jacket and nodded. To the bowed back of her head, he said quietly, “All right, Sharon. We’ll leave it for now. But I intend to know what happened to you. And I mean to make whatever went wrong, right.”

  She lifted her head, turned and looked at him, and the tragedy he read in her face made him want to weep for her as she had for him. “Nobody can, Marc. That’s what you don’t seem to understand. It can never be right again, so there’s no point in my wanting a man like you—a man who would want too much.”

  He shook his head. “I’d never ask for more than you could give me.”

  “You would!” she protested, her mouth twisting. “You’d want everything.”

  “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Of course I would. But why not? You have everything to give.”

  He slipped out the door then, leaving her standing at the archway to the entrance. After a moment, she locked the door behind her and went quietly up to bed.

  She lay for a long time thinking about him, and soon it was morning and the whole house was stirring. She got out of bed quickly. There was no time for brooding. She had guests and children to feed, which was just as well. She’d never had much time for brooders. Action was what she preferred, and action was what she would take.

  Chapter Four

  “IT’S BEEN A WONDERFUL TIME, Sharon.” Zinnie hugged her tightly as she and her family prepared to leave. “You gave your sister and our son a beautiful wedding and all of us a delightful Christmas. It was more fun than we’ve had for a long time. You and your kids are a real bonus to us. What are you going to do with the rest of the holiday?”

  “Today, we’re going skiing, and we may go up again tomorrow, but the day after that, I’m afraid the library’s open again, and I’ll be working.”

  “Where do you ski?”

  “Up Island. Mount Washington. It’s the only one within reach for us, unless we want to stay over. Taking the ferry across to the mainland and back just eats up too much skiing time.”

  “You mean you’ll drive up there today and back again tonight?” Harry asked, frowning. “Surely that eats up a lot of skiing time too.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s what we have, so we make the best of it. Besides, the drive’s no problem, since I don’t have to travel in snow. I don’t actually go up the mountain as a rule. They insist on chains, and I hate putting them on as much as I hate driving on snowy roads. There’s a shuttle bus from the main parking lot. We use that.”

  “I know about the bus. We ski on Mount Washington, too, but listen, we have a chalet up there. Why don’t you and the kids go on up and use it? That way you won’t have to come back tonight, and you can have a full day’s skiing tomorrow.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No, no buts. We insist,” Zinnie said, digging into her capacious handbag and hauling out a ring of keys. Sorting through them, she found one and removed it, then slapped the key into Sharon’s hand. “There. It’s yours. Go ahead and enjoy.” She explained how to find the chalet, and then added, “But listen, what plans do you have for the kids once you’re back at work? What do they do?”

  “I have a woman who comes in. She’s really nice and they like her.”

  “Okay, but I have a better idea. What if we meet you up there tomorrow afternoon, and then stay on with the kids until the end of their Christmas vacation? We normally go up there for a few days at this time of year and spend New Year’s Eve quietly on our own in the chalet. We’d really enjoy having the kids with us, though, wouldn’t we, Harry?”

  He beamed. “You bet! Hey, it’s a long time since we’ve had kids up there. Come on, Sharon, say yes.”

  The two children stood there, big, dark eyes, pleading with their mother, silently urging her to agree.

  “But that’s a terrible imposition!”

  “Mom!” Two pained voices rang out.

  “Imposition, nothing. We’ll have a ball.” Zinnie frowned. “Unless you don’t feel you know us well enough yet to entrust us with your children. It’s okay, dear. I understand.”

  “No! No, of course it’s not that, Zinnie. After all we’ve been through together, those terrible days and nights of waiting for Jeanie and Max to be found? I feel I know you as well as I know my sister. Certainly I trust you with my kids, but it just seems like an awful lot to ask of you. They’re very active and will wear you out.”

  “Hah!” said Freda with a sniff. “these two never wear out.”

  “It’s true, Sharon.” Rolph swung an arm around her, bumping her up against him in a brotherly fashion. “They ski circles around me every time we hit a mountain together. If I didn’t have to fly to Lisbon tomorrow to look at that ketch for a client, I’d be joining them, and believe me, there’s more than enough room for two little kids. Come on, whaddaya say, sis?”

  “Ohhh!” Sharon felt tears flood her eyes and blinked hard to clear her vision. “You people are so darned good to us! Thank you. We accept.”

  “Great! Then we’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Don’t bother packing any groceries except fresh stuff like milk and eggs. The cupboards and freezer are full, and we expect you to help yourself like any of the rest of the family. Understand?” Zinnie said.

  And then the McKenzies were gone in a flurry of kisses and hugs and thanks. Sharon leaned back against the door and stared at her kids. “Wow!” she said. “What a super new family Aunt Jeanie brought us, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, his face aglow. “It’s just like having a grandma and grandpa must be, huh, Mom?”

  She nodded and turned away quickly so he wouldn’t see the new spurt of tears in her eyes. There had been many times over the past ninetee
n years when she had missed her own parents so desperately, she didn’t know how she’d make it through another day. And now, it seemed, her sister’s in-laws were going to make a very big stab at filling that huge gap in her life.

  “Come on,” she said. “Roxy, you collect up all the hats and gloves and goggles. Jase, you bring the skis up from the basement. I’ll get the rack on top of the car. If we hurry, we can be on the slopes before lunch.”

  “Mommy, this is the best Christmas ever,” Roxy said, leaning on her mother as they rode up in the chair lift. “I’m a good skier, now, aren’t I?”

  “You sure are. Better than last year. Here we go, time to dismount.” Together they skied off the lift and headed down the hill after Jason, who had been in the chair ahead. Roxy was better than she’d been that morning, Sharon noticed. She was much more confident, more relaxed as they skied down Linton’s Loop, a nice easy, relaxed run.

  They had just reached the bottom and were taking a breather when a skier in a red and navy suit caught Sharon’s eye. He came tearing down the face of the hill, over the steepest, most lumpy run, attacking the mountain as if it were an enemy, like a man possessed. Or a man in a great hurry. She frowned, wondering why so many men skied like that, and decided it was a male aggression thing, something they had to do. She had noticed signs of it in Jason.

  The red and navy skier came directly toward them and swirled to a stop, lifting his goggles up over his headband, his tawny eyes laughing at her surprise. She did not feel nearly as surprised as she should, she realized, but instead felt a lot happier than was wise.

  She knew he had seen her putting skis on the car earlier that morning. He had waved, and she had waved back. Then he’d gone inside, and she’d tried as usual to put him out of her mind.

  “Hey, Marc!” Jason’s gladness showed as he slid over to stand close to the man.

  “Hey, yourself.” Stabbing his poles into the snow to free his hands, Marc tugged Jason’s hat down over his eyes. “Having a good time?”

  Jason pushed his hat up onto his forehead again, his grin fading. “Okay, I suppose, but Mom won’t let me ski the face like you just did. That was excellent! I didn’t even know it was you, and I thought the guy was great. Have you been down the Westerly yet? I can’t wait to go, but Roxy’s too little for it.”

  “No. That was only my second run. I spotted you guys going up in the chair so I came down in a hurry to link up with you. Shall we take a run together?”

  “Nah,” Jason said disgustedly. “I gotta stick to the loop this year. “Cause of my leg. The one I broke. The doctor said not to put too much strain on it or somethin’.”

  “That makes good sense, son. Anyway, I meant all of us together. The four of us. I don’t suppose Roxy’s ready yet for any of the more advanced runs.” He grinned at the little girl who beamed back at him.

  “But I will be next year. Mommy says I’m getting better all the time.”

  “And mommys are usually right, but let’s see, shall we?” With that, he led the way to the line-up for the chair lift, maneuvering it somehow so the kids took the chair ahead of him and Sharon.

  “You look like a leprechaun in that green suit,” he said.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m surprised a Frenchman knows about leprechauns.”

  “Ahh, but don’t forget, I’m a widely traveled and very experienced Frenchman.”

  How experienced? Very, she was certain, didn’t come close to covering it. She didn’t want to think about that, though, about what he might know, things he might do, the way he so easily turned her inside out. “A Frenchman who learned to ski in Ireland, perhaps, where there are leprechauns?” she asked quickly.

  “No, who learned to ski at Mont Ste.-Anne, in Quebec, where they do not have leprechauns.”

  “So how would you know one if you saw one?”

  “I’ve been to Ireland.”

  “Skiing?”

  He laughed with her. “From what I saw, they don’t even have any decent-sized mountains, though they do have some pretty craggy hills.” He looked at her intently. “You’re not Irish, are you?”

  She laughed. “Heavens, no! My father’s family came from Gypsy stock, and my mother’s family are very staid and proper British people. In fact, my maternal grandfather was born in London, and my grandmother in Coventry. My mother was born on this side of the Atlantic, though, and while they tried very hard to make her into a proper little English girl, they had a hard row to hoe.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know if it was called peer pressure in those days, but she wanted to be just like the other kids on the block. She was a grave disappointment to them, just as Jeanie and I are.”

  “And your father?”

  She smiled. Talking to him was easy, as long as they didn’t get caught up in conversations that could lead to trouble. “His parents died young, too, so I just barely remember them.”

  “Do you remember your mother’s parents?”

  “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, they live in Victoria, not far from the McKenzies.”

  “Oh. When you said that your father’s parents died young, too, I thought you meant they had as well.”

  “I meant my parents. They died when I was eighteen—a week before my nineteenth birthday.”

  “I see.” His voice was gentle. “And your grandparents? Are they too old to travel?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  He frowned. “Yet they didn’t attend your sister’s wedding?”

  “No,” she said, watching her children dismount ahead of them, and readying herself to ski down the steep ramp. She stood, pushed off from the edge of the chair, and came to a stop beyond the end of the ramp where the kids were waiting. “All right,” she said, “let’s go.”

  But as the children headed down the slope, her arm was caught in a fierce grip, pinning her where she stood. “Why won’t you talk about your family?”

  Her gaze flew to his face. “I thought I just had.”

  “Your grandparents. They’re alive, and yet when your son was lost, and then your sister, you were alone except for Max’s family. I used to sit in my camper after searching all day and think about you, about how alone you must be feeling. Yet you have family. Why weren’t they with you?”

  She looked up at him, then down at the large, gloved hand that held her arm. Slowly, he eased his grip and let her go with a murmured apology.

  “You have family. Why weren’t you with them for Christmas?”

  “There are … reasons. Things I have yet to deal with.”

  “And there,” she said, “is my answer to you. Only I don’t intend to deal with them. My sister and I do not get along with our grandparents. They don’t want to know about us and our lives, and we can live with that. End of story. Now, I came to ski. What did you come for?”

  “The same as always. I came to be where you are.” He held his position in front of her for another second, then leaned forward and brushed his mouth over her cold lips. They didn’t remain cold long. The contact sent an electric shock and a bolt of heat through her.

  With a firm shove on her poles, she shot back from him, turned quickly, and headed directly down the fall line, trying to catch up to her children.

  With them, she would be safe. She watched Roxy navigate a steep bit of the slope like a pro, and thought how easily children relearned old lessons.

  As a large form in a red jacket with blue sleeves caught up with her and skied beside her, she thought, too, how easily a woman’s body could relearn things best forgotten. That short, hard kiss still burned her lips when she reached the foot of the slope, even though her cheeks stung with cold.

  The four of them skied together for the rest of the afternoon, and Sharon couldn’t remember when she’d enjoyed herself more. Not only was Marc an excellent skier who was more than willing to give both children impromptu lessons, but he had a sense of humor that could get her laughing and keep her that way until her sides ached. When s
he finally dragged her exhausted but reluctant children toward the chalet, she was sorry she’d agreed to spend the night there. She would have enjoyed leaving when Marc did, and maybe seeing him again that evening. However, instead of heading toward the parking lot and his truck, he came along beside them in the direction of the chalets.

  “I’m parked over in the campground,” he said. “Could I invite you to dinner?”

  “Hey! Yeah! Mom, that’s great! Let’s go,” said Jason with his usual enthusiasm. “You know you’re always too tired to cook after skiing all day. What are you making, Marc?”

  “It’s already made. A big pot of stew simmering in my slow-cooker. I plugged it in as soon as I got parked. Okay, Sharon? Better than keeping these hungry kids, waiting while you get something ready.”

  “I’d planned on wieners and beans,” she said, and Jason made a rude, gagging sound that earned him a stern look.

  “And as well as cookies, I must admit I make probably the best baking-powder biscuits this side of the Rockies,” Marc added.

  That decided her. “Great. Sounds wonderful. But we’ll bring dessert. What time would you like us there?”

  “Just as soon as you’re ready. I’m in about the third row back, about … say … fourth or fifth vehicle along.”

  “I’ll find you,” she said dryly. “I know those rust spots intimately.”

  The look he gave her suggested that he’d like for her to know more than his rust spots intimately, but after a moment he turned and skied away toward the campsite.

  A long, hot shower revived Sharon enough to make the hike to the campsite without too much trouble, and Marc opened the door quickly to her knock. With four bodies inside it was cramped in the camper, but it was warm and snug and the stew and biscuits were as good as he’d promised.

  “Stew?” she said, taking an appreciative bite. “I’d call this burgundy beef and serve it for company.”

  “That’s what I’m doing,” he said. “Very special company.”

  As delicious as the meal was, jammed into the booth around the small table, with Marc’s warm thigh pressed against hers, Sharon had to force herself to concentrate on her food, on the flavors and textures in her mouth, and try to ignore the other sensations coursing through her body.