by Cara Colter
He went into the dark water and tried to swim himself to exhaustion, to a place where he would not think about what it would be like to have shared this with her. He never did quite reach that place. Frustrated, he packed his ruined evening under his arm and returned to his suite.
It was over then. It was no different from last time.
Only Cynthia was now a full-grown woman and still under her mother's thumb. How willingly she had climbed into that golf cart, like a chastised child. He tried not to think of the look of abject distress on her lovely features as she had looked back over her shoulder into the darkness, searching for him.
He rarely slept at night anymore. He had adopted it as the time when his scars showed the least, and there was the least opportunity to run into people, well-meaning, curious, and cruel by turns.
The night was his. It belonged to him. And yet tonight he felt weary almost beyond reason. That very weariness made him vulnerable. Vulnerable to the way she had looked tonight with her bathing suit so sensual, the erotic sweep of the filmy wrap around her legs, the sexy red against the creaminess of her skin, the plunging line at the back showing off her every curve.
He thought of the energy that had pulsed around them. She had not been afraid of him. At the first sign of fear he would have called the game off.
No, she had been spunky and wide open to whatever adventure he was planning. Her lips, under his, had been hungry, passionate, promising.
Should he try again?
No. Even tonight, he had bed to her. He had known if people came upon them he would disappear, because he had known they would not look at them, at him and Cynthia, and see enamored young lovers.
No, they would see her face. And his. Beauty and the Beast.
It worked in fairy tales. But in real life? He reached for his sketchpad, pondering whether or not he should try again. Why? Where was it all going? Even if she had matured to a point where she would choose him, and not her mother, why would she choose him?
He went to the mirror and looked, to savagely remind himself what he now was.
Half of his face remained what it had always been. He remembered that boy. His careless good looks, the perfection of his smile, how he had used it so wickedly to get his own way.
Cynthia was beautiful. She could have any man in the world, including Baron Gruntermunger or whatever his name was.
"Leave her to her life," he commanded himself. "And get on with yours."
His life. His work.
He went to the table which he had set up as a desk, and opened his sketchbook. Stuck in it was the drawing of the chapel that Merry had retrieved from the ground. She had liked it, but he looked at it critically.
He knew suddenly exactly what he didn't like about it. It was that it didn't tell the whole story. The chapel was too perfect and too beautiful, something out of a fairy tale. But there were hard places people traveled to, long before they ever made it to the church. They had to find their way through unmapped territory, over mountains, they had to face the barren places in their own souls.
He found himself drawing low, sweeping stairs. He would make them of unbroken slabs of black granite. They would represent the climb, the cold places, the challenging uphill parts of falling in love. And the floor of the church, too, in the same black granite, to represent the hard times and hard decisions. People who found themselves walking up the aisles of churches committing to something for the rest of their lives had experienced a great deal more than the pure bliss his one drawing had captured. No, there was torment mingled with the happiness, of that he was certain.
He stared at the drawing. He was acting as if he was going to build that chapel after all.
Worse, he was acting as though he knew something of the subject of love.
"Ha," he said. "I've designed a set of stairs and a floor." That was a long, long way from designing an entire building.
And still when he looked at it, he knew he was moving in the right direction.
And with Cynthia? Was he moving in the right direction with her?
He thought he had decided that. He was accustomed to being a man of decision. Why was he revisiting this? It was over. Before it started, it was over, which was good. No one was hurt yet.
Not her by him revealing what he looked like. Not him by her rejection of that.
He put away his sketchbook and got up restlessly.
On the low coffee table beside his couch was a carving he had begun, and nearly half finished, the night before. He frowned. He was almost positive he had put the carving away in the drawer of his nightstand beside the bed. The image emerging from the wood troubled and delighted him.
This artistic part of himself was something he had always kept hidden. He had noticed it emerging tonight, something almost poetic in the way he'd spoken to Cynthia.
That was the good part of anonymity. It allowed him to be totally himself, even to experiment a bit with what that meant.
Rick Barnett, serious and successful architect, could not have whispered poetic words to Cynthia about what he had planned for them. He could not have said they were going to swim in darkness until they found the sun. No, that man had to keep his macho image firmly in place, never show a sensitive side, which he had always perceived as weakness.
Now, turning the partly finished carving over in his hands, he was not so sure what was weakness and what was strength.
Rick carved with wood that he found. Though there were certain softer woods that lent themselves to this art, he much preferred to be out for a walk and come across some treasure—a chunk of beautifully grayed driftwood, a stump of oak. He loved how wood seemed so hard and implacable but in actual fact moved like a lover beneath the carver's hands. The more experienced the carver became in the medium, the more the piece of wood gave up its secrets, allowed itself to be shaped, gave itself completely to design.
The figure he was working on was very small, less than six inches high. The wood was a piece of driftwood, a particularly dark piece, with light sections swirling through it. It lent itself perfectly to the concept of a woman in the night, but it was laced with light as if the moon touched her. His carving depicted a woman emerging from the water, her hands lifted above her head.
He had captured an amazing amount of emotion in the simple lines of the carving. The woman was saying a joyous yes to the embrace of life and freedom.
He picked it up now and allowed himself to be seduced by it, pulled into it. With a sigh, he got out his tools and worked on it ceaselessly. An hour before dawn, it was done.
He realized, suddenly, it did not belong to him. It belonged to Cynthia. He would leave it for her then, a farewell gift. He had never given away a carving before. He had always felt compelled to keep this secret part of himself private, away from judgments.
How could he be so certain she would not judge him? Because once she had been an artist herself? Because of the way her lips had opened underneath his like a flower absorbing rain?
He went, cloaked in night, down the path to the unit where he had seen the golf cart drop Cynthia off.
It was a ground-floor suite, probably identical to his own.
He stood there in the darkness. One of the French doors off her patio was open. If he'd had any doubts about her "kidnapping" scaring her, they left him now. She was obviously not afraid. And if the design was the same as his unit, that door led right to her bedroom.
He imagined the sound of her sleeping, her breath quiet and gentle, like a purr. He imagined the way she would look, the honey of her hair spread across the pillow, her brow damp with the humidity in the Florida air. He imagined her cheeks would be flushed with sleep and heat, and he hoped she was dreaming of kisses.
Standing there in the darkness, the whole world asleep, Rick allowed himself to feel what he had not allowed himself to acknowledge ever since a wall on a building project had collapsed on top of him and changed his life forever.
He felt lonely beyond words.
And he felt the hopelessness of trying to change that.
Quietly, he moved through darkness. The night was leaving, becoming ever so faintly tinged with the dawning light of a new day. He put the carving on the table on her patio and resisted the temptation to look in on her.
Still, as he turned to leave, the growing light disoriented him. When night melted into day and the shadows changed and intensified, he stumbled over one of the deck chairs. It was made of metal and it crashed against the glass top of her patio table with a terrible clang before it fell to the ground with a resounding clatter that seemed to echo endlessly through the sleeping resort.
He backed hastily into the flowering shrubs. The carving was undisturbed on the table. He held his breath, waiting.
And then he let it out. Nothing. No movement. No lights coming on in her unit or in any of the neighboring ones. He had just turned to leave when a movement caught his eye.
Cynthia emerged from the room and onto the patio. She looked adorable, her hair scattered, her eyes faintly puffy, the mark of the sheet where her cheek had pressed her pillow tattooed the perfection of her skin.
Even though her pajamas looked like something a child would wear, longing washed over him. But he leveled all his steely strength against it.
She looked about sleepily, stretched, looked toward the line of pink growing in the eastern sky. Then she saw the gift that had been left on her table.
The sleep left her face and was replaced with absolute delight as she reached for it. She studied it, her face lit in the first strong rays of morning sun. She ran her fingers with gentle reverence over the smoothness of the grayed wood. And then, in that moment when she was so sure she was alone, she pressed the figure against her lips. She embraced her gift to her bosom and scanned the walkway in front of her suite. She stepped off the ground-level patio stones and looked both ways down the deserted walkways.
He recognized her longing as equal to his.
But she could fill his with her beauty alone. How could he ever fill hers?
Still, his strength dissolved. He watched as she turned, gave one last look over her shoulder and went back inside.
She did not lock the door behind her.
"Tonight, sweet lady," he said, and felt the exquisite bliss and torment of that decision.
Chapter Five
She had gone back to sleep, but when she opened her eyes again, the first thing Cynthia saw was the carving. She smiled and stretched, feeling how sweet and untroubled her sleep had been, almost as if the gift had watched over her and blessed her. Now she sat up in bed and looked at the carving again. It was simple, and yet it had captured so much—a young woman reaching for life, for freedom.
Was the young woman her? And what did it mean that she had found this small gift? Was it even from her mystery man?
"I think I'll call him M&M, short for Mystery Man," she said out loud. When she picked up the carving she had no doubt it was from him. It was as if she could feel his spirit carved into the sensuous curve of the wood, as if part of him remained.
What was more perplexing was the question of whether or not the gift was tied to the legend of the bear. It was preposterous to entertain such an imaginative thought. Part of what made her a great research assistant was her ability to think logically, to organize information in ways that made sense.
It made no sense to think that a bear leaving gifts for a woman in a story would lead to strange parallels in her own life. It made no sense to think that way, but that's the way she was thinking.
A knock came on her door, firm and masculine.
Her breath caught in her chest. Only one man, that she could think of, would be knocking on her door with such no-nonsense authority.
She threw on her housecoat and raced to the door, prepared to pull him inside, look him over, touch his face, see it, before she covered him with sweet kisses—
"Jerome!" she said with surprise after yanking open the door. She had to put on the brakes to keep herself from falling into his arms on the sheer forward momentum and enthusiasm that had carried her to the door.
"Good morning, Cynthia. I'm sorry. Were you expecting someone else?"
Yes, she wanted to wail. Instead she composed herself. "No, of course not. Who else would there be to expect?"
He looked at her quizzically, and she realized how she must look. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes heated, telegraphing her wanting him to be someone else. Embarrassed, she tugged her housecoat tighter around her and fastened the belt.
"I was supposed to have breakfast with your mother. She's not answering her door. I thought you might know if she's left already, or if she's not well."
"Migraine," Cynthia said with a sigh.
Jerome's eyebrow arched upward. "Migraine? Does she get one of those every time she tries to manipulate someone?"
Cynthia stared at him. Why, it seemed as if Jerome Carrington had her mother's number after a very short period of acquaintance, Despite herself she chortled with appreciation.
He smiled, too. "Could I come in for a moment? There's something I would like to discuss with you."
Cynthia liked Jerome. Her mother had a tendency to pick men she could dominate, but Jerome was different. Strong. Way too sure of himself ever to allow anyone to push him around.
Her coffeemaker had come on automatically and the rich aroma of fresh brew filled her apartment. "Come have coffee," she invited.
She and Jerome sat down at her table and she poured him a cup. Sunshine splashed across the table, promising another beautiful day. Outside the window, palm trees swayed on gentle breezes, and flowers bloomed in breathtaking and exotic tropical abundance. Despite her initial disappointment that Jerome was not who she had hoped he would be, Cynthia felt herself looking forward to the day.
And then she asked herself when had been the last time she'd actually looked forward to a day?
"I'm going to ask you a personal question, Cynthia," Jerome said, "and I hope you won't think I'm being too terribly nosy.."
"I don't see nosiness as part of your nature," she said.
"You might now." He hesitated, took a sip of his coffee and then asked, "Why do you allow your mother to behave the way she does with you?"
"And what way is that?" Cynthia hedged, but it seemed some of the pleasure she had been feeling in simple things, sunshine and the aroma of coffee, had evaporated.
"She's very bossy and domineering. She controls you."
Cynthia blew on her coffee and felt the complications of her relationship with her mother drag her down as if she had been dropped in the ocean with an anchor attached to her ankle. But then she met Jerome's eyes. He offered her rescue, a safe harbor, someone she could trust with a secret.
She had never told anyone before about her promise to her father. She had carried it within her like a binding personal burden. She blurted it out now, with the relief of a devotee in confessional.
"So, if I understand you," Jerome said slowly, when she was finished, "on his deathbed, your father extracted a promise from you to make your mother happy."
She nodded. She was surprised to find she was crying, the tears slithering silently down her cheeks and plopping into her coffee.
"And how old were you?" Jerome asked gently.
"Sixteen," she choked.
Jerome smiled at her with such compassion that she had a sudden irrational wish that he was her father. His hand covered hers.
"Cynthia, I am sixty-eight years old, and that has one advantage over youth. I've learned a thing or two, so I hope you will allow me to share some of what I have learned with you, without being offended."
"The way I see this situation, you were a child trying to make the world right. I think this is a truth you probably know by now—people do not make each other happy. No person can be responsible for another person's happiness. Each person has a responsibility—I would go so far as to say a sacred one—to find their own happiness in this world."
"And I believe your father
is in a place now where he would understand that simplest of truths, where he would release you from a burden he probably placed on you unintentionally. He was probably sick and in pain and on drugs. If he had thought through what he was asking of you, I don't think he would have asked it. I really don't."
Cynthia was crying openly, as relieved as if she was a prisoner who had suddenly been given the keys to freedom. She had only to find the right door, the right lock, and she was pretty sure she knew where that was.
"I have sensed in you from the beginning a truly adventurous spirit," Jerome said. "This passive face you show to the world is a complete masquerade. You have an artist's soul. I sense it. You are not doing your mother or yourself any favors by robbing the world of who you really are."
Cynthia dried her tears with a tissue and gave Jerome a watery smile. There were really no words big enough to express the gratitude she felt to him, but she tried anyway. "Thank you."
"Ah, you are welcome, my dear. Now go do something wild and crazy with your day. Be young."
"Drive a golf cart too fast?" she suggested mischievously.
"Oh, you can do better than that. I'm sure of it."
She laughed, and the laughter felt rich and good and real. "I believe I can."
"Now, is there a connecting door to your mother's room?"
Cynthia nodded toward it.
Jerome winked, got up and went through it. He left it ajar, and she heard him go into her mother's bedroom, and she heard her mother's loud squeak of outrage.
"Do you think I've never seen a woman without makeup before? Or without her hair done? I haven't led that sheltered a life, nor have you. Quit being ridiculous."
She couldn't quite hear what her mother said next, but her tone came through loud and clear—outraged, snobby, cutting.
But she certainly heard what Jerome said.
"Migraine, my ass!"
Cynthia had to bite her fist to keep a shout of laughter from coming out. She eavesdropped shamelessly.
"You can't get a migraine every time you don't get your own way. Your poor, sweet daughter has been spending the precious hours of her life trying to make you happy. Bluebird, you should be absolutely ashamed of yourself. Now, get up and get into that shower, or I'll put you in there myself."
