by Cara Colter
Sighing with resignation, he lay down on top of the covers beside her, being very careful not to make contact.
But she shifted into him, sighed happily and slept.
Cautiously he put his arm around her. Touched her hair, ran his thumb over her cheek and her lips.
It was all wrong. None of this was part of his plan.
So, why did he feel so right? As right as he had felt since his accident? Rick had not slept at night for months, and yet his eyes felt suddenly heavy as the sensation of calm and connection seeped through him. He shut his eyes, telling himself it would only be for a moment…
He awoke to the sound of the adjoining room door rattling. For a moment he felt disoriented, the smell of roses strong around him.
"Cynthia! I'm supposed to check on you every hour."
Her mother!
He turned to her. So, this was what it would be to wake up beside her, to feel such incredible reverence for life, to have a renewed sense that maybe miracles happened to ordinary guys—unworthy guys—just like him.
And then as the rattling on the locked door became more strenuous he kissed her cheek, slipped out of the bed, and out the patio door. The scent of roses seemed to be going with him, and at the last minute, he remembered the rose stuffed into his pocket.
It was wilted and crushed, not much of an offering at all. On the other hand, she was a bit wilted and crushed tonight, too. He laid the fragile rose tenderly on the table on her balcony and slipped into the night.
Before dawn came, he had drawn a roof on his chapel.
Its lines soared upward to that rare place where human beings were allowed to touch the sky, dance with spirit.
Inserted into the lines of the roof, above the center aisle, would be stained-glass panels, so that the bride would walk down that aisle bathed in soft golden light. The glass panel in the ceiling over the altar would be designed so that a dazzling prism of light—indigos and reds and yellows— would dance together and illuminate the bride.
Exhausted, stunned by the beauty of his creation, he set it aside. He had always been a good architect. His work had been called brilliant, and it had won all kinds of professional accolades and awards. He had always felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment when a building he had drawn became a reality. There was something extraordinarily heady about creating something where there had been nothing before.
All those things had helped him erase that sense of not being good enough, had helped him erase a past that had found him wanting. He was a successful architect, not a mechanic's son from the wrong side of the tracks.
But for all that, he would not have ever described himself as inspired. He always missed the mark of what he truly wanted to express by a hair.
His buildings lacked, and now he saw exactly what they had lacked. Heart. Soul.
Technically brilliant, but that mysterious something that separated brilliance from genius had never been his.
And yet, looking at that drawing, he felt awed by it. Suddenly, humbly, he was aware that genius was a gift that poured through a man, that did not belong to him. This inspiration had been given to him because his heart was open in some way that it had not been previously.
Oddly enough, the mechanic's son was very much a part of the drawing in front of him, his hopes and dreams for a world that contained love were in every line. Oddly enough, his scars were also in the drawing, deepening it, balancing those soaring upward lines.
A month ago, if he had been contemplating open hearts he would have turned it into some kind of cynical joke, maybe about love being comparable to open-heart surgery.
That's what love had been in his home. His mother and father at each other's throats. The unsettled home life had turned Rick Barnett into the quintessential bad boy. The only class he'd ever done well in was shop. He'd loved fast motorcycles, black leather, easy women. His good looks and fun-loving grin had been like a magic key that could open female hearts. When his parents had finally, mercifully, divorced, he had still felt battered. The word commitment had not existed in his youthful vocabulary. He had lived by the words of an old rock-and-roll song, made them his motto.
He was here for a good time, not a long time.
And then he had noticed Cynthia Forsythe, a girl every bit as good as he was bad. He'd been intrigued by her. She had no patience for his easy grin. When he teased her and called her Goody Two-shoes she snubbed him so thoroughly he could feel himself disappearing. When he tormented her about her world of rules and regulations, she confirmed he was disappearing by treating him as though he were invisible.
Finally, he had stopped teasing and stopped smiling. He had begged her to give him a chance—one ride on his mo If she hated it, if she hated him after that, he would let her go. He would never bother her again.
She'd said yes, and his whole world had changed. Because as much as she had been determined to hate his motorcycle and him, she had not. For three glorious weeks, wrapped in the music of her laughter, he had believed in miracles. In love. He had believed his world could be different than it had been. He had hoped.
With Cynthia's arms wrapped around him, her body molded to his as they sat astride a speeding motorcycle, anything in the whole world had seemed possible.
He saw, now, it was inevitable that their different worlds would pull them apart. He had not been able to belong to her world, and she had not been able to defy her mother and come into his. Still, the split had confirmed his suspicion that relationships between men and women could only end in heartache.
And yet here he was, same woman, same scenario. The drawing that had emerged from his hand told it all. He was hoping again. Believing again.
He was in way over his head. What was he going to do?
"Drown or swim," he told himself and then laughed.
All of his life he had followed the path that seemed logical. He had followed the path that made him feel in control, as if he could predict the future, protect himself from unknown variables.
Love would count as an unknown variable!
Love. There was that word, that question, for the second time tonight. Did he love her then?
The answer was quick and resounded through his whole being. The answer was in the drawing he had just produced. The answer was in the hollow feeling of fear in his stomach, and the full feeling of courage in his heart.
He took a deep breath. So, when darkness fell again he would let go of his need to be in control. Tonight he was going to a wedding. And he wasn't going to plot or plan anything, even though that went against his architect's nature.
He was just going to see what happened. And live with the faint hope that it might be good.
Chapter Eight
Cynthia stared at herself in the mirror. Despite the lump on her head, she was a woman transformed.
Less than two weeks ago, she had been a bookish and faintly frumpy assistant to a famous writer who happened to be her mother. Despite the fact that she was twenty-six years old she had always felt like a child, as if she was impersonating an adult and might be discovered at any moment.
But a woman—a one-hundred-percent, full-blooded beautiful woman—looked back at her from the mirror tonight.
She was dressed in a cocktail-length dress, the fabric as gossamer as dragonfly wings. It clung and floated, hinted and showed. The dress was pure feminine magic. It was several different shades, turquoise melting into jade green and back again, and the design of it left one of Cynthia's slender shoulders bare. It hugged the swell of her breast and the smallness of her waist, then fanned out in a dazzling array of color and fabric around her legs. It was part Arabian dancer (shades of Hot Desert Kisses?) part Princess Di and part Cynthia Forsythe.
But if the outfit heralded the change in her in outer ways, it was her eyes that confirmed the change was inner, as well.
Picking up the colors from the dress, they looked green as jade tonight. They sparkled with life, and hinted at a great capacity to feel deeply. There was a
brand-new day dawning in her eyes. She knew it and felt it with deep pleasure.
How was it possible for such a change to happen in such a short time? She had gone from feeling like a wooden puppet to being a living, breathing wondrously alive person.
It was like a miracle.
And then it struck her, full-force, exactly what that miracle was. There was only one force in the entire universe that could change a person so miraculously, that could bring the dead to life and the crippled to wholeness.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "I'm in love."
She tried to tell herself it was impossible. It was too soon. She didn't know him well enough. For heaven's sake, she had only just found out his name.
She wasn't even sure if she knew herself well enough! This new, improved version, in particular, made her feel as if she was a bit of a stranger to herself.
But the truth shone back at her out of her eyes.
She knew Bear—Rick, he had told her last night—was no stranger.
Her heart had recognized him from the first moment. And so had her soul. She had been shaken awake from a deep slumber because of him. She was alive, fully and gloriously alive, and she was thrilled and grateful.
She picked up her small matching handbag, did one last check of her makeup. She tried to pull her bangs a little farther down over her bandaged bump on her forehead, but they sprang back to where they wanted to be.
It didn't seem to matter. It didn't put a damper on how she was feeling.
Because Rick had said yes. They were moving forward into a new part of this whole experience. They were going out in public. People would see them together. They would do normal things, eat food and dance.
Could the fantasy stand up to its first reality check?
She felt not a single doubt.
"It's darn near a relationship," she said, hugging herself and doing a happy final twirl in front of the mirror.
The dress floated around the length of her legs. She sighed with satisfaction and headed out the door.
The evening was beautiful, even for a place where beautiful evenings were the norm. A gentle breeze came in off the ocean, and the flowers released the fragrance they had stored during the heat of the day. The moon was a sliver still, but stars shone and blinked. Orion watched over her, and she smiled at him.
Brad and Parris's party was in a large outdoor area that was used for picnics and concerts and family reunions. It overlooked one of the many beaches, and Cynthia had walked by it many times.
But nothing could have prepared her for how it had been transformed tonight.
There were no electrical lights. Instead, the pathway to the area was lit with torches that flickered and leapt against an inky sky, and the entire perimeter of the outdoor area was defined by these torches. Inside them, tables formed a loose ring around a flat wooden dance platform. Each table was covered with a white cloth and contained a vase with an array of white flowers with a candle burning at its center. There were bottles of wine opened and breathing on each table. Candles burned everywhere, little winking lights in the flower beds and tucked among the shrubs. They gave the area a magical feel, as though small, brilliant fairies twinkled everywhere.
Many guests had already arrived. People were milling about, sitting at the tables, and the atmosphere was festive. Chatter and laughter filled the air.
Arbors and temporary walls laced with white flowers and illuminated by torches had been put up to give the sensation that this was a private room, set off from the rest of the world.
Some of the tables were set farther back, and Cynthia found one that was almost in an alcove of shrubs. The flickering light of the torches barely illuminated here, though she could see everything perfectly.
She set her bag on the table to save her seat and then went to congratulate the bride and groom.
Parris was absolutely stunning. Her hair was braided with flowers. Her dress was gorgeous—simple, floor-length white silk with tiny, tiny straps—but she could have been wearing a burlap sack and a buzz cut and she still would have looked like the most beautiful woman in the world. She was radiant.
Brad was one of those handsome self-assured kind of guys that Cynthia could find intimidating. But the look on his face when he gazed at his bride—full of wonder and ten—made her see instantly what a good heart he had.
Despite having greeted so many people, Parris seemed thrilled to see her.
"Hey," she said with a naughtiness that did not at all match the innocence of that dress. "How's the red workout for you? It looks like something is working!"
So, that look Cynthia had seen in her own face in the mirror was visible to others.
"It's a beautiful gathering," Cynthia said evasively. "Thank you for inviting me."
Parris hugged her. "I'm so glad you could come. Now, we wanted things very casual, so there won't be any head table or speeches or anything like that. We've just set up a buffet where people can go help themselves anytime."
There was also a table for gifts, and Cynthia went and put her wrapped parcel on it. She noticed quite a fuss being made over one item that was not wrapped, and she moved closer.
She smiled. A carving was there. Of two dolphins leaping out of the water together, their bond and their joy evident. She would have recognized Rick's work anywhere, and she wondered if the fact that his gift was here meant he was here, too.
Would she recognize him? She had only seen him in the darkest of conditions. She felt so excited that tonight she might glimpse more of him.
She looked around but didn't see anyone who even vaguely resembled him. Not that she thought she would. Just like the bear, you didn't see Rick until he wanted to be seen.
She joined the line at the buffet. She chatted with some people she recognized and then realized Rick might by shy in the bright lights surrounding the buffet table. She filled two plates and went back to her table. Seconds later, she sensed him arrive.
"Hello, Rick," she said, and loved the way his name sounded on her lips.
He bent from behind, kissed her cheek, and then touched his lips to the hollow of her shoulder. He took the seat beside her.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Breathless. Could you kiss my neck again?"
"I meant from the bump on the head," he said wryly.
"Oh! Much better actually. Was I an idiot last night? I'm afraid my memories of it are a little foggy."
"You were charming."
"Is that a polite way of saying I was an idiot?"
"Would it worry you to be an idiot?"
"Yes!"
"You can be whatever you want with me. It won't change how I feel."
She was not sure anyone had ever said anything so nice to her. She slid him a look. His face was swathed in darkness, but even so she could see the dark patch that covered his eye, and some of the scarring that she had not really seen before. She reached up and touched his face, deliberately letting her palm rest on the scar that ran like broken glass from his ear, along his jawbone, down the solid column of his neck. He went very still, tense.
"You can look any way you want with me," she said softly. "It won't change the way I feel."
He snorted cynically. "Be careful what you say, Cynthia."
"I mean it."
"You think you do."
"I think we are about to have our first argument," she said dangerously. "Are you going to tell me how I think? What I feel?"
"That would be presumptuous, wouldn't it?" he said, and the hardness was gone from his tone. "I don't want to fight with you."
He held a large shrimp up to her lips. "Peace?" he suggested.
She took a nip of the shrimp. "All right. We'll postpone this discussion."
"I thought maybe we could not have it at all."
"I knew that's what you thought!"
"Now who is presuming?"
She laughed, and they slipped that easily into a comfort zone. They ate and laughed and talked.
She saw
her mother and Jerome come in, and though her mother looked around with avid interest, she did not spot her daughter. Cynthia gave an inward sigh of relief.
"I should have guessed she would be here," Rick said.
Cynthia gave him a startled look. "My mother? You know my mother?"
"No, of course not," he said hastily. "Merry. Merry Montrose."
"Don't you like her?" Cynthia asked, confused by his tone. Merry had just made an arrival on the arm of a very handsome man, very much her junior.
There was wine on each table, and Rick tipped their bottle toward her glass, but she quickly covered it with her hand. She allowed him to change the subject.
"Not tonight." She refused the wine. "I missed most of what we did together last night, and I'm not letting that happen again." Merry slipped from her mind.
"Don't worry, it was nothing too exciting."
"Well, if it had been, I'm sure I wouldn't have forgotten."
"You wanted to show me your pajamas," he said wickedly, "and not the ones with the bunnies on them, either."
"That's not true! But if that's not true, how do you know about the bunnies? Maybe I'll have some of that wine after all. What else did I do? Say?"
"I told you, you were charming."
"And I wanted to believe you, until the pajama thing."
"You didn't want me to leave."
No woman in her right mind would want him to leave, but he wouldn't believe it if she said it, so she didn't.
"So, I lay down beside you," he said softly.
"In my bed?" she squeaked.
"Yes. And I watched you sleep and touched your cheek, your hair."
"Did you?" she whispered.
"You smelled of heaven."
"I did not."
"Mmm-hmm. And you had this little drool coming out of your mouth right here."
He touched the corner of her mouth with his finger. It was enough to make a woman think maybe drool was sexy.
"And after I drooled on you?"
"Then you started snoring."
"Loudly?" she asked, appalled.
"Freight train comin' down the track."
