She got back into Shelter Bay and went directly to the Snug Harbor B&B, checked back in, then went to her cottage. As she sat in front of her computer, waiting for it to boot up, she glanced out the window and she saw a pale blue sky brushed with drifting clouds, saw the trees on the bluff sway in a light breeze. The island weather was as unpredictable as she’d obviously become. She settled in to work, blocking out the not-too-distant sounds of music and celebration. Hours later she was startled by the boom of a cannon. She pushed back from the desk. It was almost dusk now, and the only time she’d taken a break all day was when the girl from the main house had brought her a lunch tray. When she’d opened the door, she’d caught a glimpse of the street, with streams of people going up and down the way.
She stretched her hands over her head and thought she’d need a vacation after all this. That brought a chuckle. Sure, she’d take time off, maybe go to the Bahamas or Hawaii or even Paris, and she’d take her computer and her cell phone with her and keep in touch and work. That was her life and right now it felt terribly empty.
Quickly she tried to push that thought away, along with the memory of Joe saying she needed a break, needed to turn off her cell phone for a while. But she failed. She’d managed to keep Joe and all thoughts of last evening out of her mind until this moment. She was good at compartmentalizing her thoughts, and Joe had been in a compartment she’d intended never to open again. The thing was, it opened on its own, and she was having trouble closing it again. She was having trouble forgetting how his kiss, his touch, his body had stirred her to a passion she’d never known before, and how she’d felt as if she’d come home.
A knock came at the door, and she was grateful for the distraction. Until she remembered that Joe had been at her door last night. Was it him now? She hesitated, then called out, “Who is it?”
“Just me, ma’am, Melinda. I’ve come to get your dishes and take your order for dinner if you want it in your cottage.”
She opened the door to the same girl who’d brought her lunch. “Thanks,” she said, handing the tray to the girl. “And yes, I would like dinner in the cottage. Some broiled chicken and lots of vegetables. Can you bring it in a couple of hours? I’ll be hungry by then.”
“Fine.” The girl hesitated. “Oh, I thought I should warn you that they’re going to be shooting off the cannon, so don’t be alarmed by the noise.”
“I heard it once already.”
“Well, it’s going to start up again soon.” The girl smiled. “It know it sounds corny, but it’s really fun. You should go down to see it, or take a look from the bluff. It’s going on just down the beach from here.”
“I’m pretty busy,” Alegra said, not very excited by the idea of watching cannons being fired to mimic pirates sinking ships that came too close to the island. “But thanks,” she said, and jumped when a booming sound shattered the air around her.
“The cannon,” the girl said unnecessarily.
“The cannon,” Alegra echoed, and closed the door.
She crossed to the window and looked out at the night. Past the wind-twisted pines clustered at the top of the bluffs, she saw flashing lights and could hear voices drifting on the cold air. The sounds of a brass band started up again, this time playing “A Pirate’s Life.” She shook her head. Leave it to this place to admire a pirate.
She turned from the view as a cannon on the beach thundered again. Despite the fact she knew what it was and where it came from, the sound still jarred her nerves. Joe hadn’t been entirely right about the definition of thunder. He should have added “cannons when they’re being fired.” The moment she thought about Joe, she felt the emptiness again.
Another boom of the cannon, followed by more cheering and music, and she decided she had nothing to lose by going to the bluff and watching.
In minutes she’d reached the low metal railing that blocked any unintentional descent to the beach below.
She looked down and saw fire pits dug in the sand in a rough circle near the water. The flames danced into the air, casting a flickering glow over the bystanders, who all kept a respectful distance from the cannon itself, which had been set up right at the water’s edge. She watched as a man with a torch approached the cannon and held the torch to the wick at the back of it. A sizzling sound and sparkling effect followed, and people moved farther back, most of them covering their ears, children and adults alike. Then the boom, and a cannonball shot from the barrel.
A cheer went up. The speakers began playing “They sailed their ship cross the ocean blue, bloodthirsty men and old Bartholomew,” and spectators sang along. She remembered singing the same song in school, but back then the festival was nothing like this. Back then it was relatively simple, unlike the full Hollywood production it was now. Costumes everywhere, special effects, a row of old dinghies on the tide line…
She started to turn away when she caught a glimpse that stopped her. Joe. He was near the water, the flicker from the fire touching his face as he sang with the others. Alex was on his shoulders clapping with enthusiasm, and she thought she could see Joe’s parents just behind.
“‘Listen to our dark, dark tale as it’s told, about the search for treasure and the lust for gold.’”
She saw Joe grin as Alex leaned down to say something to him. They both laughed, then some people started dancing near the cannon. The music changed back to “A Pirate’s Life,” and a man dressed in a costume broke into a jig by the cannon.
Debauchery, she thought in amusement, and couldn’t quite understand why even a tiny bit of her, an obviously irrational part of her, wished she was down there. Without warning, Joe looked up in her direction and stopped singing. He couldn’t see her, surely. It was too dark. He was too far away. But that didn’t stop her feeling his eyes on her, then there was a smile, a slight nod, and she moved back quickly out of sight. Did the man have such good night vision?
“Damn it,” she muttered, turning to head back to the cottage. When she went inside, she closed the door to shut out the festival, then was startled by the ring of her cell phone. She crossed to the desk to get it, and flipped it open. “Roz?”
“I left you four messages,” her assistant said without preamble.
She’d left her phone here while she’d been outside, and four messages in that short absence didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening. “What’s going on?”
“It’s James Ota. He’s been calling every ten minutes. He’s demanding that I give him your cell number or get a message to you right away.”
Ota was the regional rep for her stores in the northeast. The man was good at what he did, but he saw even the most minor problems as a crisis. She sighed. Oh, well, she thought, right now she could use the diversion. “What’s his problem?”
But it didn’t turn out to be much of a diversion. For almost half an hour, Alegra listened to Roz tell her about a shipping mix-up and Ota’s problems with a supplier. She heard the words, knew what they meant, but she couldn’t stop hearing the sounds coming from the beach below, couldn’t stop imagining Joe and Alex in the midst of the celebration. She crossed to the windows with the phone pressed to her ear, and tugged the curtains across to block out the view. But it didn’t block out the sound of the cannon being shot again.
“Good heavens,” Roz said in her ear. “What was that?”
“Cannon fire,” Alegra said.
“What?”
“Never mind,” she said, turning her back on the windows.
She still found herself wondering what it would be like to be down there laughing, singing and enjoying the festivities. Then she flinched as another thought corrected the first one. It wasn’t just being there, it was being there with Joe, and even Alex. Then she laughed. The idea was absurd. Alegra Reynolds down on the beach with an islander, and that islander’s three-year-old?
“What’s so funny?” Roz demanded.
“Oh, sorry. Just…” She exhaled. “Listen, tell James that he can hunt down Morris in New Jersey
and have him figure out where the shipments are. I’m busy.”
Roz was quiet for a moment, then, “Sure, okay. I’ll do that. When can I expect you back in New York?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve got to finish up here, then…” Her words trailed off when she realized she wasn’t sure any longer what she was going to do when she left. “I’ll let you know.”
“I put the instructions for what’s to be done with the money you’re donating in with the check.”
“Thanks. It’s an old lighthouse on the island that’s not in working order and should be. I want all that money to be designated for its repair and upkeep, with the stipulation it’s really running, not just a tourist destination.”
After she hung up, Alegra closed the phone, then reopened it. She stared at the tiny screen with its color and various alerts. She took a deep breath, then pressed the end button, holding it down until the screen went blank. The phone was shut off.
She barely believed what she’d done, yet strangely she didn’t have any urge to turn it back on. She tossed it onto the couch cushions, crossed to her laptop to shut it off, ignoring that blasted voice telling her, “You’ve got mail.” The whirring of the disk drive stopped, and she closed the top. With that all done, she stood in the empty room, waiting for something. She didn’t know what. A bolt of lightning? A voice from above telling her to turn the phone and laptop back on right now? Finally, all that happened was a wave of tiredness that washed over her so heavily she felt her legs start to shake.
She turned off the lights and went into the bedroom, stripped off her clothes and crawled into bed. She curled up on her side under the lavender-scented sheets and blankets, closed her eyes and, despite years of having trouble getting to sleep, barely had time to exhale before sleep overtook her. The sleep was deep and luxurious at first, but later became tense as she was gripped by a dream….
She was eight years old. She was by the water. It was cold, so very cold. Then she was sitting on the rock, her back to the bluffs, in her spot, closing her eyes.
“Alegra?”
Her name came to her on the night air. She opened her eyes to the flicker from fire rings under a dark, starless sky. And Joe. He was coming toward her, Joe the man, not Joe the boy, waving to her, jumping up onto the rock—and she wasn’t eight anymore. She was a woman, reaching out, knowing that this was why she’d come to the rock. She felt his hand close around hers, heat replacing all the coldness in her world, and she let him pull her up and into his chest.
She let him hold her, let the thoughts of homecoming and being safe filter into her soul. When she lifted her face to kiss him, the contact was fierce, needy. His hands were on her, and the location shifted from the rock to softness all around. Lavender was everywhere, and warmth and gentleness. She fell into it, wishing it would go on forever, his naked body against hers. She arched toward him, and his whisper surrounded her. “Welcome home.”
Her heart hammered. She clutched at him, holding on to him as if her life depended on it. She was home. She was home. It rang in her mind, over and over again, and he came to her, touched her, then entered her. Home.
“Ms. Reynolds! Ms. Reynolds!” A banging. A voice calling to her. Cutting through the dream. Robbing her of the dream. Joe was going, the images dissolving, and the heat went with him.
In one heartwrenching moment, everything changed. Alegra was alone in the bed, pushing herself up, swiping at her tangled hair. Her body ached, and she was alone. “Welcome home.” Joe’s voice still lingered, and she shuddered at how much she wished she was home. That she was welcome and that Joe would be there.
Alegra made her way to the door and opened it to see Melinda.
“What do you want?” she demanded rudely.
The girl cringed back a bit. “Ma’am, your dinner.”
“I don’t want it.”
She would have slammed the door right then, but the girl kept talking. “But a lady, Roz, she called and she’s worried about you. You weren’t answering your phone or—”
“I turned it off. I did that because I wanted some peace and quiet. If I don’t answer the door, I don’t want to be interrupted. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I’m so sorry,” Melinda said quickly and scurried away with the tray in her hands.
Even during the confrontation, Alegra knew she was out of line. Raw nerves drove her, and when the girl left, she knew she’d have to apologize. She never spoke like that to her own employees.
Alegra returned to bed, and tossed and turned for the remainder of the night.
ALEGRA DRAGGED HERSELF out of bed at dawn, went into the living area, turned on her cell phone and the computer, then walked away from both of them. She had a shower, got dressed in corduroy slacks and a heavy-knit tunic, and pushed her feet into her boots. Without taking anything with her but her room key, she stepped outside into the chill morning. Like yesterday, clear blue skies.
She heard the sounds of the people at the festival, the music that seemed to always be piped into the air, and smelled the heavy scent of barbecue. It was the day before the ball, and there was always a huge cookout on the beach where the cannon had been fired. It was a pit barbecue, with music and games for the kids. Tomorrow was the parade, then the ball to finish the festival.
She’d never gone to the barbecue when she’d been a kid, and she didn’t intend to go now. She had an apology to make and she headed for the main house. Stepping into the warmth of the huge Victorian, she saw Melinda coming down a hallway that led to rooms at the back of the house. She called out to her. “Melinda! Hello!”
The girl flushed slightly at the sight of Alegra coming toward her. She hugged a stack of clean towels to her chest. “Oh, ma’am, I really am sorry about last night, but I thought you wanted dinner. I never should have persisted, but the lady called and she was so insistent about getting a hold of you, too, and I—”
Alegra cut her off. “No, I came to apologize to you. I had no right to be so rude, and I’m very sorry. I do appreciate what you did.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she murmured.
“What size do you wear?” Alegra asked.
The girl looked totally confused now. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Your size,” Alegra repeated, eyeing her. “A ten?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.”
“Your favorite color?”
“Uh, I guess lavender.”
“Great. I’ll have something sent to you.”
Melinda looked confused. “You will?”
“Yes, a gift, from me to you, to apologize.” Before the girl could protest, Alegra said, “Please, I want to.”
“Then thank you, Ms. Reynolds,” she said, then color touched her cheeks. “I mean, not something too…well, you know.”
Yes, she knew. “Of course. Nothing too racy.”
The girl looked a little happier. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thanks, nothing,” Alegra said.
The girl moved off and Alegra returned to her cottage. She called Roz to apologize to her, also. Her assistant took it all in stride, saying, “Pressure. I know how it is. Don’t worry.”
Pressure? Alegra guessed that was some of it. That and the fact that she still couldn’t get her response to Joe in the dream—or in real life—out of her head. She told Roz to pick out something “spectacular but modest” in lavender and have it overnighted to the Snug Harbor B&B for Melinda.
After she hung up, she faced the day in front of her. She could spend it working, or she could spend it doing something she should have done the right way the first time. She went back out, climbed in her car and drove out of the lot.
It took her forever to get a few blocks down the street because of the throngs of people at the festival. When she finally broke free of them, she headed south to the gray, faded house with its brambles and weeds and the mustiness of age and abandonment everywhere.
She parked by the sagging steps of the porch
and got out. The sunlight was very unkind to the house, exposing every warped board and dirty window.
The porch steps protested loudly as she moved up them and crossed to the door. It was then she realized she didn’t even have a key with her. But before, when she’d been here, there’d been a key outside. She bent down and picked up a rusty old lawn ornament by the door. It hadn’t stood up to time any better than the house had. But the extra key was still under it. She retrieved the key and opened the door. It swung back on creaking hinges.
She was looking into the house she’d walked away from ten years ago, the same furniture, heavy with dust. Mustiness hung in the fetid air. She made herself take one step in, then another, until she was all the way inside, standing in the small living room.
She never thought she’d do this again, but here she was. Home. Such as it was. She wandered through the four small rooms. The kitchen was filthy, and stained pots were still sitting on the small, grease-caked stove. The table held the ever present ashtray, filled to the brim with dried-out butts.
It was obvious that when her dad had died, the door had been locked and no one had ever come back. She glanced quickly at the counters, at the old appliances, the daisy-patterned canister set that was supposed to look happy and light, but only looked dreary and dull. She went into the short hallway, glanced into her father’s old room, and saw the bed had been stripped. The linens were in a pile on the floor. His boots still lay on their sides at the foot of the iron-framed bed.
She didn’t go in. She went to the only other bedroom in the house. Hers. She hesitated at the closed door, then reached out and opened it. From the hallway she saw her bed, made the way she had left it. Her dresser had nothing on it at all. She’d taken whatever she’d had there. The rug on the floor was heavy with dust. A small desk she used by the curtainless window had a lamp on it and a pencil. Beside it was a single slip of paper.
That was what drew her in. That got her to the desk. She knew what it was: the note she’d written so carefully before she’d slipped out before dawn and left her father passed out after a drunken binge in his room.
Alegra's Homecoming Page 12
