A Distant Summer

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  When she didn’t continue, the corners of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile. “The truth is there’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone waiting for you in Arkansas.”

  “No.” She denied it without understanding why she did so. Her hand went to her temple, brushed distractedly at the wispy blond strands that had strayed from the chignon. “And it has nothing to do with your lawsuit. If I were looking for a vacation romance, Tucker, I’d like to believe I might find it with you, but I’m not looking.”

  Seconds ticked past in leisurely succession, but his blue eyes didn’t waver in their intense regard. “Somehow I don’t think that matters, Kristina. Whether or not we were looking, we’ve found something. Something special. I can’t explain how I know that or why I think you know it, too, but I can tell you that I have no intention of letting it end here.”

  Her logic stumbled into a solid wall as she tried to understand his persistence, tried to think of a believable refutation. She stroked the back of the chair beside her with restive fingers. “I’m not good at social games, Tucker.”

  “Then we’ll skip the games and start the evening with a little honesty.”

  Her chin lifted; her gaze locked with his in a second of startled precognition. He was going to mention the past, their past. She could almost see the words forming on his lips and knew she had to stop him. She wasn’t prepared for honesty. It was her secret, her mistake, her regret. He had no right to remember.

  “Kristina?” he said in a hushed, throaty tone. “There’s not a subtle way of bringing up this subject, but I think we should get it into the open.”

  For all her resolve, not a sound would come from her lips. She stood, watching him, aware of the betraying tension in the casual combing of his hand through his hair, aware of her own spiraling doubts. “Don’t, Tucker, please.” She had no idea if the words were whispered about the room or simply echoed in her mind.

  “I know we’re virtually strangers, but we were lovers once.” His voice, husky with decision, was like the first sip of a summer wine, and it became a slow reminiscent ripple through her veins. “I know you must have thought I’d forgotten, and I’ll admit that I didn’t recognize you when you first walked into the courtroom yesterday; but it has been a long time, and you’ve changed.” The wry tilt of his mouth was touchingly brief. “I know I’ve changed a little myself. But you seemed different, so reserved. Not like the winsome girl I remembered.”

  His gaze drifted past her shoulder and returned to touch her in confession. “The day I met you was special for me, too, Kristina, but at this moment I wish to God that day had never happened. I wish we were strangers, taking the first steps toward a vacation romance.”

  She wanted to turn her back to him. She wanted to close her eyes to the sincerity in his. She wanted to feel a healthy indifference toward this man who was in every way a stranger to her. Yet she remembered the long-ago feel of him in her arms and knew he had never truly been a stranger at all.

  “It did happen, Tucker,” she whispered softly, thinking that if she were honest, if she told the truth, he’d leave and she’d never see him again.

  “Yes, but I can’t see any reason to let that stand between us now. We were different people then. I know I looked at life through much narrower eyes in my premed days. There wasn’t time for relationships, for anything except ambition.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, and a frown creased one lean cheek. “We had one short weekend together. At the time that was all I could offer. Now I can only wish I’d had the foresight to realize just how special that one weekend was.”

  She had known. Kris focused sightlessly on a tiny flaw in the carpet and wondered how, in her adolescent frenzy to grow up, she had recognized emotions that were far beyond her experience. She had gone in search of a purely physical awakening and found tenderness, understanding, and a communion of thoughts and feelings. For one weekend, however fleeting, she had belonged with Tucker.

  The muted sound of his footsteps reclaimed her attention, and she glanced up to meet his gaze, closer now and penetratingly clear. “I want to know you now, Kristina. I want to discover the woman you’ve become. Do you think we could start over? Forget we’d met before yesterday?”

  Forget? What sweet ironies fate could play. Tucker had given her the perfect opening to tell him why she couldn’t forget. And in the same instant he’d offered a temporary but tempting forgetfulness.

  “I’m leaving at the end of the week, Tucker. That’s only two days away.” It was a weak argument, hardly worth her effort. She could see the glimmer of relief ease across his expression; she could feel an old recklessness stirring inside her.

  “If two days is all you can offer, then that’s all I’ll ask for.” Tucker made himself smile to reassure her. She was still hesitant, still unsure of him, and he wanted her to be sure. He wondered what or who had hurt her to create such a convincing veneer of solitude. But it was just a veneer; he sensed that she was reaching out to him despite herself.

  And oh, how he wanted to reach for her and hold her in his arms. Or was it that he wanted to be held by her? She was a part of something he’d lost a long time ago, something he felt he had to recapture. “Who knows?” he said casually, carefully, “You might decide Denver is worth a little extra time.”

  “I’m leaving on Saturday.” Her voice was steady and definite.

  “Then let’s not waste a minute,” he said, making his tone just as steady, just as definite as hers. “What would you like to do? A late lunch, an early dinner, the theater, a movie, a drive, a walk, cross-country skiing, a night-time hike, a noisy crowd, or quiet conversation?”

  Amusement dawned in her gray eyes, which watched him with compelling mystery. “Can we manage all that in one evening?”

  “Only if we forget about the late lunch.”

  Her low laugh splashed a lazy tide of pleasure over him and made him dramatically aware of the privacy surrounding them. She was so near he could smell the fragile scent of her cologne, see the faint sheen of moisture on her lips, hear the sounds of her uneven breathing. His smile faded into a throat-tightening desire as his gaze sought the contours of her mouth.

  “Why don’t I meet you downstairs in half an hour?” Kristina controlled the betraying tremor in her voice as she dispelled the moment of intimacy with cool deliberation. “By that time you may have figured out a way to fit everything into one night.”

  He traced a lingering visual touch from the corner of her lips to her forehead and left her skin feeling flushed and warm. “Everything?” he asked with soft suggestion. “Well, I’ll do my best.”

  She matched his half-smile, fighting the warning rumble of good judgment all the way. When he turned and moved slowly to the door, Kris followed, keeping a cushion of intangible distance between them. He opened the door, and she braced her hand against the knob, waiting for something she couldn’t name.

  Their eyes met in the shadowy doorway: hers troubled and apprehensive, his comforting and reassuring. Like the company of an old friend on a winter night, memories wrapped about her thoughts, memories that reminded her of the hours she’d spent wondering about this man who faced her now, a virile, appealing answer to so many questions. Who would ever know, who would even care if she acted impulsively this one time?

  “I’ll be downstairs,” she said quietly, “in half an hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Making plans and … just waiting.”

  Anticipation diffused through her. Somewhere down the hall a radio filtered the air with a dimmed melody. The muffled chime of an elevator bell signaled the comings and goings of a world that seemed curiously removed. But it didn’t matter. For tonight, for the next two days, nothing mattered except Tucker McCain and Kristina DuMont, who had once been lovers, but who were now not quite strangers.

  “Half an hour.” She began to close the door, but he stood steadfast in the doorway as if reluctant to leave even for a short time.

  His smile came in an easy bl
end of diffident amusement, and Kris curled her toes against the carpet in helpless response. “I seem to be having a little trouble getting down to the lobby,” he said.

  A slow, sweet magic drifted across her nape and settled on her lips. “I seem to be having some trouble closing this door. At this rate we’ll have to forget about dinner. Maybe the movie, too.”

  His hand lifted, and she felt a gentle tug at her temple as he curled a strand of hair around his fingertip. It was a familiarity that frightened her a little by the pleasurable sensation it evoked. She watched his eyes darken as he released the curl with lingering reluctance.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” he repeated with a husky sigh. “Waiting.”

  He took a step back, and she closed the door. A measure of sanity returned with the click of the latch, and she pressed her forehead against the barrier, feeling a restless excitement, a sense of freedom.

  Hadn’t she always wished—in her most secret fantasies—that one day she would meet him again? And hadn’t she always known that when she did, it would be magic?

  For years she’d denied it, and she knew, with absolute certainty, that it was a mistake to admit it now. She pushed away from the door and walked to the middle of the suite. In smooth, graceful pirouette she surveyed the hotel room and wondered how it suddenly could seem so homelike and cozy.

  Tucker was waiting.

  Sinking to the edge of the bed, Kris let her mind absorb that awesome reality. Tucker was waiting for her as if the yesterday of eleven years had never happened.

  Forget, he’d said.

  A bittersweet knot closed her throat. She couldn’t forget, but she could pretend—just until Saturday. It surely wasn’t such a terrible thing to pretend for a few days? To steal a moment simply for the enjoyment it promised?

  Once that had been her ultimate and only goal: to enjoy everything the world had to offer; to steal moments that rightfully belonged to tomorrow. She had been so young—so incredibly, arrogantly young—on the sunny afternoon the world had offered her Tucker McCain.

  Kris pulled a pillow from beneath the colorful bedspread and held it in her arms, letting her fingers stroke the crisp white fabric in remembrance. How had she been able to lie so convincingly that Tucker had actually believed she was twenty-one? A college sophomore? A woman with real purpose in her life?

  Purpose? She closed her eyes against the uncomfortable memories that word recalled. Her one purpose since age ten had been to grow up as quickly and with as much melodrama as she could manufacture. She had been rebellious and wild, ready to try anything regardless of consequences.

  But Kristina Kathleen DuMont, youngest child, only daughter, and “little darling” of Patrick Wells DuMont, rarely even knew the consequences of her impetuous acts. Papa was always there to rescue her, to protect the family pride, and to warn her that someday she’d push him too far.

  And she’d kept pushing, seeking attention in the only way she knew, wishing someone would listen to what she had to say, wanting desperately to feel needed, to belong.

  Then, suddenly, there was Tucker, who treated her as if she were special, as if what she said mattered. And despite her lack of experience, she’d known that to him she did matter, if only for a little while. She’d discovered that it was possible to share thoughts and feelings. For a few wonderful hours her carefully constructed lies became truth, and she caught a glimpse of the person she wanted to be, of the future that could be hers.

  The pillowcase crumpled into a dozen wrinkles beneath her hand, and Kris began absently to smooth them. Of all the college seniors on the University of Missouri campus that Saturday, why had she met the one man who could have been more, so much more, to her than a lover? After all, she’d planned to lose only her virginity, not her heart.

  But falling in love with Tucker came as easily as the lies she told him, and the hours spent in his arms were a beautiful fantasy that she was certain would last an eternity. He’d told her, openly and honestly, that he had neither time nor commitment for a long-term relationship, but at seventeen she’d been positive he didn’t mean it.

  Her perfect alibi had crashed about her the moment she’d returned home. The very real problem of angry, alienated parents had blurred the dreamlike wonder of her weekend with Tucker, but Kristina had accepted the threats, the lectures, and the dire warnings without excuse. She hoarded the memory of stolen moments as if it were the key to her diary, and she didn’t tell anyone, didn’t even dare breathe Tucker’s name against her satin sheets.

  It was two weeks before she risked mailing a letter to him, and she poured her heart’s imaginings onto the pastel pages. Within a few days, she held his answer: He’d thought she understood there was no future for them, no possibility of a lasting relationship. Maybe it would be best if they didn’t see each other again.

  Even fanciful, resilient youth couldn’t misinterpret his rejection, so Kristina told herself she didn’t care. But when she realized she was pregnant, she knew she had to care—because no one else did.

  Her second letter to Tucker was returned, unopened and unread. Her family closed ranks, chastening her with disapproving silence and waiting for her to come to terms with the idea of a quick no-nonsense abortion.

  Even now, so many years later, Kris could feel the utter loneliness of those days in which she’d wrestled with the consequences of her careless immaturity. But in the end she’d made the only honest choice she could make: responsibility.

  With a heavy sigh, Kris tossed the pillow aside and rose to walk to the window. She didn’t often think about that time in her life. Of course, it was impossible not to think of it now—now, when the father of her child was waiting downstairs for her.

  Dear God! What right did she have to pretend she’d never met Tucker before when her body, her emotions, her very life, bore the imprint of his touch? She should have told him all those years ago. She should have written a third letter and a fourth. She should have told him yesterday. Or today.

  But she wasn’t going to tell him at all.

  Kris knew it as well as she knew that she was going downstairs to meet him in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t within the boundaries of her willpower to confess now. She had made countless mistakes, and she had paid dearly. There had to be a limit to the sacrifices demanded by the past.

  On Saturday she would leave Denver, and her life would continue on in its steady, contented routine. Tucker would return to his medical practice, and in a few weeks he’d forget about her—as he’d done before. What possible harm could come from a brief vacation romance?

  Slowly her gaze turned to the stark white pillow contrasted with the bright spread.

  Tomorrow or the next day she would share that bed with Tucker.

  She knew and accepted her inevitable desire with a confused sense of wonder. But was she really prepared for the consequences this time? Physically, yes. There would be no chance of another unplanned pregnancy. But in other ways was she prepared for the regrets she would undoubtedly harbor when Saturday arrived?

  Kris moved to lift the pillow and nestle it back in place. She had no way of knowing the answer. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know. For now she was aware only that Tucker was waiting for her and she felt wondrously, magically alive.

  Chapter Three

  Tucker glanced at his watch, looked around the hotel lobby, and then glanced again at the face on his wrist. Almost time. Any second now he would see Kristina walking toward him. He wished she would hurry. He couldn’t remember ever being so anxious to be with a woman. It was the air of mystery about her, he decided. That and the fact that she had known him before.

  The reasoning brought frown lines to his forehead, and he wished for a drink to dull the analytical turn of his thoughts. Was he really intrigued by Kristina? Or was it more his own frustration with life in general that created this restless longing within him?

  What did it matter?

  He didn’t want to examine his motivation. He didn’t care why
he wanted to be with her. He knew only that he did. The next two days held tantalizing promise, and he’d be damned if he’d spend them dissecting his every thought.

  All right, she was a link—if only a small one —to a simpler time in his life, a time when adding an M.D. to his name was the singular focus of his existence. If her appeal was rooted in his craving for that simpler time, well, she’d be gone in two days, and maybe a little of his frustrated confusion would vanish with her.

  If she was merely a pleasing combination of feminine charms…? Well, two days should be more than enough to sate his infatuation.

  He’d never considered himself a completely self-sufficient man. His energetic, supportive family had reared him with a healthy appreciation for the importance of loving, give-and-take relationships, but all his close relatives were now miles and years removed from his everyday life. He had a large circle of acquaintances, a few really close friends, and he had his career. Over the years he’d had a couple of serious love interests. He’d even been engaged once, but when he’d realized how little it bothered him to leave her in the mornings, how much in fact he looked forward to getting to the hospital, he’d ended the relationship.

  There had been no one special since, and he hadn’t felt particularly dissatisfied. His life was a busy routine of interwoven schedules, and his medical practice provided enough challenge and purpose to carry him for years to come.

  Or at least it had.

  Sudden anger filtered through him, and he began to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair. What an injustice that he, who had wanted, planned, scraped, and sacrificed to become a doctor, could see it all slipping from his grasp for no better reason than to feed the ambition of a man like Abernathy.

  Tucker pulled his impotent rage into a tight fist. Abernathy would no doubt be governor one day, but there would be no reparation to the people he’d ruined in order to get there. Sarah Abernathy, for one. Tucker, for another.

  He slowly relaxed his fist and then massaged the clenched muscles at his neck. If only he could blame the entire affair on someone else, but Tucker knew he’d made his share of mistakes. As soon as the lawsuit had been filed, he’d begun easing away from his practice, referring patients to another surgeon, making preparations to fight for his “rights.” Colleagues advised him to ignore the loss of a small percentage of patients, friends urged him to put the charges from his mind and continue as if nothing had happened, but he couldn’t. To be publicly, wrongfully, accused of misusing his hard-earned knowledge and skill had dealt a crippling blow to his belief in himself, as a doctor and as a man.