by Beth Andrews
“Not until you get the hang of two. And we are going to start with just one. Try tossing this one from your right hand to your left.”
She did. But she was overly cautious, and the cone moved in an almost straight line.
“Try tossing it higher, so that it traces a rainbow between your hands. We want an arch whose topmost point is just about at eye level.”
She tried again. Much better. He put her through it about a dozen times, until her arms loosened up and she stopped being so self-conscious. Stiff arms were the kiss of death to juggling.
Then he had her reverse, and toss from her left hand to her right. She had more trouble with that one, as she was right-side dominant, but eventually, that movement, too, was fluid.
“Excellent,” he said, and she gave him a wry smile, well aware that he was cheerleading much as he might have with Ellen.
“Excellent if I were five years old,” she grumbled.
But he just laughed and held out the second cone. “See if you can toss the one in your right hand in that same kind of arc toward your left hand. But this time, when it reaches its highest point, throw the one in your left hand up in an arc toward your right hand. Make sense?”
It clearly didn’t. She frowned at him as if he were talking in another language. She looked at her hands, made a couple of pretend tosses, like a golfer hitting a practice swing, frowned again and then began to laugh.
“I hear your words,” she said, “and in my head I even see exactly what you want. But when I try to make my hands do that, everything gets scrambled.”
He could tell she wasn’t kidding. “Why not try?” Maybe he could spot the problem.
She grimaced. She threw one cone tightly and, simultaneously, as if mildly panicked, tossed the other one—way too soon. Inevitably, both cones landed at her feet, and her hands closed awkwardly over thin air. She groaned, clearly mortified far beyond the true importance of the thing. She bent to pick up the cones, inspecting them for damage as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.
“See? I’m like this with everything physical.” She straightened finally, and shrugged. “I can’t dance, or jump rope, or play tennis. My fine motor skills are no problem. I can smock and crochet and paint and cross-stitch like a fiend. But hand me a ball, and I’m as clumsy as a fish on a bicycle.”
He heard something new in her tone. “That’s not even you talking, really, is it? That’s somebody else. Somebody who always said you were terrible at sports.”
Just as Lydia had always told Ellen she would be fat, if she didn’t watch what she ate. It had driven Max mad. Who told a ten-year-old little girl it was time to worry about her weight? Who told a girl of any age such a thing? Worry about her health, yeah, you might say that someday—only after everything else, like making healthy food exciting and making exercise fun, had failed. But warn her about getting “fat”? Never. No one. At any age.
He watched Penny’s face, to see if the comment struck home. Would she know instinctively whose voice she’d been channeling? Her sisters, perhaps? Rowena looked the athletic type—had she been scornful of the diffident little sister who excelled at more stereotypically domestic skills?
Or maybe her dad? Had he been a bit of a chauvinist? After it became clear he’d have nothing but daughters, a man like that might grow resentful.
But her face registered no recognition. Whoever it had been, she’d forgotten. She thought the voice in her head was simply the voice of Truth. So of course her brain scrambled the signals about which hand to move when.
“Nobody had to tell me,” she insisted, laughing. “I knew. Everybody knew.”
“Okay,” he said. He came around and stood behind her. He put one palm under each of her elbows. “Let’s try it this way. When I nudge your elbow, toss the ball.”
Instantly, her shoulders tightened and rose toward her ears.
“Hey. No stress.” He jiggled her arms to loosen them up. “They’re pinecones, not Fabergé eggs. We can smash them all night, and no one will call the cops.”
Her shoulders moved in a silent chuckle. Good. That brought them down to a more natural angle. He shook her elbows again, like a shimmy, and the muscles in her forearms relaxed.
“Better,” he said. He let a moment of stillness move through her. “Okay?”
She inhaled deeply, then nodded. He pressed up softly on her right arm, and she tossed the pinecone. At the height of the arc, he pressed her left elbow, and she tossed that cone, too. Each of them fell, with pinpoint precision, into her waiting palms.
She laughed, delighted. “It worked!”
“Again,” he said, before self-consciousness could return. He nudged, she tossed. Nudge, toss. Nudge, toss. The pinecones passed fluidly between her hands. She tilted back, slightly, as if it helped to have more contact with his torso, his arms, his shoulders. Their warmth blended, with no night air between them. It was as if they were one body, their rhythms exactly matched, tossing the pinecones as one juggler.
And then, out of nowhere, the motions took on a sensuality so blatant it made his heart pound hard against his rib cage. Suddenly, her elbows seemed like the most intimate spot on her body, a trigger point that caused a physical reaction, an exchange of energy so powerful it seemed almost indecent to be doing it out here, in the open, where the moon, and the trees, and the neighbors, could see.
He knew the instant it hit her, too. A tremor passed electrically down her arm and sizzled between the delicate bones of her shoulder blades and into his chest. Her breath stumbled, suddenly awkward, and her arms grew stiff and uncoordinated.
Within seconds, both pinecones lay on the ground between her feet.
And yet he didn’t let go of her. He couldn’t. They were fused, somehow, their bodies joined so profoundly that no conscious decision could tear them apart.
She stood like that several long seconds, staring out toward the creek, breathing slow, deep breaths, as if she’d been running instead of simply tossing a pinecone between her own two hands.
And then, slowly, she brought her hands up and folded them across her chest. Because his were joined, they followed, and suddenly he was holding her. Holding her up against his hot, pounding heart.
She made a soft sound, and slowly, by degrees, let herself relax all the way into him. Her head cradled itself in the nook of his shoulder, and her feet adjusted, so that the length of her body fit snugly against his, all the way down to the thigh.
The pliant warmth of her curves, and the musky scent of violets that rose from her lace-covered skin were more than he could stand. His body was instantly hard. She would know, of course. The intimacy of this melding left no room for artifice. He could no more hide his arousal than she could hide the pounding of her heart under their hands, or the inhales that grew shallower, faster with every second, until they were more pants than breaths.
He told himself to stop. His brain kept saying the word, but it was like being asleep, screaming at yourself to wake up, yet unable to make any sounds come out.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Instead he lowered his lips to her neck. He tasted the violet sweetness of her skin, and he skimmed his lips along the arch of her throat until he reached her ear. He kissed the pulse that raced there. He drank the heat.
Finally, she turned her head. Her eyes were closed, but her lips were full, flushed and parted.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Instead, he kissed her. She made that same soft sound, and he groaned. Their mouths were wet, and very hot. Violets, honey, heat, something sweetly pink, and something very dark mingled in a potent cocktail of desire.
He strained down, and she strained up, and the connection still wasn’t enough, so she twisted in his arms and faced him, somehow never letting their lips lose the connection that was, inexplicably, as important as air.
The
wind in the trees ticked the seconds away, and the creek took their secret underground, where it disappeared briefly, emerging farther on, swelled and white with cloudy moonlight.
When it began to rain, he didn’t at first recognize what it was. It seemed right that he should be wet, and that a cold heat should sting his skin. But then he knew. He lifted his head and opened his eyes.
The chilly air was shocking against his swollen mouth. He glanced down at Penny, whose face seemed just as unprepared for the onslaught of reality.
Guilt moved through him like an interior rain. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I should never have let that happen.”
She blinked. It was like watching something solidify right before his eyes. She had been as fluid, as sweetly, heavily thick with passion as some kind of elixir that held rainbows and prisms and diamonds in the depths of one drop. But as she gathered herself, she frosted over and hardened, like water turning to ice.
“It’s all right,” she said, finally. She stepped away, under the overhanging roof. Ostensibly it was to avoid the rain, but he knew it was because she couldn’t think clearly, standing that close to him.
He couldn’t think straight, either.
“It was my fault, really,” she said. “I started it, with that kiss the other day. Maybe we just had to get it out of our system. But you’re right. We can’t let our working relationship get even more complicated.”
“It’s not just that,” he said. He joined her under the edge of the roof, while the raindrops pattered briskly against the deck like little silver explosions. “It’s not just about the tenant-landlord situation.”
Didn’t she know he’d be happy to surrender all hope of a “professional” relationship in order to taste a kiss like that? Hell, he’d move out and sleep in his SUV, if that would free them to do this—and more.
He would. But he couldn’t do that to his daughter.
“It’s also Ellen,” he said. “When I brought her here, I promised her I wouldn’t let anything distract me while we were in Silverdell. This year is supposed to be about the two of us—and finding a way to mend our relationship.”
“I understand.” Penny seemed eager to remove any pressure for him to explain. “That makes perfect sense.”
Did it? It had seemed sensible a month ago, when he’d concocted the plan. Now he wondered whether it was just one more way of indulging Ellen unnaturally. Someday he’d have to have a life....
Whatever that meant.
But nine months wasn’t too long to wait to “have a life,” was it? After years of being a half-ass father, surely he could give Ellen his entire attention for nine months.
This might be their last chance to salvage their relationship. In two years she’d be a teenager, honor bound to hate him. In four years, she’d think she was in love with some gangly kid who would occupy her every waking moment. In seven, she’d leave for college, and would probably never again sleep under his roof except as a visitor.
And that was a best-case scenario. Worst case: she kept stealing, kept following morally bankrupt divas like Stephanie and ended up in jail, or on the streets.
“I haven’t been a very good dad,” he said. “I’ve traveled a lot. I—I have to make it up to her, while I still can.”
“It’s okay,” Penny said. She took another couple of steps back, putting even more room to breathe between them. She reached the edge of the roof, and raindrops sparkled against the edges of her hair, creating a halo.
“I lost my mother when I was about her age, so I know how wrenching that can be.”
Wrenching. Yes. That was a good word. It was as if Ellen and Lydia hadn’t fully made the separation into two people yet, and death had torn the mother part away, leaving the little girl part ragged and incomplete.
He wondered whether that loss was responsible for the fragility Penny projected. She was a mystery, in some ways. All her actions spoke of a surprising intelligence, tact and resilience, but even so the vibe she gave off was vulnerable. Wounded.
Would Ellen be like that, too? Even if she learned to cope, and found a way to succeed, on some level was the death of a beloved mother an insurmountable obstacle? Max himself had never known his parents, who died in a hotel fire abroad when he was only an infant. But he’d always thought of his grandparents as parents and never brooded over the loss of something he’d never had in the first place.
“What about your father? I’d like to think I can help fill the gap, but...” He thought of the widening gulf between him and Ellen. “Maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe there’s no replacement for a mother, really.”
For a long minute, Penny seemed to consider his question thoughtfully. When she spoke, he was surprised at how somber her voice sounded.
“My situation wasn’t anything like Ellen’s,” she said. “In every way that mattered, I lost my father at the same time I lost my mother.”
“How?”
She stood very straight as she answered. “He killed her.”
Max couldn’t find any words to respond to that chilling statement. When she spoke, he felt as if he stood, briefly, at the edge of a bottomless chasm, staring straight down. The endless black hole of those three words made him feel cold, slightly dizzy. Emotionally, he had to step back, simply to keep from falling in.
How had he described Penny Wright? Wounded? Vulnerable? Those were like a child’s vocabulary, incapable of describing the monstrous howling of that chasm. Frankly, he was impressed that she could walk and talk and smile, and be kind to bratty little girls. Much less possess the warmth and passion he’d sensed behind that kiss.
“I’m surprised no one in town has filled you in on the details already.” One corner of her mouth tucked in wryly. “They will, no doubt. Half the town feels sorry for us, and the other half thinks we’re clinically insane. I’m not sure, actually, which half is more irritating.”
“Ellen would say the pity half.”
“So would Rowena.” Penny’s smile widened and grew more natural. “They have a lot in common, your daughter and my sister. They both like to come out swinging, just in case.”
He nodded. He didn’t know about Rowena, of course. But a more apt description of Ellen’s temperament would be hard to find.
“Anyhow, now you know. So you don’t have to worry about—” She waved her hand over the drenched and gleaming porch, as if it symbolized their kiss, and all the unspoken chemistry that sizzled between them.
“About all this,” she finished. “I know you need to focus on Ellen. And you heard all about my situation the other night. I can’t afford to be distracted, either. I have to build an entire life from scratch, and I must stay focused. I need to find out who I am when it’s just me before I could possibly think of getting involved with anyone else.”
“Yes, I remember.” He could hear her now, fierce, determined—a fascinating mixture of excitement and fear. “No family, no sisters, no men, no crutches.”
“Exactly.” She smiled. It was a truce smile. “So you see? It’s all right. We got that out of the way, and, as...as nice as it was, we both know we can’t let it happen again. We both need to concentrate on the tasks that brought us here. Right?”
“Right,” he said firmly, because that was what she seemed to expect. Not because he was anywhere nearly as confident as she pretended to be. “Now that we got that out of the way,” he repeated, with only a trace of irony.
“I hope we can be friends, though.” She glanced once again toward his side of the duplex. The rain had grown heavier, and it fell like a silver curtain between the two sides of the house. It was probably splashing into his kitchen through the door he’d left ajar. “I’d like to be Ellen’s friend, too, if she ever needs one. I like her a lot. She reminds me so much of Ro. So, if there were ever any way I could help, I would like to think you’d ask.”
“Of course,” he lied automatically. “And I hope that you’d do the same—if you ever wanted anything.” He fought the urge to touch her arm, or her hair, or her cheek, though he had to ball his fingers into a fist to control them. “Anything at all.”
“Of course,” she echoed blandly, and he knew she was lying, too. It was the polite thing to offer, and the polite response to make.
But neither of them would ask the other for a casual favor, not if they could possibly help it.
The air between them still surged with an invisible current—as if the very raindrops were electrically charged. They hadn’t gotten anything out of the way, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself.
It would never be safe to pop over and ask for a cup of sugar, or help hanging a picture, or an hour’s worth of babysitting. Because the one thing they were guaranteed to want was the one thing they couldn’t have.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TWO WEEKS AND a day later, Ellen realized she was never going to have a moment’s privacy again, not as long as she lived.
After the ear incident, Dad found a horrible babysitter, a mean old woman named Mrs. Biggars, who apparently used to babysit for Alec before he moved to the dude ranch.
Alec had made a choking sound the first time he stopped by and saw Mrs. Biggars in the house. “You’ve got Big Ass guarding you? Oh, man, you’re sunk now.”
And he was right. Every time Dad had to work late, or go in on a weekend, or even rush out to the grocery store, Mrs. Biggars appeared at the door...poof! Like an evil genie in a bottle.
And boy was she nosy! If Alec came over, even for five minutes, to show Ellen something cool like where one of his horses had kicked him in the shin, or a piece of petrified wood shaped like an iguana, Mrs. Biggars always waddled out onto the deck, sat down on the lawn chair and made conversation impossible.
Even inside, in her room, Ellen wasn’t safe. She used to spend hours poring over the box of old pictures she kept under her bed. Mostly photos of her mom as a kid. Looking at her mom’s thick waist and pudgy legs gave Ellen hope. But now, when she pulled out her box, suddenly there was Mrs. Biggars in her doorway, pretending she just wanted to talk, but really sticking her nose into everything.
