Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  Dawn came cool and early that Christmas day. Margaret lay in the misty morning world where one was neither asleep nor awake. She heard something and opened her eyes. Hank was slowly closing the door of the hut.

  He’d been acting odd most of last evening, even after they calmed down the children. She had awakened in the middle of the night. Hank was standing over her. He held the ragged hem of her dress between his fingers, and he was silent. She hadn’t let him know she was awake and had closed her eyes quickly, but she wondered what he’d been doing. It had seemed an odd thing, to feel someone’s clothes when they were asleep.

  She rose now and checked on the children. They were sound asleep. She crept to the door and quietly followed him.

  He walked down to the lagoon, dove in the water, and swam out to the sandbar, like he did every day. But somehow, she had a feeling today was different.

  Margaret stood there, wondering why she had followed him. It was almost as if someone had told her to, like some odd instinct. Or like the time she chased the hoop. He was swimming as usual, diving beneath the water a few times. She shook her head and took one last look before she started to go back.

  Then she saw it, just a few hundred feet from his dark head. She looked again. It was a shark fin.

  And she ran.

  Chapter 28

  Margaret ripped open the door of the hut, grabbed the pistol, and tore back outside, running as fast as she could. Faster than she’d ever run.

  Down the beach. Over a crest in a sand dune. Then she could see the water.

  In the distance, the shark slowly circled over and over, its fin black, ominous, slicing through the blue water.

  Her feet ate up the sand, her long legs fleet. Her heart pounded in her throat. She clutched the pistol tighter.

  She blew out breaths as fast as her feet moved. The range? How far? How close?

  Am I too late? No . . .

  She just kept running.

  She stopped suddenly. Raised the pistol, shaking. She steadied it with the other hand, sighted, and pulled the trigger.

  Four times.

  Bullets and blood spurted in the thrashing water, which turned pink, then wine red.

  She dropped the gun, standing frozen and panting, not knowing if it was Hank’s blood or the blood of the shark.

  Then she was moving, running into the tide. She stopped suddenly, staring down at the blood that rolled in with the lapping waves.

  She looked up. Shaking. Panicked.

  Hank’s dark head bobbed near the inert carcass of the shark.

  “Hank!” she screamed, then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hank!”

  He raised one hand, a signal that he was alive. Her breath left her in a half cry, and her knees almost buckled under a strong wave.

  She locked her gaze on him. Was there blood on his hand? On his arm?

  Oh, God, there was.

  He moved slowly as if one side of him wasn’t functioning.

  Had she shot him?

  A ribbon of bright red trailed behind him in the clear water. Her mind flashed with the obscure thought of red ribbons and Christmas.

  She closed her eyes. You’re hysterical.

  She looked again. The red trail was still there. She had shot him.

  Oh my God . . .

  She ran farther into the water.

  He yelled something at her.

  She froze, her hands to her mouth, her breath static. “Get back, dammit!” And he worked his way toward the shore.

  She dove under a wave and swam, swam like she ran, fleet and right toward him.

  He swore at her. Cursed loudly when she was only a few feet away.

  “Let me help you, please, Hank.”

  “Dammit, Smitty, move!”

  He was standing on the sandbar, his body twisted as if he were hiding his wounds from her.

  “Don’t be so blasted hardheaded,” she screamed. “For once in your life, let someone else help you!” She swam closer, and a swell rippled past them.

  She realized her feet could touch bottom, too, and she reached for him. “You’re hurt. Did I shoot you? You’re bleeding, Hank. Oh, God, you’re bleeding.”

  He swore again, then jerked hard.

  She stood there, stunned. He wasn’t hiding a wound. He was dragging a trunk through the tide.

  She gripped the other side and saw that one of his upper arms was bleeding and open. She grabbed the trunk handle and pulled with him until they got the trunk to shore, where they fell to their knees in the sand.

  They were panting. Hard. As if the air was playing a game of chase with them.

  She sat back on her heels while Hank leaned back against the trunk, his long legs sprawled out in front of him.

  “You’re bleeding.” She ripped a piece of her skirt and frantically wrapped it around the gash in his arm. She kept glancing at him. He couldn’t catch his breath from exertion and trauma. He tried to speak, but she saw that the words were fighting at his throat and lips.

  He glanced at his arm, stared at it as if it wasn’t his. He gasped as he tried to say something, but his teeth chattered.

  She knew that reaction was from shock.

  “The son of a bitch almost had me,” he finally rasped, then took a couple more breaths. He looked at her and shook his head slightly. “Damn, Smitty, but you can run. Can shoot, too.”

  “What were you doing out there? Getting a silly trunk?” She tied off the strip of fabric and leaned against him for a moment. She was still breathing hard herself.

  She pressed her cheek to his wet shoulder for herself. She needed that one small bit of comfort. He was alive. She closed her eyes and the words just came. “We almost lost you. God, Hank . . . almost.”

  “Needed the trunk,” he muttered into her hair, and one hand came up to rest on her shoulder.

  She looked at him. “Why?”

  “For you.”

  “Me?”

  He moved his hand from her shoulder and patted the top of the trunk. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” And he passed out.

  “Did you really have a fight with a shark?” Theodore hovered over Hank and stuck his curious little head right in Hank’s face.

  He glanced up at the kid, whose nose was almost pressed to the small but deep wound in his arm.

  “Move your head, dear, I can’t see what I’m doing.” Smitty waited before she took another stitch.

  Hank clenched his jaw tight, but he didn’t say anything or make a sound. He just let her finish stitching the small gashes in his upper arm.

  “There. All done.”

  Hank exhaled hard, then took a couple of deep breaths. Theodore cocked his head and stared thoughtfully at his arm. “It looks funny.”

  Hank frowned down at it. “It does?”

  He nodded. “None of your guts are hanging out anymore.”

  Hank laughed. “Is that good or bad?”

  The kid shrugged. “Good, I guess.” Then he went back over to the Christmas tree with his sisters and he sat down, no longer fascinated with the stitched gashes from a shark’s jagged teeth. It was back to the Christmas gifts.

  Margaret and Hank exchanged a look.

  “Bloodthirsty little thing, isn’t he?” She laughed then. “Full of tact, too. Reminds me of someone else.”

  “I have tact. Hell, Smitty, I have enough tact for a lifetime.”

  “Can we open the gifts now?” Theodore asked in a voice that could only be described as a whine.

  “Yes.” Margaret walked over and held a hand out to Hank.

  He laughed. “I’m fine, sweetheart.” He pushed himself up.

  “Take my hand anyway,” Margaret told him.

  He watched her for a second, then slid his hand over hers. She uncurled her hand and let the rose pearl roll into his.

  He looked at it, then at her.

  She smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

  He grinned, tossed it in the air, and caught it. With a wink, he took her arm. Together, they join
ed the children at the tree.

  Margaret glanced up. Muddy sat in a dark corner as if he wasn’t certain he was wanted.

  She whispered in Theodore’s ear, and the boy went over and took Muddy’s hand. “Happy Christmas, Muddy.”

  “Happy Christmas to you, master.”

  Theodore pulled the genie over to the tree.

  Gifts were plenty and as whimsical as Christmas itself. Hank took a long string and wound up the toy he’d made for Annabelle. It spun and whirred and popped, and she giggled and laughed and chased it wherever it chugged.

  Theodore was a fishing Indian, now known as Big Chief Catchum Grouper, and Lydia, half young girl and half child, wore all her shell necklaces, hair ribbons, and combs and strutted like a grande dame as she carried her coconut doll in one hand and pulled Rebuttal along in the other.

  Muddy had disappeared inside the bottle and after a few minutes came blasting out in a puff of red and green smoke.

  “Look! Everyone! Muddy’s smoke changed colors,” Theodore said, pointing.

  The smoke dissipated, and Muddy stood there, his arms filled with gifts.

  And they had Christmas all over again.

  A badminton set for Theodore, a hand organ for Lydia, a golden cup for Annabelle, and a lovely silver frame for Margaret along with the promise of a photograph with Muddy’s photographic equipment.

  Then Muddy reached behind him, picked up something, and walked over to where Hank sat. The closer Muddy got, the more narrowed Hank’s gaze grew.

  Margaret wondered what would happen between those two.

  Muddy handed Hank a long package wrapped with old yellowed newspapers.

  Hank grumbled something, then walked over to the tree. He picked up the only bundle still wrapped in banana leaves and walked back over. He shoved it in Muddy’s hands and said, “Here.”

  And everyone stood around waiting for them to open the gifts.

  They both sat staring at the gifts as if they were snakes.

  Margaret looked from one to the other. “Merry Christmas to both of you.”

  They looked at her, then back at the packages. “You go first,” Hank said.

  “No. You first.” Muddy crossed his arms as stubbornly as Hank’s were crossed. They both looked at each other.

  Margaret watched them. “I’ll count to three and you both can open them.”

  They eyed each other, then nodded.

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Both sat there. A second later they muttered, “Chump.”

  “If you two don’t open those gifts right now,” Margaret said, “I’m going to ask Theodore to play a two-hour concerto on the harmonica.”

  They looked at each other, paled, and tore open the packages.

  There was utter silence when they looked at their gifts.

  Hank stared down at a baseball and a bat, a black Al Spalding glove, and a Chicago White Stockings baseball cap.

  And Muddy? Muddy was holding Hank’s shoes.

  On the lively notes of a hand organ, the three-quarter moon rose high above a thatched hut that Christmas night. The sand around the hut was dappled with flickering light that shone between the cracks, and laughter rode outside on tinny notes of music.

  Hank was leaning against a wall, watching Margaret’s ankles and calves. She stood nearby, watching the children, her skirt in her hands as she swayed to the music.

  He shook his head. He had a new appreciation for Christmas.

  Theodore and Annabelle and Muddy were holding hands and dancing while Lydia cranked the hand organ and played a polka.

  After a few minutes, Margaret moved over to the trunk, and she picked up the ball gown.

  It gave Hank a warm sense of pride as he watched her run her hands over the silky rose-colored fabric. She smiled a misty kind of smile that made him a little crazy for her.

  Then she turned and walked over to him, the gown clutched in her hands. She stopped in front of him, and the smile she gave him was just as soft and misty. “Thank you for this gown. It’s lovely.”

  “You like it?”

  She nodded, but then looked up, her face serious. “As lovely as it is, though, it wouldn’t have been worth it if . . .” She stopped. Then she took one step closer and placed her hand on his chest. “If I’d lost you.”

  He glanced at the children, then placed his hand over hers. He raised his other hand and touched her lips with one finger. Neither of them said a thing. They didn’t need to.

  He slid his hand along her jawline and smiled, then gave the dress a nod. “Put it on.”

  She looked at him. “Now?”

  “Yeah, now.”

  She laughed and moved closer. Covertly she leaned over and said, “You’re always telling me to take my clothes off, not put them on.”

  “Put it on, sweetheart.”

  She cocked her head. “I’ll put on the dress if you put on the tails.”

  “The monkey suit?”

  She nodded.

  “Hell, no. No way.”

  Her face fell a little. He added, “It wouldn’t fit anyway. Too small.”

  “What makes you think the dress will fit?”

  “I’ve got a good eye, sweetheart. It’ll fit.”

  She set the dress aside and walked over to the trunk. She held up the coat. It was not small, even he could see that. “This coat does not look too small to me. Look.” She turned around.

  He stared at it.

  “Please.”

  He rolled his eyes. “All right, dammit. But only because it’s Christmas.” He pulled the rest of the suit from the trunk. He paused and held up the pants, hoping for a new excuse. Dammit if they weren’t long enough.

  Her cool look said she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He went toward the door muttering that he was damn glad Christmas only came once a year.

  “Wowie! Lookit Hank!”

  Margaret spun around, and the silk of the ball gown rustled against her bare feet. He stood in the doorway dressed in formal clothes. She’d always thought a man looked more handsome in a white tie and tails than anything.

  Hank looked better than that. He was tall, and the black coat made him look even taller, leaner. The white shirt against his tanned skin gave it a more rugged and earthy appeal. The white tie was slung around the shirt collar and the shirt was undone with buttonholes on both plackets. There were no studs.

  It was an odd mix. The fine precise quality of dress clothes and the hard ruggedness of the man himself. Together they made a formidable presence.

  He crossed the room and just stood in front of her. She smiled. “Hi.”

  He was staring at her dress. Actually, he was staring at her cleavage.

  He gave a small whistle through his teeth. “They sure look bigger than they felt.”

  She took a long breath. “How perfectly romantic.”

  “Well, hell, Smitty, that’s one helluva set of—” She covered his mouth with her hand and shook her head.

  Theodore was standing beside them, his curious eyes taking in every word, every look.

  He frowned up at Hank. “What looks bigger?” Hank looked at him and said as smoothly as a con man, “The dress sleeves.”

  “Oh.” Theodore frowned at the sleeves and then joined his sisters.

  “Nice recovery,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, I recover real fast. Wanna clock me sometime?”

  “I have to assume from that lascivious look on your face that I don’t want an explanation.”

  He gave her a long look. “You really don’t understand?”

  She shook her head.

  “Yeah, well, never mind, sweetheart. You’ll get it someday.” Then he turned slightly and muttered, “Better damn well be soon.”

  “Dance with her, Hank! Dance with Smitty!” Theodore was jumping up and down.

  And Lydia began to play a waltz on the organ.

  No one was more surprised than Margaret when he h
eld out his hand and pulled her into his arms. They danced, and he actually knew how. In fact, his steps were smooth and his hand on the small of her back guided her to each move, held her firmly for each swirling turn. She was aware of his scent, of the warmth of his body, and even more aware of him and of the dark promise in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

  After a few dances, he surprised her and pulled Lydia out to dance while Theodore cranked the hand organ. The young girl smiled and laughed when he swirled her around, practically picking her up off her feet so she could keep up with him.

  Even Annabelle had a turn at dancing to silly steps that bounced her in his arms and made her giggle and laugh and tuck her head under his chin. Something happened to Margaret, something warm and special as she watched them. She looked down at the lovely pink ball gown. It was the same color as the pearl she had given him. She ran her hand down the fabric and smiled.

  The next thing she knew Hank had pulled her into his arms again. And they spun around a thatched hut on a wacky and wonderful Christmas, with a smiling genie watching and candlenuts burning instead of rich crystal chandeliers, dancing and twirling and falling in love to the tinny tune of a hand organ waltz and the sweet music of children’s giggles.

  Chapter 29

  By the time Hank and Smitty had stopped dancing, Annabelle and Theodore were sound asleep and Lydia’s lids were heavy over her blue eyes. They put them to bed and stood there, together watching them sleep. Hank slid his hand around hers. Because it felt right. Because he didn’t want to let her go. Not yet.

  Muddy was lounging on a trunk, his head resting in one hand. Hank looked back at Smitty, who was staring up at him. The air was thick with more than just humid tropical air.

  “You two can go for a walk,” Muddy said nonchalantly. “I’ll watch them.”

  Hank had her out the door before she could blink. He pulled her with him until they both were running down the beach in the moonlight. She laughed, and so did he. She shouted his name, and he called out hers to tease her as they ran in uneven speeds over the sand, each pulling at the other. But they both slowed down and stopped when they were near the water. Her breath was short and sharp, and she grabbed her side because she was still laughing.