by Carol Grace
The house was quiet now. Only the chiming of the grandfather clock in the front hall on the quarter hour broke the stillness. What had she done with the kids? The only way those kids would be quiet was if they were asleep or unconscious. He knew, because he was once that kind of kid.
He walked up the wide staircase with the polished oak railing that, if he were eight years old, he wouldn’t have been able to resist sliding down. But he was thirty-four, a mature adult. At the top of the stairs he hesitated. So many rooms. When he heard giggling and smothered whispers, he followed the sound down the hall, opened a door to see two sleeping bags on the floor with tousled heads poking out of them.
Like mummies coming to life the boys raised their heads and looked at him. “Hey, Godzilla,” one said. “You got something wrong with your hand?”
He looked down at his knuckles, still sore and bruised. He didn’t think anyone would notice, hadn’t realized he was favoring it, but the kids were more observant than he’d thought. “It was bitten off by an alligator so I had it replaced with a bionic hand.”
“No kidding?” the youngest asked. “Did it hurt?”
Sam held up his hand and flexed his fingers. Yeah, it hurt. “Nah. This one’s made of titanium and kryptonite.”
“Can we touch it?”
“Nope. You might get contaminated. Then you couldn’t live on earth. I’d have to take you to Krypton with me.”
“Cool.”
“Go to sleep,” Sam said, and closed the door behind him.
Now where was Hayley?
He walked quietly down the hall, sinking into deep, plush carpet, opening bedroom doors as he went. Guest rooms, he assumed, wondering which was his—the one with the dark hardwood furniture or the one with the seascapes on the wall or the one with twin beds and bookcases lining the wall. It couldn’t be the one with the handmade quilt and the pale curtains with the hint of wild rose perfume in the air. That had to be Hayley’s. He stood in the doorway feeling guilty for spying, feeling drawn to her, to her room, to her house, to everything about her.
He should never have come here. She only wanted him for one thing—for his medical degree. To fill in for her grandfather. To do a few procedures, set a few broken bones, deliver a baby or two. Until she found someone who’d stick around. He was as wrong now for this town and for her as he’d ever been. But tonight, when he was sitting across the table from her at dinner, he had trouble remembering this. He wondered, not for the first time, how he was going to get through the next six months.
The last door on the right turned out to be the master bedroom suite. There were huge gabled windows, a padded window seat, a chaise lounge, a massive, king-size bed covered with an elegant embroidered comforter. At the foot of the bed stood an old-fashioned wicker crib.
Hayley stood at the side of the crib looking down at the sleeping baby with a wistful expression on her face. He frowned, wondering why she wasn’t still married and why she hadn’t had kids. He had some other questions for her, too, but they’d have to wait. After all, he had six months.
Hayley glanced up when she heard his footsteps and put her index finger against her lips. He crossed the room and stood next to her, watching the pink-cheeked baby sleep, its tiny fingers clenched into fists. She gripped the edge of the crib so tightly her knuckles turned white. Standing there he sensed her longing, her deep-felt desire to have a baby of her own. He could be all wrong. How did he know that was what she wanted? He didn’t know her anymore. Maybe that wasn’t it at all.
After all, he had no desire to be a father. How could he be? He’d never had a father to speak of. Had no idea what they were supposed to do. He knew what they weren’t supposed to do. Use physical punishment. Or verbal abuse. Withhold financial support. Drink and gamble away earnings. Walk out on your family. And those were just for starters.
“Okay,” she said softly, turning away reluctantly. “We can go now. I just wanted to see if she was asleep.”
“You wouldn’t want one of those, would you?” he asked when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
“A baby? Of course not. I haven’t got time for a baby. Babies are a lot of work.”
“A lot of trouble,” he agreed.
“They cry,” she said, pouring herself a glass of sherry from the decanter in the living room. “They throw up and they have diarrhea.”
“And colic,” he added.
“I’ve heard,” she said. “What about you? Don’t you want to have kids?”
“No way. I wouldn’t know what to do with kids.”
“You knew what to do with these tonight.”
“For one night. My dad was good for one night, too. One night about twenty-five years ago. Which was more than enough. That was it. Then he took off. I never saw him again. Thank God.”
Hayley gave him a swift glance, then looked away, but not before he saw the sympathy welling up in her eyes, the pity that he hated, no matter who it came from. The kind that made him want to reach out and punch someone. Or kiss them. He studied her mouth, her full lower lip, and it took all his willpower to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders and pressing his mouth against hers until the pity was replaced by passion. White-hot passion. Until she opened up to him, responding the way she’d once done, with all the eagerness and excitement of the girl she once was and the woman she’d become; until she put her arms around him and he felt her body merge with his, her soft curves pressed against him. He wanted, needed, to erase the sympathy from her eyes. To replace it with lust and longing. To show her there was unfinished business between them. As if she didn’t know.
Hayley turned her head away and set her glass on the mantel firmly, deliberately, scrupulously avoiding his gaze as if she knew what he was thinking. “I’d better show you your room,” she said.
He got his suitcase from his car, and they went back upstairs. This time she took him down the hall to a large room next to hers with a window facing the water. The pictures on the wall were black-and-white photographs of Africa. There was a mosquito netting draped over the four-poster bed and a thick sheepskin rug on the hardwood floor. He set his suitcase next to the door and crossed the room to examine a shelf full of carved wooden animals. He ran his hand over a dark, polished wooden elephant, so solid, so smooth to the touch.
“My souvenirs,” she explained.
“Ever see any of these in real life?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, I guess that’s why I bought the carvings. I always wanted to go on safari, but that’s not what I was there for. They gave us a living allowance, but not enough for anything extra.”
“I had a patient from Africa once. Congenital heart defect. I patched him up and sent him home. He was so grateful he invited me to visit him and go to the game reserve.”
“Did you go?” she asked eagerly.
“No. I couldn’t take the time. I haven’t taken a vacation for years. Maybe never. If I’d gone I might have seen you,” he said, with a hint of a smile.
“Probably not. It’s awfully big, Africa.”
“So I hear.” He set the elephant down. “Ah, well…” He looked out the window, his expression bland, but his eyes dark and sad. For one brief moment Hayley thought he might have regrets about not seeing her in all these years. But she knew better. If he had regrets at all they would be about his single-minded pursuit of a career. And if he did, she’d probably never hear them. His regrets at present probably centered on coming back to New Hope.
“I suppose you’re wondering what you’re going to do for the next six months when you’re not working eighty-hour weeks,” she said, hoping to change the subject.
“Aside from golf and digging for clams? No, I haven’t thought that far ahead. If I did I might take a running leap off the far end of the dock. Right now I’m concerned with what I’m going to do for the next few hours.”
The harsh tone of his voice hit her like a splash of cold water off that same dock. “Look, Sam, maybe this was a big mistake,”
she blurted. “I…I didn’t think it through enough. If you really hate it here so much and you want to go, I can’t keep you here.”
“Unfortunately I have no place to go,” he said. “I’m just beginning to realize how focused my life has been on medicine. To the exclusion of everything else.”
“But isn’t that the way it is? The trade-off is you’re a wonderful surgeon. You save lives. My God, I think anyone would want what you have.”
“Would you?” he asked.
“I…I don’t know.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said.
She couldn’t protest. As much as she’d like to be in a position to heal the sick, make people well, she wouldn’t give up her own life, her own experiences, even the painful ones. After an awkward silence she got back to the subject of Sam’s lack of things to do, places to go.
“Unfortunately there isn’t much to do in town on a weeknight,” she said apologetically. As if he didn’t know.
“And on the weekends?” he asked.
“Well…not really. No, I take that back. There are some festivals coming up this summer. The kite-flying contest for one. On the bluffs.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” he said.
She sent him a sharp glance. “As Mattie would say, I’m no stranger to sarcasm,” she said.
He looked at his watch. “I’ll go out and drive around for a while.”
After a seventeen-hour drive up the coast, he must be really desperate to want to go out and drive some more. She wished she could think of something to suggest, aside from the Red Barn, a seedy bar outside of town, or a game of Scrabble with her by the fire. Either was apt to earn her another sarcastic remark. Which she didn’t need.
Hayley walked down the stairs with him without speaking and watched him thrust his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket.
“See you later,” she said as he walked out to his car. He didn’t turn around. Not a word, not even a wave of his hand. She wouldn’t see him later, of course, if he didn’t come back, which was quite possible. Although he’d left his suitcase in the room. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything. She’d been left before. Walked out on. Deserted. She knew the signs. She knew the feeling. Though by the time her husband left, she didn’t feel anything. She still didn’t want to go through it again. Ever.
She walked through the house, dimming the lights, feeling more alone than she had since she’d returned to New Hope three years ago and moved into the house. Just because she’d shared a few hours with a man she barely knew anymore. It was ridiculous. She wasn’t alone. She was with three children, and their parents were due back any time. This was what she wanted. To have the house full of guests. Now she suddenly didn’t want that anymore. She wanted a house full of a husband and children.
Dream on, she told herself. She’d tried it and it didn’t work. There was no husband material in New Hope, and she wasn’t going to leave her town. She had to forget her impossible dreams and get real. And be happy with what she had. If Sam hadn’t come, she’d never even have thought about what she didn’t have. It was his fault for making her want more.
She loaded the dishwasher, then filled the sink with warm, soapy water and scrubbed the pots so vigorously she almost rubbed the copper off the bottoms. The parents came home. She assured them their children were angels. She offered them coffee and liqueurs but they declined. They’d gone to Newport to eat at a well-known seafood restaurant. She wanted to ask if they’d seen a doctor in a Porsche wearing a cable-knit sweater with a bruised hand and an attitude. But she didn’t. They went to bed and Hayley sat by the fireplace watching the embers burn down to ash. She wasn’t waiting for Sam. Oh, no. That would be stupid. Pointless.
She told herself he would come back. He was no longer an impulsive teenager. He was a responsible adult. If he was going to leave he’d tell her first. But she couldn’t help pacing back and forth in front of the window, watching, waiting and wondering.
It started to rain, and she forced herself to go upstairs to bed. She lay in her bed, sitting up every time she heard a car on the wet street. She watched the minutes tick by. She was exhausted, but still she couldn’t sleep. As soon as she did, she woke suddenly to the sound of something clinking against her window. She jumped out of bed and drew back the curtains. And there he was, standing in the front yard just as he had that night so long ago, throwing stones at her window. Only this time it was pouring. He must be soaked through. She shivered as the wind whipped her hair across her cheek and blew her nightgown against her body.
Five
“Hey,” he shouted. “The door’s locked. I don’t have a key.”
She pressed her hand against her mouth. How could she have forgotten to give him a key? What kind of hostess makes her guest stay out in the rain? Without stopping to put a robe on, she ran down the hall, took the stairs two at a time and skidded in her bare feet to the front door.
Breathless, she flung it open, and he stood there on the porch in the dark looking at her for a long moment, his wet hair hanging over his forehead.
“I’m sorry. I meant to give you a key. Have you been out here long?” she asked.
“Long enough,” he said shaking the water off his head. “You must be a sound sleeper. The last time it took you only a few seconds.”
The last time. So long ago. And yet the memory was sharp and clear in her mind. “You’re soaked,” she said.
He took off his wet jacket and hung it on the coatrack. “Have you got any of that sherry left?”
“Of course. Or would you rather have a hot toddy?”
“If you’ll have one with me,” he said, his gaze traveling slowly over her body.
“I’ll just get my robe,” she said, suddenly aware she was only wearing a cotton batiste nightgown with nothing underneath it.
“Wait.” His voice dropped an octave. He didn’t touch her, didn’t grab her arm or even put his hand on her shoulder, but she couldn’t move. They stood in the hallway under the Tiffany lamp staring at each other. His face was half in shadow and he looked dark and dangerous. He was dangerous. Dangerous to her mental health, dangerous to her well-being. Hayley couldn’t breathe. The air had been sucked out of her lungs.
She knew he was going to kiss her. It was the look in his eyes. The set of his jaw. The tension in the atmosphere. So thick she could cut it with her mother’s silver cake knife. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to fling her arms around his neck and pull him so close she could feel his heartbeat. To feel the solid muscles in his chest. And let her fingers sift through his thick, dark hair. She wanted to feel the rainwater from his jacket soak through her nightgown.
But he didn’t. Instead he reached behind him and banged the door shut so loudly it sounded like an explosion. Her heart banged against her ribs. She turned and ran up the stairs like a frightened rabbit to get her robe. But who was she frightened of? Not Sam. She was frightened of her own runaway imagination. She’d imagined that Sam wanted to kiss her.
She didn’t have to worry about Sam. He’d had a couple of opportunities to come on to her. But he hadn’t. Obviously he didn’t want to. Because he really wasn’t interested. It was a hard pill to swallow, but Sam was used to dispensing pills, and she’d better get used to swallowing them. He was full of himself, aware of his charm and a flirt to boot. That was all. That was enough. He’d always known how to push her buttons. He still did.
He was sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar when she came down, plaid flannel robe firmly belted around her waist. He looked up from the tourist booklet on the Oregon coast he was leafing through. And undressed her with a sexy, mesmerizing gaze that made her knees weak. She might as well have worn nothing at all, for the protection her robe gave her. Because he seemed to see right through it. What was he trying to do? Provoke her? Drive her crazy? She knew he felt nothing for her. She told herself to get over it. Or she’d get her heart broken all over again.
“Plaid flannel. You didn’t have to do that fo
r me,” he said, studying the lapels that formed a vee between her breasts.
“I didn’t,” she said primly. “I run a bed and breakfast. I can’t run around in a negligee.”
“Too bad. Sorry about waking you up,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry.
“Sorry about locking you out,” she said. She reached for a bottle of rum and poured some into a pot and added some spices, grateful to have something to do besides analyze Sam. “Did you find someplace to go?” she asked. She didn’t want him to think she was prying, but she had to fill the silence somehow. She was afraid of silence between them. Afraid of her thoughts, her runaway emotions. Of what she might say or what she might do. Something she’d regret later.
“Yeah,” he said.
There it was. Silence. She racked her brain but couldn’t think of another thing to say.
“I drove out to the Red Barn,” he said.
“For a drink?” she asked. Of course he went for a drink. You didn’t go to the Red Barn for a hot chocolate or any other reason. Not at this hour. There was no pool table. Nothing but a big, empty barn with sawdust and cigarette butts on the floor and a sour smell in the air.
“No. For old times’ sake. My old man hung out there. I hated that place with a vengeance. I went back to see if I could stand to go in.”
“Could you?”
Sam shook his head. He’d stood out in front of the bar, the fluorescent outline of a beer bottle in the window, the distorted sound of an ancient jukebox filling the night air. The rain ran down his face and soaked his jacket. But he couldn’t bring himself to open the door.
“I was afraid,” he said. “Can you believe that? I’m thirty-four years old, for God’s sake. My father’s got to be dead by now. And I’m afraid to walk into a bar. Afraid I’ll see him in there, roaring drunk and shouting obscenities like the night my mother sent me to get him. I’m afraid of a dead man.”
