Sisters of Spirit, Pure Romance Set

by Nancy Radke

  Zack had the humor to temper his male aggressiveness. She didn’t mind when he disagreed with her or opposed her or interfered in her life. She didn’t mind when he challenged her or called her “Boston.”

  Zack could make her mad, happy and bewildered all in the same day. He made her want to please him; to seek his favor, his acceptance; to look for his smile, long for his kiss, listen to his voice.

  He took her to the zenith of her emotions.

  Jennel wanted Zack’s friendship more than anything. She wanted his love.

  Taking the driftwood offered by Brutus, she threw it once again. She’d messed things up so badly, Zack couldn’t stand the sight of her. Time had run out. She’d had her opportunity and blown it.

  Chalk it up to experience...go back to Boston. A quick glance backward showed Zack and Clyde hadn’t returned. She threw the stick again and kept walking, counter- clockwise along the beach, arriving at the steep cliff of the “heel.” The offshore water between the cliff and Stuart Island to the south was rippling with the force of the current. There was nothing gentle about this end of the island. Looking back toward the dock, Jennel was surprised at how far she’d come— almost a half mile. By squinting, she could just make out Zack’s boat and the boat for his crew. He wasn’t back yet. For someone in a hurry, he was taking his time.

  If she went up the trail to the top of the cliff, she would complete their trip around the island. It wasn’t far, and if she hurried, she’d have a few more memories to take home.

  The trail led upward, climbing a bank steep enough she could touch the sides without leaning over. Jennel followed it, zigzagging along on the switchbacks until she reached the top. Brutus ran ahead, tail flying, his huge black bulk a comforting companion—although with him along the rabbits and raccoons stayed hidden. She stepped cautiously through the tall grass to the sheer drop and looked out across the strait. She could see for miles without the fog, and she stood for several minutes surveying the view, but barely taking it in.

  Heartsick. She might as well accept her fate and return to Boston. Hanging around Seattle would just prolong her agony. Her decision made, she turned back down the trail.

  There had been a persistent thumping noise the last few minutes which now grew louder: the helicopter bringing in the back- hoe. She watched it drop down among the trees, the steady whup, whup, whup of the rotors announcing its location.

  A young black-tailed deer, frightened by the noise, left the trees, bounded down the steep trail to the cove and plunged into the water. As Jennel watched, worried, it turned to swim across the strong current towards Stuart Island.

  “I hope it makes it, Brutus. Poor thing, it didn’t know which way to go. Just like me.” She left the cliff and started back down the steep trail.

  From one spot, she caught a glimpse of the dock area. Clyde’s boat was back. She saw people running back and forth, but she was too far away to hear any voices.

  The footing was tricky down the switch- backs, and she took care not to fall. Once she tried a shortcut, but it proved too steep, forcing her to climb up again to the trail.

  Then the helicopter roared overhead, rising from the other side of the ridge with Zack sitting beside the pilot. It couldn’t get too close, but hovered off to one side of the bank, creating its own private windstorm. Zack jabbed his finger toward the boats, and she waved—she was on her way.

  He nodded, and the helicopter pulled back. But instead of leaving, it landed on the beach. Zack jumped out and waved it away. In his hand was a large paper bag.

  Wheeling about, the helicopter thumped its way across the water towards Friday Harbor, leaving a noticeable stillness vibrating in the air. A stillness magnified by the scrunch of Zack’s steps in the sand.

  Defiant, Jennel watched him approach. Was he going to yell at her for leaving the dock and making him hunt her down? He looked grim and determined.

  “I can explain. I just—” she started to say.

  “Don’t bother,” he said, sounding more disappointed than angry. “Clyde already did.”

  His statement baffled her. “He did?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me how tough things were with your business? Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

  So that was it! His pride was hurt. “I don’t want your help.”

  It took him back, and he shook his head as if reconsidering his words. “Not even when—” He stopped and tried again. “You should have told me. I didn’t realize you were under so much pressure. Why didn’t you say something?” he asked. “I wanted—”

  “You wanted to get me off the island.” That hurt deeply, and the pain would continue long after she left.

  “Yes,” he stammered. “Of course.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll leave with Clyde. Did he also tell you why he never came when you called?”

  Zack nodded.

  “Huh! Did he tell you his part in it?”

  “Oh, yes. He bawled me out as soon as he got me alone.”

  “And you didn’t punch him?”

  He glanced down at his paper sack, which Brutus was sniffing suspiciously. “No, I shook his hand.” He pushed Brutus away, and the dog sat down to watch.

  Clyde had been right. Their friendship was solid. “You’ll soon be rid of me. I’m going back to Boston.”

  His face paled, going slack as if with disappointment, and he stared at her. “Won’t you consider working with me? Maybe even a partnership?”

  The offer was unrealistic. “No.” To be so close to him, without love, would be worse than to make a complete break. All of a sudden, she wanted to be far away, where no one could see her. Even Boston was out. The name would remind her of him. “I might go to Florida,” she said, without thinking further. “Or Alaska.”

  “Not Boston?”

  “There’s nothing there.” Why should he care?

  “And you don’t want to come in with me?”

  “I don’t take charity.”

  “It isn’t charity, Jennel.” He spun away, kicked out a scoop of sand, then turned back to her. “Look, Clyde said, ...well, he—”

  “He shouldn’t have been talking about my problems. My business isn’t worth

  enough—”

  “I’m not talking about your business. Not now.” He thrust the paper sack roughly into her hand. “Here! I got you this.”

  She bounced the bag, noting its light weight. “What...?”

  “Open it up!”

  Puzzled by his agitated manner, she did so. A pillow was inside. Pulling it out, she gasped in amazement.

  It was a small heart-shaped pillow. Rose- pink, trimmed in pink lace. Embroidered on it in white satin floss was one word: “Sweetheart.”

  “Well?” he snapped, his lips tight.

  “A pillow?” She hated pink pillows. This was something only Elenora Van Chattan would want.

  “Don’t you like it?” He was wringing his hands, quite unlike his normal, even- going self.

  “Why did you give me this?” she hedged. Maybe he was trying to apologize for resisting her design changes.

  “I thought...I thought....” He threw up his hands. “I guess Clyde was wrong.” “About what?”

  “Nothing. I guess he just wanted it so badly, he imagined things.” He turned and took three strides down the beach before it hit her.

  There was only one thing Clyde wanted. “Wait, Zack. What did he say?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He slouched away, head down, kicking the sand aside as if it offended him.

  She had to try, one more time, for she had remembered an earlier conversation. “Does it have to do with pink pillows in the bedroom?”

  With a lift of his head, he stopped, but didn’t turn. “Sort of.”

  “Does it have to do with the fact that,” she took a deep breath and made the plunge, “that I love you?”

  That spun him. “Yes!” Correctly reading the glow that replaced the frustration on his face, she ran to meet him, flinging her arms arou
nd his neck, the satin pillow still clutched in one hand.

  He lifted her with a hold so strong it felt as if they were welded together. “I love you,” he declared and sealed his vow with a demanding kiss that left no more questions in her mind.

  Hungrily, she returned it, at last released from the long frustration of self-imposed restraint. “I love you,” she cried back, as her body took flight with happiness, suffused with the joy of love returned.

  Her braid tumbled down as he released it, stroking its silky back length. “I love your blue eyes and black hair...I treasure everything about you.”

  “And I you.”

  “I love you deeply, my Boston angel. The way you submerge when you work, your quaint way of laughing. I even love the way you tie me into knots so that I can’t think. And I really love this.” Once more he pulled her to him and sought her lips.

  The fire that blazed from their hearts ignited their souls as they entered the depths of shared emotion. The doubts and uncertainties shadowing their relationship vanished, freeing them to express their love without reserve.

  “You don’t mind my deceiving Clyde?” she asked, when they stopped to take deep, shaky gasps of air. Her fingers clutched his coat, to support legs unable to hold her steady.

  “Not when he started it. If you hadn’t come up with your ‘surprise,’ he was pre- pared to invent an emergency and leave you behind.”

  “Who would ever think Clyde would play match-maker? Or the Van Chattans?”

  “What? Them, too?”

  “Elenora’s the one who started everything. Met me, told her husband. They cooked this all up together. That’s why they were so hard to reach.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I hadn’t been so against society-type women, I’d have fallen for you sooner.”

  “I am not a society—”

  “I know. I know. You weren’t anything I expected. Everything about you shook me. It took awhile to realize I finally found someone I loved. Every time you mentioned going back to Boston, it was like a blow.”

  “I was only going because I loved you so much.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I couldn’t stand not having you love me, too.”

  His hands slid up under her hair, undoing the braid and shaking the strands loose, the action weakening her knees even further. “I offered you the job to keep you near me.”

  “You never let on.”

  He smiled, a somewhat sheepish, lopsided grin that would have looked silly except for the reason it was there. At her intense stare and questioning silence, he continued, almost apologetically. “I think I fell in love with you the first time I saw you with your hair like this, flowing down your back like a black wave.”

  “I thought you couldn’t stand my hair.”

  “No, just the opposite.” He pulled a section across her shoulders, the back of his hand brushing her face and sending a thrill up her spine.

  “Then why...what was the reason—?” She spread her fingers wide in bewilderment. “Why did you keep telling me to do it up?”

  “Simple. I was trying hard not to fall for you, and when you had your hair down, I had a tougher time keeping my hands off you. I didn’t want any other man to see it down, enticing him like it did me.” His eyes softened, glowing a deep emerald.

  “I see.”

  “You made me realize how incomplete my life was. Just a fancy framework built around a hollow shell. An empty house needing a woman’s touch. Even in my work, I needed you.”

  “But you still demanded I leave the island,” she protested.

  “There isn’t room for you. My foreman’s here. He’ll move into the boat. I’ll follow as soon as I turn everything over to him. I thought I told you.”

  She smiled as she finally understood. Zack wanted her off the island because he was leaving, too! “I love the pillow. Thanks.”

  “Maybe you ought to thank Clyde. He swore you were in love with me.”

  “You couldn’t tell?”

  “Your business kept getting in the way. Partner.”

  “But Zack....”

  He kissed her quiet. “Marry me. Don’t go to Florida or Boston or Alaska or any- where else. Just marry me.”

  “I won’t go. I’ll marry you.”

  “And you won’t mind limiting your pink lace to this? In our house?”

  Jennel laughed, delighted. “Of course not.”

  “The helicopter pilot thought I was nuts, making him fly me to San Juan to buy a pillow.”

  “And are you?”

  “Nuts about you. Can’t you tell?”

  She reached upwards for another kiss. “I can now.”

  THE END

  CLOSED DOORS

  by Nancy Radke

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  *1*

  For the fifth time Ellen Craig knocked on the double entrance doors, then, doubting herself, rechecked the address. It was correct, this was Jared Steel’s house. And four-thirty; the time they had arranged to meet. Maybe he had been held up in Seattle’s rush-hour traffic.

  Or maybe he was around back and couldn’t hear. His home was large, imposing, but looked deserted with all the curtains pulled, the doors locked. It stood surrounded by tall Douglas fir, which scented the air with a strong aroma.

  Switching her briefcase from one hand to the other, Ellen stepped off the wide porch into the warm June sun and followed the graveled path around the house. The back yard swept like a driving range down to Lake Washington, ending with a long wooden dock, a boathouse, and a small sailboat.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” she called.

  No answer except the roar of motorboats on the lake. From her position she could see the I-90 floating bridge carrying traffic from Seattle across Mercer Island.

  “Hello,” she called again.

  Still no answer.

  Uncertain, she retraced her steps and rapped on the massive front doors again, and again pushed the buzzer. The one-way spyglass set in the center of the door stared blankly back at her, hiding what lay behind. When she had first arrived, she could have sworn she heard footsteps; saw the doorknob turn, then stop. She must have been mistaken.

  Ellen checked her watch. She’d been here twenty minutes; it was time to give up and go home. She started up to leave, realized Mr. Steel wouldn’t know she had come, so wrote a quick “Sorry I missed you” note, added the time to it, and stuck it under the door knocker.

  She climbed up the steps to the parking level and opened the door to her old Honda Civic. She needed a newer car, she thought as she smoothed an old towel over the hole in the seat cushion; this one was no longer dependable. She looked back down at the house, regretting the wasted trip.

  Below her the doors were suddenly thrown open with enough force they rebounded off their stoppers. A tall man rushed out.

  “Wait! Don’t go,” he called, taking the steps three at a time. “Are you Ellen Craig?”

  It was the same strong, masculine voice she had found so appealing during their phone conversation. Now, looking at the rugged physique of the man as he reached her, she was not disappointed. Probably around six, six-one. His height was deceptive; his broad chest and shoulders tapering into narrow waist and hips.

  “Yes, I am,” she replied. “I figured no one was home.”

  “Sorry. I was in the... uh, weight room. I’m Jared Steel.”

  Perspiration beaded his wide forehead and spots of moisture darkened his blue polo shirt. Yet he didn’t look like he had been working out—he wore white slacks and loafers—and as he extended his hand, her mind questioned his excuse.

  He had a firm grip, but icy cold. And damp. Nervous. Definitely nervous... yet he was interviewing her, not the other way around.

  “Have you... uh... brought anyone with you?” His words were well enunciated, but hesitant. When she shook her head, he glanced inside her car at the boxes of household supplies. “Moving
?”

  “Yes.”

  “Far?”

  “No.” Her move was mainly an excuse to put a little distance between herself and her demanding family.

  “Are you qualified to tutor?” He frowned, his thick brows almost meeting as he rubbed his finger along the metal rim of the car’s side window—as sharply defined and angular as the planes of his face.

  “Yes,” she assured him. “I’ve tutored for over ten years.”

  “You don’t seem that old.” He looked her up and down like an overprotective father checking out his son’s first date.

  She grimaced, knowing how young she appeared. “I’m twenty-five. I started as a peer tutor in grade school, then picked up extra training in college. I’ve had teachers recommend me from eighth grade on.”

  Trying to quiet the churning nervousness within, she waited, knowing she ought to pass inspection. She always wore the same trim, two-piece navy suit and white silk blouse at an interview. It made her look more professional even when she didn’t feel that way.

  He was not so old himself, probably in his early thirties. The bright sunlight revealed pools of fatigue—or stress—deep within his heavily lidded eyes, and his long nose ended abruptly above a deep “V” in his upper lip. A face strikingly different, yet handsome. One not easily forgotten. In fact, she had a strong sense of having seen him before.

  “You’ll keep your work confidential,” he stressed.

  “Yes.” He had asked that on the phone, first off.

  He shifted his weight, motioned downhill. “Then we can finish this inside. If you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. I need to meet your son.”

  He stood aside and Ellen proceeded him down the steps, eager to begin.

  Inside she was instantly impressed. The spacious entrance area contained an antique porcelain temple vase that could probably pay her salary for the next three years. A showcase-perfect living room lay on the left, complete with white carpet, traditional furniture, and an oval mirror edged in sculptured brass. A hint of lemon—probably furniture polish—scented the air. Two halls stretched away from the entrance, the shorter one ending in a stairway, the longer one leading eventually to a grandfather clock.