Hale's Point

by Patricia Ryan

  She turned, and he seized her with his free hand, gripping her by the shoulder as he came around to face her. “Don’t freeze me out, Harley. Maybe we only just met, and maybe we have nothing in common, but that doesn’t mean we can’t communicate, for God’s sake.”

  She twisted free of his grip and backed away from him. “‘Nothing in common’ meaning I’m so driven and you’re so laid-back, right?”

  “Well”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and for a guy who worked two and three jobs for years and built up his own business from scratch, I’m starting to think you’ve got a lot of nerve calling me driven.”

  He considered that, then shrugged. “I won’t argue that I’ve been there. But that’s not where I am now.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m taking a vacation from all that—maybe permanently.” He seemed to be growing exasperated. “You’re right. I worked my butt off for more years than I care to think about. Then one night I crashed my airplane into the side of a mountain. Suddenly I couldn’t work at all anymore. For a long time I couldn’t do much of anything—couldn’t hold a book, couldn’t sit up in bed and watch TV, couldn’t even feed myself. All I could do was think. You try doing nothing but thinking for a few months. It’s a very useful exercise for shaking some of the chaff out of your life. You could use it— you’ve got plenty there to shake out.”

  Harley’s voice rose, and this time she didn’t try to tame it. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t need an airplane crash to help me set my priorities.”

  His voice rose, too. “Honey, there could be a nuclear holocaust and you wouldn’t question your life! You’d still be out there, stopwatch in hand, timing things and measuring things and making sure everything was going according to plan.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “I never said it was.” He was calmer now, weary. “It’s the truth. The truth doesn’t have to be fair.”

  “Very profound. You’re full of insights and wisdom, aren’t you? You know, I could do without lessons in life from a guy whose answer to difficult situations is to just bolt. Someone who didn’t even bother to pick up the phone and call his own father for twenty-one years. Does he even know where you’ve been all this time? What you’ve been doing? God knows what he thinks. Jamie Tilton didn’t even believe me when I told him who you were. He said he’d heard you were dead. Someone told him you’d died in Vietnam.”

  Tucker smiled as if this were preposterous. “I never went to Vietnam.”

  “Someone else told him you’d died in jail.”

  The smile faded. He didn’t answer that one, she noted, just lowered his head, closed his eyes, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t be here. I should have left last night, not let you bring me back. I’ve done nothing but irritate you.” He looked from her eyes to her mouth, and frowned. Reaching out, he rested a hand lightly on her face and gently trailed his thumb over her upper lip. “In more ways than one, I guess.”

  It struck her then, why he looked different. He had shaved. For her? The thought made her legs feel weak.

  His fingertips stroked her face with a feathery touch, from cheekbone to chin. He smiled again, but this time it was that shy smile that he had worn last night when he’d asked her name. “I’ve got to tell you, though. I mean, it may sound like a line out of a B movie, but it’s true. You’re really very beautiful when you’re angry.” He chuckled self-consciously, the delicate caress trailing down her throat and along one collarbone, coaxing shivers from her. “Really. Just outstanding. I wish you could see yourself.”

  Harley just stared at him, at a complete loss for words. Finally he withdrew his hand, said, “Good night,” and went into the house.

  ***

  The book Harley tried to read in bed was Priorities for the Successful Manager. She had already read the first two chapters, “Stress in the Workplace” and “Strategies for Coping with Stress.” Now she turned to chapter three, “Learning to Live with Stress,” and reread the first page twice without absorbing any of it.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against her mountain of pillows. What was that line from Thoreau that Tucker had quoted… something about living a life of quiet desperation?

  “What am I doing?” she whispered.

  She heard a creak and opened her eyes. Everything was very quiet. Then came another creak and a thump she recognized as the sound of his cane on carpeting. He was upstairs. Her door was closed. She waited, and then came two light knocks.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

  A little pause. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  She looked down at herself. It was a warm night, and although she had pulled down the covers, she had not gotten under them. She wore her favorite summer nightgown, sleeveless white handkerchief-cotton with a row of tiny heart-shaped buttons down the front. It was thin, but you couldn’t see through it—not quite. Not in the dim light from the little bedside reading lamp, anyway. The left side had slipped off her shoulder, and she righted it, then smoothed the skirt so it covered her legs down to the ankles.

  “No, come in.”

  The door opened halfway and Tucker paused in the darkened hall. She could see him—he still had on the shorts and T-shirt he had worn that day—but she couldn’t make out his expression.

  “What are you reading?” he asked, taking a few steps into the room.

  She held up the book, and he frowned, coming closer for a better look. He leaned his cane against the night table, took the book from her, and turned it over, skimming the blurb on the back cover. “‘Prioritization of strategies for minimizing job-related anxiety in order to maximize managerial effectiveness’? This is your bedtime reading?”

  “Did you come up here to criticize my reading material?”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and laid the book on the table. Without looking at her, he shook his head. Absently he ran a hand over his now-smooth chin.

  He turned to her. “I came up here to see if you’d let me spend the night with you.” She stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief—not at what he wanted, which she had suspected, but at his breathtaking candor. He said, “Pretty smooth seduction, huh?” That shy smile again, the lazy brown eyes staring back.

  “That’s probably not a good idea,” she said.

  He reached toward her with both hands, gently took her face between them, and looked her straight in the eye. “No, I think it’s a great idea.”

  She laughed, partly from nervousness and partly because his sincerity disarmed her—but only momentarily. There were many reasons not to sleep with Tucker Hale, and she would spell them out, since he seemed to like the straightforward approach.

  She forced a note of cool reason into her voice and said, “We haven’t exactly been getting along real well.”

  He said, “Then we should try to get along better.”

  He shifted his hands, his long fingers twining through her hair to wrap around the back of her head. Her scalp tingled at his touch, little rivulets of pleasure coursing through her. He pulled her slightly forward as he moved closer. She thought, I shouldn’t let him kiss me, but then she felt his warm lips on hers, and her will weakened. It’s just a kiss, she thought, closing her eyes. Just one kiss. Then I’ll make him leave.

  He was surprisingly gentle, his lips barely grazing her own, which felt extraordinarily sensitive. Then he leaned into the kiss just a bit, his mouth moving slowly over hers. There was no irritation from stubble this time; his skin was smooth against hers.

  He lingered over the kiss, softly coaxing her into returning it, which she did, at first tentatively, then with real warmth. As her resistance evaporated, she felt both apprehensive and excited. This sense of being overwhelmed by a man was new to her, and she found that a certain part of her, a part she had not known of before, welcomed it.

  He was so large, so sure of himself. Everything about him was masculine, even the scent of his warm skin mingled with hints of tobacco and
shaving cream.

  Her heart pounded furiously. To react so strongly alarmed her, and she pressed her hands against his chest to push him away, pausing when she felt his own rapid-fire heartbeat.

  When they finally drew apart, he was as breathless as she, and he looked surprised, as if the kiss, in its quiet intensity, had taken him aback.

  His expression altered then, as desire replaced surprise. She saw an unmistakable, age-old need in his eyes, and a kind of panic seized her. She should have resisted him more firmly, she should have had more self-control. Now he would presume too much. His hands slid to her shoulders and he pressed her back against the pillows.

  She said, “Tucker, this is nuts. We’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours.”

  He smiled, watching his own fingers stroke her throat from chin to sternum. “What better way to get acquainted?”

  She threw her head back against the pillows, chuckling in exasperation, and he took advantage of her position to kiss her throat softly, all over. The left side of her nightgown had slipped down again, and his lips traced a path along her exposed shoulder. Easing his hand between them, he slipped the first little heart-shaped button out of its buttonhole.

  She struggled to remind herself that this wasn’t a good idea. “Tucker,” she said, her voice unsteady. She put her hands on his shoulders. “This is pointless. You’re leaving soon. I don’t even know when. You don’t even know when.”

  With his mouth near her ear, he murmured, “Then we should take advantage of the time we have.” He took her earlobe between his lips and gently tugged as he unbuttoned the second button. His fingertips glided down the narrow opening of her nightgown, between her breasts, and then up again. When he rested his hand, palm down, on her upper chest, she knew he could feel her drumming heart.

  With the other hand he gently kneaded her thigh through the thin cotton, then gathered a handful of the fabric and pulled, uncovering her lower legs. She felt his hand on her knee, and then he reached under her gown to stroke the bare flesh of her thigh. His breathing quickened, and she felt the muscles in his shoulders tense.

  “Tucker…” she whispered. He answered the whisper with a kiss; this time a deep kiss, one of unmistakable longing. He took claim to her mouth with demanding force, pinning her back against the pillows as he explored her lips and tongue with his own. She realized her grip on his shoulders had tightened.

  He slid his hand up her leg, pausing briefly at the top before continuing along the round contour of her hip, bare and smooth. Caressing the taut flesh, he breathed a low moan into her mouth.

  Realizing she had let this go too far, she abruptly broke off the kiss. “Tucker…” He unbuttoned another button. “Tucker…” And another. “Tucker, no.”

  He froze, one hand on her hip, the other poised over a button near her waist.

  She had evidently said the magic word.

  “No,” she repeated.

  He considered this. “No for real, or no because that’s what you’re supposed to say?”

  “For real.”

  His forehead came to rest against hers, as if some of the air had gone out of him. After a few moments, he said, in a quiet voice, “It could be really great.”

  She was actually tempted, which amazed her. Biting her lip, she shook her head, and again said, “No.”

  He sat back, his hand trailing from her hip to her thigh, where it stilled. Just as quietly as before, he asked, “Are you a virgin?”

  Harley was tempted to lie, because, at twenty-three, her virginity was becoming something of an embarrassment. Opting for the truth, she said, “Yes.”

  His expression didn’t change, she was relieved to note. He wasn’t at all surprised or put off. “You shouldn’t let that stop you. It could still be really great. I’d make sure of it.”

  With a small shake of her head, she said, “I couldn’t. Not with someone I just met. Not the first time.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “All right.” Again he reached for the little heart-shaped buttons, this time to slip them back into their holes one by one, bottom to top.

  She felt a need to explain. “It’s just that I—”

  “Shh, it’s all right. Really.”

  He finished rebuttoning her gown, replaced the shoulder, and smoothed the skirt down to her ankles. Taking up his cane, he rose. “Oh, here.” He picked up Priorities for the Successful Manager and handed it to her. “I lost your place. Sorry.”

  At the door, he said, “Good night, Harley.”

  “Good night, Tucker. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He looked momentarily distracted, as if there were something he wanted to say, but thought better of it. “Yeah. See you in the morning.”

  As the door closed behind him, she sank back against the pillows, closed her eyes, and released a long, shuddering breath.

  Chapter 4

  IN THE MORNING he was gone.

  Harley didn’t realize it until after her six-o’clock swim, when she passed by the maid’s room on the way to the kitchen. The door stood open and the room looked empty. She said his name, and upon hearing no answer, walked in. The bed was unmade and his guitar leaned against the back wall. Otherwise, there was no sign that he had ever been there.

  She toured the house, then the property, looking for him, occasionally calling his name. She even checked the beach, in case he had managed to make his way down but couldn’t get back up. No Tucker. He was really gone. He had left.

  She went to the kitchen, turned on the radio, and made some coffee.

  He might have said goodbye.

  She thought about their argument at the pool yesterday evening, and his coming to her room later. He was right when he said she wouldn’t let him near her. Brian had said the same thing during their brief relationship; that she was cold and ungiving, that she discouraged intimacy, not just sexually, but emotionally.

  Was it true? She didn’t feel cold. Her reactions—to Tucker, if not to Brian—were too warm, inappropriately so.

  She took a sip of coffee. It tasted like acid.

  Why inappropriately? Because, of course, he was inappropriate. He was a nonconformist, a man of exasperating honesty for whom compromise was impossible. After a miserable childhood of pitying looks and being thought odd, of being the outcast, all she wanted now was normalcy. She craved the mainstream; she had struggled for years just to fit in and be like everyone else.

  She lifted her chin. There was nothing wrong with her. She had acted appropriately. She had no reason to feel guilty. Where was it written that you were some kind of ice goddess if you didn’t jump into bed with a man you had just met?

  She was glad he was gone. Still, she would have driven him to the airport. She had told him she would drive him to the airport.

  For several minutes she sat at the table, willing herself not to cry.

  ***

  The radio said it would be a cloudless day of high, possibly record-breaking, heat and humidity. She liked hot weather, and decided to spend the day weeding and cutting back the perennial borders. She interrupted her work only briefly for a light lunch and a reapplication of sunblock, and then threw herself back into it, grateful to have something physical to do. It was dirty work and she wore comfortable old clothes for it: a chambray shirt, oversize tan walking shorts belted with a red bandanna, and her grungiest running shoes, plus sunglasses and a Walkman.

  It was a hot day, brutally hot, but she immersed herself in her work, laboring mechanically and virtually without pause. The effort she had to expend just to muscle through the heat and keep going served to steer her mind from the subject of Tucker Hale, although from time to time his image seemed to waver on a ripple of warm air, then dissolve.

  The sun burned like a blowtorch in the sky; everything she touched felt like it was about to burst into flame. Looking anywhere but at the ground made her feel queasy, so she just bent her head over her work, digging and cutting with an automatic relentlessness. She had never perspired so muc
h, and her clothes were quickly soaked through. Sweat dripped onto the plants she was clipping and ran into her eyes, stinging them. She took the bandanna from the waistband of her shorts and tied it around her forehead, and that helped.

  In the interests of mood management, she chose her most upbeat tapes for the Walkman, mainly Beethoven. The Ninth Symphony was perfect; it made her feel exhilarated and empowered. She made short work of the borders edging the front walk and got started on the driveway. Beethoven’s Seventh, however, was a mistake. She had forgotten about that really soulful part halfway through that always filled her with sorrow. Instead of turning off the tape, as she knew she should, she turned the volume up. Then she put down her weeder and sat on the grass next to the blacktop driveway, suddenly very tired.

  Harley checked her watch. It was 2:09 p.m. She had worked almost nonstop for over six hours. Her head throbbed and she felt slightly nauseated. At least she was no longer sweating so hard; that wet, sticky feeling was gone. When she realized that was probably because she had drunk nothing all day but a little mineral water at lunch, she felt sheepish. She should have considered her fluids, as she did when she was running. She should have taken some breaks, and she should have worn a hat. She also should have quit hours ago.

  She was so stupid.

  Harley tried to stand, but things shifted and then she felt a sudden jolt of pain and something hard under her head: the driveway. She lay on her back, her body absurdly heavy. The blacktop felt very warm beneath her, almost hotter than she could stand, but not quite. She closed her eyes, took off her sunglasses, and draped an arm over her face. The beautiful, solemn music filled her ears and her mind, and she gave herself up to it, losing herself in its sadness.

  Yes, she was very stupid. She would go through life being stupid and doing stupid things. So much for the theory that Columbia M.B.A. candidates were intelligent people.

  After a while the driveway began to vibrate, as if there were a subtle tremor in the earth. The vibrations stopped, and presently a shadow fell over her.