Danica shook her head in continued amazement, both that he had actually rented the boat and that he respected her work enough to plan around it. Not that she wouldn’t have dropped everything to go on that boat with Michael.…
“I can’t wait,” she breathed, then threw her arms around him. “Thank you.”
Not trusting himself, he quickly set her back. “My pleasure. Now…work.”
“No bike ride?”
He shook his head. “I have to take Rusty to the vet, then spend the morning on the phone. Some notes I took in San Francisco aren’t right. I want to straighten them out before I make a mess of this whole book. After that I’d better get to finishing the plan for my class.” He teased her. “You’re not the only one around here who has to work, y’ know.”
She smiled and took the hand he offered, squeezed it, then watched him head back down the drive. Quickly, though, her thoughts turned to the weekend, and she sensed that working her way through the next two days was going to be easier said than done.
By seven o’clock Saturday morning she was up and dressed and packed and waiting. After much deliberation she had chosen to wear jeans and a shirt, putting varied changes of clothing in the small overnight bag that now sat by the door.
Michael had rented the boat from ten that morning to the same time on Monday. He had said he would be by at nine so that they might stop for food before heading for the Yacht Club. He would have been furious had he known she’d spent the entire afternoon before in the kitchen, but she hadn’t been able to concentrate on her work, and she rather fancied the idea of sitting on deck with wine and homemade pâté, stuffed mushrooms and pea pods, and ramaki. She had baked a Black Forest cake, too, dashing out to the store for the freshest of heavy cream, the finest of semisweet chocolate, the richest of kirsch. All of her goodies were packaged and waiting in the refrigerator.
She wandered from room to room, looking out a window here, straightening a throw pillow there. She glanced at her watch, then began to wander again. She was on the deck with her face turned to the late August sun when a thought struck.
Blake would be calling on Sunday and she wouldn’t be here. If he was worried—and she wasn’t sure he would be, though she couldn’t take that chance—he might call Mrs. Hannah, or worse, her father. She didn’t want that.
Running back into the den, she picked up the phone, then hesitated. She had no idea what his Saturday schedule was in Washington. In Boston, he would have been up early and headed for the office, then the club. Deciding to take the course that would prove least embarrassing should she be wrong, she dialed his condominium.
The phone rang five times. She was about to hang up when he answered. Groggily. He’d been sleeping. Unusual.
“Hi, Blake.”
“Danica?”
She could see him peering at the clock that sat so prominently on his nightstand. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No. Uh, yes. I overslept. I should have been up an hour ago.”
“I thought I’d call you now because I’m going out on a boat with some friends and I won’t be here tomorrow.” It was only a tiny half-lie, she reasoned, and if Rusty was coming, no lie at all. She prayed Blake wouldn’t ask more.
He didn’t. “That should be nice for you. How long will you be gone?” His tone was conversational, as if he didn’t deeply care but felt some show of interest was called for.
“Just for the weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.”
“Well, have a good time.”
“How are things there?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Is anything new?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“All’s well at the Department?”
“Very well.”
She didn’t know what else to say. “Okay. I guess I’ll be going then. Talk with you next week?”
“That sounds fine. Bye-bye.”
Only after she hung up the receiver did Danica realize she was gritting her teeth, but then, it wasn’t the first time. Lately, when she talked to Blake, she was tense. He was always perfectly calm, properly composed—even today, after she’d woken him up. She pictured him lying in bed, with his hair barely mussed and his pajamas just so. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture herself beside him. The thought held no appeal whatsoever.
It was a travesty, the stale ritual they were living. She wondered if it bothered him, wondered if he was even aware of anything amiss. He always seemed to complacent. She knew that they couldn’t keep on this way, yet the alternative…
Unable, no, unwilling to start her weekend by brooding, she left the den in a rush. For lack of anything better to do, she carried her overnight bag to the driveway, then returned to the kitchen to transfer things from the refrigerator to a large box.
Michael was early. “What in the devil have you done?” he exclaimed when she lifted the box from the kitchen table.
“I made a few things to eat.”
He quickly took the box from her. “You didn’t have to do that, Dani. I didn’t mean for this weekend to cause you work.”
The contrast struck her again. Blake would have objected on principle to his wife cooking, while Michael was simply and genuinely concerned that she had put herself out.
“It was fun. And don’t tell me you won’t be hungry all weekend.”
He lowered his chin. “Now, I didn’t say that. But we could have easily made do with store-bought things.”
“We’ll still need plenty. Are we all set?” She glanced toward the Blazer. “Rusty’s coming!”
“We’re dropping him at the Greta and Pat’s. They miss him.”
Danica made a face that said she wondered, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t want to share Michael with anyone, not even man’s best friend.
After making the appropriate stops, they arrived at the Yacht Club shortly before ten, loaded the boat and were off. Michael knew exactly how to handle the craft, and he patiently pointed out levers and buttons and switches for Danica’s benefit. She was content to stay close by his elbow, watching, listening, enjoying his nearness and the sense of release that increased with each nautical mile they put behind them.
Heading north, they cruised slowly and comfortably. At midday, Danica brought sandwiches up and they ate side by side, enjoying the food nearly as much as they did the tangy air and the salty sea. By midafternoon, they had passed seaward of Biddeford and Saco and were well into Bigelow Bight, approaching Casco Bay.
Changing into shorts, Danica stretched out on the forward deck, spreading her arms wide, delighting in the way the wind whipped across her skin.
“Like it?” Michael asked, sliding up beside her. He, too, had changed from his shirt and jeans into a tank top and shorts.
“Ahhh, yes.” Aside from an initial peek, she kept her eyes closed. “It’s won-der-ful.”
He slipped his hand between the open tails of her shirt and rubbed the warm flesh of her middle. “You’d better be careful. The wind is deceptive. You can get sunburned.”
“Nah. It’s too late in the season for much of anything to happen. Besides, my skin’s conditioned to the sun. I’ll be fine.” Her heart was pounding. She chose to attribute it to the exhilaration of the ride, but it slowed as soon as Michael withdrew his hand and stretched out nearby. “Michael? Who’s steering?”
“My good friend, Auto. I must have forgotten to point him out. He’s a gem.”
With a smile, she flipped over onto her stomach and looked across at the shoreline. “Those poor people stuck on land. If they only knew what they were missing.”
“Many of them do. They’re just not as lucky as we are.”
“We are lucky, you know that?” It occurred to her then that even if her relationship with Michael went no further than it had already, she would be forever grateful that he was her friend. He made her life so much easier to take. He inspired her to do so much.
“Why the sad face?”
She glanced down to f
ind him squinting at her, shading his eyes with his hand. “Sad? I hadn’t realized.”
“What were you thinking about?”
She hesitated for just a minute. “You.”
“Good thoughts or bad ones?”
“Good ones, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Why not?”
“Because I may be complicating your life a helluva lot.”
“Complicating?” She shimmied closer and propped her chin on her arms on his chest. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that. They’ll go right to my head.” They were going right to other parts as well, but he forced those to the back of his mind.
“I mean it, Michael. Since I met you, my life has had so much more meaning. I keep thinking what it would have been like—things between me and Blake, his appointment—if I hadn’t had you. Even when I’m in Boston, I feel better just knowing…I’ve said all this before, I think.”
“I like to hear it,” he responded quietly. “It helps me cope with everything I’m feeling.” When her expression grew pained and she opened her mouth to apologize for causing him what had to be terrible frustration, he put his hand against her lips. “Don’t say it. I don’t mind what I feel. In some ways my life wasn’t much better than yours was before we met. I always tried to tell myself that it was full, that I was doing everything I wanted to be doing, but deep down inside I knew something was missing. Maybe if you’d never come along, I wouldn’t have put a finger on it. Maybe I’d have settled for second best without realizing it.” He moved his fingers only to lift his head and kiss her softly. “I have to be grateful for what we’ve had, for what we have right now. It means more to me than you can imagine.”
“You’re getting maudlin in your old age, Michael Buchanan,” she whispered, but there were tears in her eyes and her heart was dangerously full.
He rolled over until she was pinned to the deck beneath him. “No worse than you, pretty lady.” With a final smack to her lips, he was up and headed back toward the steering wheel. “I need a swim,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” she called.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing.” He didn’t want to swim, because the water was like ice, but he had to do something or he would attack Danica before long. She was so beautiful. He cursed softly.
“Michael, what are you saying?” She began to get up.
“You stay there,” he growled, pointing to the deck, then he held his open hand up and spoke more gently.
“I’m just talking to myself. An old habit. I forget sometimes.”
Though Danica stayed put, she wrapped her arms around her knees and sat looking back at Michael. He was so beautiful. Tanned just enough. Muscled just enough. Windblown just enough. And he was beautiful inside, too. She hadn’t imagined that a man could be so sensitive to a woman’s thoughts and wishes and needs, but he was. He put Blake and her father to shame, because he had success and so much more.
Looking at him, catching his gaze when he looked at her from time to time, she felt a familiar tingling deep inside. She knew what it was, where it was headed. Don’t think it. It’s forbidden. Could anything that promised to be so beautiful be wrong? she asked herself. There’s Blake to consider. He’s your husband. Blake doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him. You’re married to Blake. You’re legally bound. Can a piece of paper mean more than the feeling two people hold for each other? What about your parents? They raised you to abide by commitments. I’m a grown woman now. I have to make my own commitments. But there’s no future in it. You aren’t free. I’m…no, I’m not free, am I…
She swiveled on her bottom and faced the front of the boat so Michael wouldn’t see the agony she felt. She concentrated on the waves, the shore, the horizon, anything to distract her. After a while, when she felt under control, she returned to sit by his side. From time to time they talked about what they saw—a sailboat, the gulls that soared overhead, points of land they passed. Often they simply shared the silence, though it wasn’t really silent with the steady hum of the motor and the intermittent slap of waves against the hull, but those were hypnotic in their way and very peaceful.
Unfortunately, Danica couldn’t settle the war within herself. It was like indigestion of the mind, she mused, and it gnawed relentlessly. Her thorough awareness of Michael’s nearness made things simultaneously better and worse. She saw the way his shoulders flexed as he handled the steering wheel, saw the play of bronzed skin over muscle, sensed the strength, which was virility at its best. She saw the fine mat of tawny hair that edged above his tank top, the finer sprinkling on his forearms, even finer on the backs of his hands. She remembered the way his lips had felt earlier, the way his long, hard body had felt when he had pinned her down for that too brief moment.
She was toying with the fires in hell, but she was freezing and she needed the warmth to survive.
“There.” Michael pointed. “That’s the island I want.”
She tore her gaze from his body and followed the line of his finger. “How do you know? We’ve passed so many.”
“That’s the one. I know. These are my old stomping grounds, remember? The big island to the left is Vinalhaven Island. Several of the other smaller ones are privately owned. So is this one, I think, but it’s uninhabited. We’ll drop anchor near its shore.”
The island, a broad hump in the sea speckled with low-growing pines, was indeed uninhabited. They circled it once and saw sign of neither house nor humanity. Choosing the east side of the island for its relative calm, Michael killed the engine and, with Danica scrambling to assist him, dropped anchor.
“Now—” he turned to her and spoke with the satisfaction of the skipper who had done his day’s work “—I would like some wine.” With comical suddenness he grimaced. “Shit, do we have a corkscrew?”
She laughed. “I saw one down below. Don’t ask me to use it, though. It doesn’t have ears, so it’ll take brute strength.”
“Brute strength I’ve got, but I may need replenishment pretty quick. Can any of the stuff you made be eaten cold? I’m famished.”
Smiling, she nodded. “I think I can find something.” She climbed down the few steps into the cabin, which looked golden in the late afternoon sunlight that was filtering through the windows. Michael followed, taking the corkscrew she handed him and deftly opening the wine. In turn, she set out pate and crackers for him to start on while she cooked the ramaki on the small butane stove.
“Mmmm, is this good!” he managed to garble through a mouthful of pate. “You really made it yourself?”
“Yup,” she answered without turning around. Something about the smallness of the cabin, the fact that they had dropped anchor, the knowledge that they would be spending the night here, was making her edgy. It wasn’t that she was afraid Michael might force her into something she didn’t want; she knew that he would simply spend the night beside her if need be. What frightened her was the “something she didn’t want” part because she didn’t know if it was true. Her insides were a taut rope, with Michael at one end and Blake at the other. Michael was stronger and looked to be winning one moment; the next Blake gave a persevering tug.
When the ramaki was done, she joined Michael, but she merely nibbled on a cracker, the most her stomach could take. Even the wine, which might have settled her, held little appeal.
“Did I ever tell you about my friends who have a houseboat on the Mississippi?” Michael sat back against the dinette cushion, his wineglass in his hand.
She forced a smile, knowing he was trying to relax her. “No. Tell me about your friends who have a houseboat on the Mississippi.”
“It’s this big box of a thing. Ugly as sin. But fun? It’s fantastic. A little home, really. I was down in Natchez once and they picked me up.”
Danica struggled to concentrate on what he was saying, but she barely heard a word through the bedlam in her mind. Michael was so clos
e, so dear, so willing. There are other factors to be considered. Those factors aren’t here! They should be. But they’re not and if they were, really were, I wouldn’t be agonizing like this now. You’re making a mistake. Maybe I’m only correcting mistakes of the past. The past isn’t over. It is! There’s nothing there! But you can’t divorce Blake, can you? Oh, God, I can’t think. Are you being fair to Blake? Are you being fair to Michael? What about me? What about what I want?
She squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with her hands.
Michael put his arm around her. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Bolting from her seat, she pressed her trembling hands, then forehead to the cool paneled door of the forward cabin.
He was behind her in an instant, turning her to see her tears. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he begged. “Please, don’t cry.”
“I’m so tired, Michael.”
He was breathing as hard as she was. “Maybe you—”
“I’m so tired of fighting it,” she sobbed and sagged against him. “My mind goes i-in circles and my insides churn and the only thing that makes any sense is that I love you.”
He was very still for a full second, then fiercely closed his arms about her. “You’ve never said the words before,” he breathed unevenly. “You’ve looked them and acted them, but you’ve never said them before.”
“I’ve thought them for such a long time and I’ve fought it because one part of me says that I shouldn’t, but I c-can’t help the way I feel! It’s draining, the war is, and it makes me weak.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his and whispered, “Make me whole, Michael. I need you so badly.”
He swallowed hard. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
She nodded slowly. “I’m tired of fighting ghosts that shouldn’t be there. I’m tired of letting something meaningless take away from me the one thing that has the most meaning in my life. I’m tired of feeling stifled, of feeling that there’s so much love inside that if I don’t do something with it I’m going to burst. I love you so much.”
Within Reach Page 22
