by Cindy Miles
“Do I have chili-cheese sauce on my nose? I feel that there is.” She tried licking it. “But I can’t reach it with my tongue.”
“You really are bizarre, Em,” he said, and with the pad of his thumb he wiped off the smudge of yellow—just like she’d done to him earlier. “I’m surprised you even let that much get away.”
“I know, right?” she replied. She smiled. “It was so good I didn’t want to waste a single drop! Thank you.” Turning her face upward, she sighed. “I love how the sun feels when it’s directly overhead and it’s bathing my whole face in warm sunshine.” She closed her eyes and rose up on her tiptoes, balancing herself with her arms up and out like wings on an airplane. She stayed that way several moments.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and noticed how well-shaped her calves were. How perfectly shaped her nose was. How shapely her jaw was. And how beautifully slender and defined her throat was.
“I’m getting as close to the sun as possible,” she answered. Then she lowered her arms and her face, and opened her eyes. “I used to do that, after my parents first died.” She turned toward the sea, draped her arms over the handrail and looked straight down into the choppy Atlantic. “I somehow thought it would help them hear me, you know?” She turned her head, and she kicked the weather-bleached wood from the pier with the toe of her shoes. “That, if I could get closer to them, they could see and hear me better. Maybe even answer back. And that with the sun spilling out all over my face that I’d stand out, among all the other people staring up into Heaven, and they could better pick me out of the crowd.” She quirked a brow at him. “Do you think it worked? Do you think they saw?”
It was at that moment, looking at peculiar, unconventional and outspoken Emily Quinn on the pier with her face tilted toward the sun, its light bathing her features in gold, that he knew no matter what he did, no matter how damn hard he tried, he was just like anyone else Emily encountered. Drawn by her light. Her sincerity. Unable to ignore her presence. Inevitable. Unavoidable. Compulsory. Obligatory.
Matt was, without a sincere doubt in his hard-as-a-rock, ex-marine jarhead, a true and absolute goner.
“I’ve no doubt that they did, Em,” he said against the ocean’s wind.
Emily must’ve heard him because her face broke into a smile, and she heaved a contented sigh.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER HAVING DINNER with Mr. Wimpy and his wife, Emily walked home the way she came, along the Hardens’ lane, up the road a ways and back down her own drive. Darkness had just settled, and as soon as she made it to the porch, she noticed a figure lumbering toward her from the marsh. Unmistakable and familiar, Emily’s heart sped up, and she waved as he grew closer.
“Hey, Matt,” she said brightly.
Bare to the waist, he pulled a T-shirt over his head. “Hey,” he replied. His raspy voice cut through the fast-fading light, and he eyed her feet. Silent, he lifted his gaze to hers, and she could tell it was questioning by the way his one brow quirked up.
“I like the way the crushed oyster shells feel between my bare toes,” she offered, and wiggled said toes into the shells. “All cool and a little sharp, but not too much.” She grinned. “Makes my feet feel all tingly. You should try it.”
His eyes were steady on hers. “Yeah,” he replied. “Maybe.”
“So you’re progressing on the dock?” Emily stared off toward the marsh. “I can’t wait to walk on it again.”
He nodded. “Most of the boards could use replacing, but there are some that are okay. It won’t take too long to finish.” He rubbed his hair with his hand. “The dock-house roof needs replacing. A few boards for the floor. And new screening for the whole thing.”
“Totally doable,” Emily said. “I’ll get it ordered tonight.” She inclined her head to the porch. “Wanna swing for a while?”
In the darkness, his usually emerald eyes seemed obscure as he studied her. She could tell he considered swinging with her. Yet she also sensed his hesitation. Why? she wondered. Still, she urged him despite all those sensations creeping up on her. She slid him a smile. “I like your eyes in the darkness. They’re the color of moss.” She frowned. “Not old moss, because that’s a gray color. I mean new moss.” She smiled. “Or sage. That’s it! A nice, mossy sage.” She cocked her head to the side and raised on her tiptoes, to get a closer look. She squinted in the darkness. “Actually, I think they’re unequivocally perfect.”
Matt’s perfect, mossy, sage-colored eyes glimmered a bit as a ghost of a smile tilted his stoic features. “God, girl,” he muttered. Still, he didn’t break his gaze, and the muscles at his jaws ticked. “You’re crazy.”
Emily lowered off her tiptoes and rubbed her chin with a forefinger. “Crazy is fun. Adventurous.” She grabbed his arm and tugged. “So don’t be a party pooper, Matt Malone.” As she tugged, he moved with her, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Swing with a loon. You might find it’s quite an enjoyable yet perplexing adventure.”
They climbed the porch steps to the veranda and sat on the swing, and Emily pushed off with her bare foot. The night air was humid and the scent of the salty marsh lay heavy around her. She inhaled as deeply as she could, with her eyes closed, and slowly exhaled.
When she opened her eyes, Matt’s weighty gaze watched her close.
“Why do you do that?” he asked.
“What?” She studied him. Waited.
“Say normal things in the most abnormal ways possible.” He shook his head. “And that thing you do, breathing in and out.”
Emily shrugged. “I like to say things in a memorable, unboring way, is all. I mean, if you’re going to take the time to talk you might as well do it in a noteworthy, extraordinary way, don’t you think? And the breathing?” She repeated the action, then turned a crooked smile on him. “I like the way the salty air tickles my nose.” She narrowed her gaze. “Why, does it bother you? Do you think it’s weird?”
Matt stared at her, unfaltering, unwavering, as though trying to pick apart a most complicated row of knotted-up knitting. Slowly, he returned the smile, and the beauty of it shocked her. Caught her off guard despite having the memory of that beautiful smile her entire life. “No, it doesn’t bother me. And yeah. I do think it’s weird.”
A laugh bubbled up in her throat. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She gave the swing another push, and as she looked down she noticed a wide, puckered, reddish scar at Matt’s tanned knee. With her finger, she grazed it, and saw that it disappeared up the leg of the swim shorts he’d been wearing while working on the dock. She looked up, and he was watching her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Fell through a mine shaft,” he answered.
Emily nodded. “What about all those marks on your back?”
His expression was nonchalant. “That happened after I was pulled out of the shaft.”
Emily was quiet for a moment. Fear squeezed inside of her. Did Reagan face the same thing? The thought of it sent terror through her. But she’d never been accused of holding her tongue. If something bothered her, she’d voice it. “You were taken prisoner and beaten, weren’t you?”
Matt didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded hollow, acerbic. “You could say that.”
Staring between her feet at the veranda floorboards as she and Matt swung back and forth, with the creak of the chain suspending them echoing through the darkness, she listened to the cicadas, the panicky cry of a marsh bird. She looked at her friend, and didn’t bother hiding the candor she felt. “Do you think my sister is in danger? Like, that kind of danger?”
Matt looked at her. “There will always be risk, Em. But you can’t worry yourself to death over it. Your sister made a choice to join the military. I’ve no doubt she’s good at her job.” He glanced away, then back. “She doesn’t do the same thing I did, Em. So stop worrying, okay?”
Slowly, she nodded and met his gaze. “Your scars? They’re the marks of a fierc
e warrior. Those scars mean you’re a leader. A person who makes sacrifices. A survivor.” She smiled and softly grazed his cheek with her knuckles. “And I’m so very glad that you are all of that, Matt Malone.”
His eyes were cautious, and they looked even darker now than before. “You don’t know me anymore, Em. I think you like to hold on to the past. To who and what I was. I’m different now.”
She sighed. “You keep saying that, but I do know you.” She noticed how the scar through his brow cut straight through the hair. “I know you’re not twelve. But the traits you had, even back then, of heroism, bravery? It’s all manifested now in your adult self. Still you, Matt Malone. And even though years have separated us, I still feel like I know you better than anyone. You are the same, inside. You always protected me from everybody, and look. Look who you became.” She stared out over the end of the veranda, where it looked like it dropped into a black pit of nothingness. “You became all of those things you were as a boy, only as a man. In a much larger capacity. You saved lives, Matt. You did things no mere everyday human being does.” Her gaze returned to his. “You’re every bit the fierce warrior merman you pretended to be as a kid.”
He shook his head, rose and took the steps off the veranda. Emily followed. “I’ve done things that would make you sick to your stomach.” He stared ahead now, his voice edgy. “The thing is, I’m not ashamed of it. Any of it. My job was to keep others around me alive, no matter the cost.” He looked back at her, his jaw muscles flinching. “Every mission was necessary. I can’t talk about them, but trust me, they were. So I did them. Without thought. Without hesitation. It was us—” he didn’t blink “—or them. Period. And I want you to know that, Em.”
Emily stared at Matt in the shadows of the night. In the heaviness of a sultry evening close to a salt marsh, the humid air hanging like a sopping wet blanket against her skin. She looked beyond him, into his eyes, and she again did not withhold her thoughts.
“I’ve always known it,” she finally said, and brushed his arm with her fingertips. “Always.” She offered him a smile. “And I want you to know that, Matt.”
Matt’s eyes dropped to where she’d just touched him; his chest rose with each breath. Then he looked at her, and they were close, and the night air and birds and river stilled around them. It was only Matt. Only her. His eyes darkened to shadows, and he leaned close.
Matt’s going to kiss me, and I want him to...
Matt closed his eyes and they crinkled in the corners, as though he struggled with some unknown demon, and his brows furrowed. With a deep breath, he slowly caught her gaze. “Yeah, I know it, Emily Quinn. Know it all too well.” He gave a wan smile then, and grazed her cheek with his knuckle. “You’re good at that, you know?”
Emily’s breath caught in her throat; she could barely draw in a decent breath. “At what?” she asked huskily.
He drew his hand back and shoved both hands into his pockets, as if to trap them there. “Making them believe when they thought hope was gone.”
In the moonlight, they both stared silently at each other until Matt glanced away and cleared his throat. “I’m gonna get outta here now,” he said with a shaky laugh.
“Okay,” she replied, just as shakily.
“I’ll see ya tomorrow?”
“You can count on it,” Emily answered. She didn’t really want him to go. Didn’t know what was happening between them. And for the first time, she kept her thoughts to herself and let him walk away into the darkness. “Night, Matt.”
“Night, Em.”
Emily sat there, baffled, breathless and dizzy with...she didn’t know what with. Sat there in the shadowy husk of nightfall, until Matt’s footsteps faded away, and she was left sitting on the veranda amidst the canopy of Morgan’s Creek.
Alone, once again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MATT LAY IN the shadows of the room he’d grown up in, on his old bed from high school days. A single shaft of light pierced the darkness and inched toward him across the blue, black and red plaid quilt that his grandmother had made over seventy-five years ago.
Jesus. Emily Quinn had gotten to him.
When she spoke, the words came straight from the pit of her heart. Anyone with the least lick of sense could see that. She understood him, the pain from his past, despite how little he’d told her. She hadn’t intruded, hadn’t dug deeper. She’d simply...accepted.
Who did that? Who ever accepted a person at face value, without question? Without judgment? He could count less than a handful—all of them his comrades.
Digging his finger and thumb into his eyes, he rubbed there, sighed and then grasped the back of his neck and continued to stare into muted darkness.
He’d almost kissed her. He’d wanted to, badly. It’d taken every bit of strength not to slip his hand around the curve of her neck, pull her mouth to his and just...taste. See what it would feel like to have Emily’s body pressed against his...
“Jesus Christ, Malone,” he muttered to himself, and flipped onto his side.
Home less than a month. And after fifteen years of carrying on without her, he couldn’t get Emily off his damn mind. Shitty timing, to his way of thinking. She was nursing a broken heart, was back home trying to start over. She still thought of him as her old best friend. Trusted him. And what’d he do in return? Fantasize about kissing her. Touching her.
Then possibly leaving her behind?
Had he imagined that spark between them? He didn’t think so. There’d been a current between them. He’d felt it; he knew Em had, too. The way her eyes softened when she looked at him, the way the tiny laugh lines around her mouth eased and her lips parted... No, he hadn’t imagined it.
Something stood between them. Something other than a long-ago friendship Matt didn’t want ruined. Something more than his indecisiveness with the direction of his life, or the lack of wanting to drag anyone—especially Emily—down in his search for it. More, even, than his knowing that he may very well be gone once summer was over.
He just didn’t know what it was.
He may never know...until it happened.
* * *
EMILY AWOKE THE next morning refreshed, crammed with excitement.
Her thoughts slipped right back to the last thoughts she’d had before falling asleep.
Of Matt Malone.
After Matt’s semiconfession about just how bad things had been while on his tours of duty, something had flared between them. She’d felt it; seen it in Matt’s eyes. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d thought he might kiss her.
And she’d wanted him to. Badly.
Funny how, even though they’d been chatting, and it was long into the night and the bugs had grown dense and she’d stifled more than one yawn, she hadn’t wanted him to leave. She liked his company. And when he opened up a bit, she truly enjoyed his conversation.
Although his iron-clad wall had chunks missing, it was still there. She was going to knock that sucker down, come hell or high water. As her dad used to say.
The Festival of Kites had finally arrived, and while she’d never attended one, she’d been told by Mr. Wimpy and his gang, and by Hendrik as well, that it was not an event she’d want to miss.
The kites were a given—a spectacularly wonderful display of color, artistic design and stealthy in-flight maneuvering—but the food served by the many establishments was described to her as being out of this world. Everything from Hendrik’s famous hot dogs to fried grouper bites and funnel cakes. Not quite as grand, Jep said, as the Shrimp Festival, but pretty darn good.
Not to mention that the entire community of Cassabaw turned out for it, just like back in the days before satellite TV, and the internet. It was nice. Quaint. And the thought of it excited Emily.
Almost as much as the thought of attending it with Matt.
Well, almost attending it with Matt.
Planning on putting in a few hours at the café, Emily donned her work clothes and started drilling holes
for the LED lights in the glass insulators.
Matt had made it there before she had, and had begun installing the long stainless-steel counter near the back. Every once in a while Emily would glance over; each time she did, Matt was busy at work, his dark head bent down. His mind on his job. What had she been hoping for? A casual glance to find him staring at her?
Well, heck, yeah. That’s exactly what she’d hoped for after that near-kiss the night before.
But it didn’t happen.
As a matter of fact, by the time Emily had wrapped up her hole-drilling for the day, Matt had disappeared.
Mr. Wimpy and his fellas had come by, though—mostly just to make sure she remembered to attend the festival. She’d sat outside with the men and had coffee while they chatted about the latest roster moves the Atlanta Braves had made and talked about buddies from the old days. Friends with crazy nicknames, like Shorty B and Sparky James and Iron Ray and Juke the Luke. They’d all left early to get ready and gather their womenfolk, although Ted had asked if he could escort Emily, as well. Mr. Wimpy had thumped him on the back of the head and told him to leave Matt’s girl alone.
They’d all razzed her a little. In good fun, she supposed.
It still made her wonder what it would be like to be Matt’s girl. The thought made her insides flip a little. Made her smile without thinking about it.
Just before two o’clock Emily finished up her work at the café and hopped in her Jeep to hurry home for a quick shower and change of clothes before the kites took to the air. She’d already promised Ted a dance at the pier.
That she could hardly wait for.
Cassabaw had transformed since she’d been at the café working. A huge banner that read Welcome to the Cassabaw Festival of Kites spread directly across the island’s main road as it crossed over the marsh. Each lamppost along the road had an old-fashioned box kite with streamers of red, blue, yellow and green tied to the top that flapped in the wind. Tourists walked the sidewalk to the beachfront boardwalk. The sun bathed everything in gold, and exhilaration pulsed through the air. Emily could feel it.
