Home Fires

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I’m not that stupid, Bob,” she snapped, “even if I have been misled all these years!” She lowered her head and took a deep breath. “That’s quite a list. Irma. Doctors Renswicke and Wolson. The hotel clerks.” When she trembled this time it was in pure anger. It took every ounce of her strength to keep her fury in check. Her gaze, though, held a venom Bob couldn’t possibly have escaped. “From what I can see, Bob, you’ve used my own people against me. Perhaps you forget that the Hunt Foundation is mine, that Larry left it to me. You may be its executive director but you don’t, you can’t, direct my life. After all the years in which I’ve given the foundation my loyalty you have no right to even suggest that I’ve shirked my responsibility.” She’d never lashed out so strongly at anyone and she found the power heady. “I’ve been perfectly satisfied with the job you’ve done as executive director, but so help me, if you ever, ever again try to interfere with my personal life, I’ll have you looking for a position before you can think to resign.”

  She was nearly breathless, but barely paused when she caught Mark’s satisfied grin. “And as for you.” She turned to him and his grin vanished. “I’ll have you know that this is my baby in my body.” Her voice rose despite her efforts to contain it Where Mark was concerned her heart was deeply involved. “I have the means to raise it in comfort all by myself and that may well be what I do!” Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t care. “All I know is that I don’t regret a thing!”

  “Deanna—” Mark began, only to be interrupted.

  “You’ve taught me that I’m a very special person, a woman, an individual who can think and function.”

  “Deanna—”

  “I’m not done, Mark!” she sobbed angrily, her cheeks wet “And you can both hear this. I won’t have anyone telling me what to do again. I have a mind. From now on, I’m making my own decisions.” She jabbed a finger at Bob. “You won’t tell me that I should tailor my love life to the needs of the foundation any more than you”—the finger turned toward Mark—“will tell me I’m going to marry you. I make the decisions for me and I think I’ve got enough common sense to make the right ones. She straightened and inhaled raggedly.”Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I feel sick!”

  “Deanna … !” Mark tried again but she was already half way down the hall, headed for her bedroom. Her exit had been unbelievably regal and he didn’t know whether to be proud or frustrated.

  As for Deanna, she collapsed on the bed in a state of numbed exhaustion. The events of the morning blended together into a hazy cloud hovering over her head. Lying on her side with her knees tucked up, she buried her face against the pillow and waited for something, anything, to penetrate the mist.

  “I love you, Deanna.” She heard his words, felt the bed give beneath his weight, but still wasn’t sure that she hadn’t dreamed it. “I do love you. Didn’t I tell you that once?”

  “In your sleep,” she whispered without opening her eyes.

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I knew exactly what I was saying. But I thought I’d be rushing you … and then there’s this life you have where you don’t need a thing …”

  She opened her eyes then and raised them to his. In that moment she saw the same vulnerability she’d seen so often and all her anger vanished. “I need you,” she murmured and her arms went around him as he lifted her. “And I like to think that you need me just as much as our baby will, come next spring. For the first time in my life I feel … complete. I love you.” She knew it for a fact despite the tears that blurred her vision. The beauty of the moment’s confession was no dream.

  “Ahhhhh, Deanna.” He shuddered and held her closer. “Are you sure? You’re not just wanting to feel that way because of the baby?”

  Her hand joined his against her abdomen. “I’ve loved you for days, Mark—long before I found out about the baby.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve waited and waited … I’d told you and I needed some encouragement …”

  Deanna was touched by the depth of his fear, enough to confess her own. “I was frightened that you’d demand a commitment I didn’t feel at the time I could live up to.”

  “But surely you must have guessed you were pregnant …”

  “No!” She pulled back to face him, recalling the shock she’d suffered earlier. “I knew there was a problem when I was late … and then so sick. But I assumed there was another cause. You heard what I told Bob.” Her voice trembled. “I honestly thought I was incapable of having children. And it was one of the reasons I fought against a future with you. It was bad enough that I was a novice of a cook and a housekeeper, but you wanted, you deserved, a family … and I thought I couldn’t give you one.”

  Mark smiled gently. “But you know better now.”

  “I do,” she whispered, mirroring his smile before snuggling against him once more. “Mmmmmm, I love you so much … .”

  “You’d better,” he rasped, his lips warm against her forehead. “Because I’m going to ask you to marry me and if you accept my proposal it will mean changing this life of yours a tittle.”

  Deanna tipped her head back again. “You don’t have to marry me because of the baby, Mark. If that’s the reason, it would never work.”

  “I love you. That’s the reason I want to marry you. I’ve wanted to ask you for days now, but I thought you weren’t ready. The baby might have been my excuse for pressuring you if all else failed, but I wanted it to be your decision, freely made.” He grinned. “And after that outburst in the other room, I do think you’d have the baby all by yourself if you so decided.”

  “I would. See what a taste of real life has done to me?”

  “I love it,” he quipped, then kissed her soundly. “But you will marry me, won’t you?”

  That old vulnerability was back and it did melting things to her. “Yes.”

  “For the baby’s sake?”

  “For my sake. I have this absurd need to protect you from the world.”

  “When?”

  “When will I protect you?” she teased with an aura of innocence.

  “When will you marry me?” he growled, administering a playfully gruff squeeze.

  Smiling, Deanna rested her head against his chest “I’ll leave that decision up to you.”

  “Hey … I thought you wanted to be the decision maker.”

  “Not the decision maker. A decision maker. Right now I’m tired enough to welcome any help I can get”

  “Deanna?” His breath fanned her hair.

  “Mmmmmm?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this? For a while there you were so worried about the foundation and your role in it.”

  “That was before, thanks to you, I discovered me. I think I used the foundation as an excuse, something to hide behind. I’d begun to realize something was missing in my life—”

  “That’s not what you told me!”

  “You bet your sexy briefs it wasn’t! You frightened me—or rather, it was the strength of my feelings for you that frightened me. And those terrible feelings of inadequacy. I was so sure I didn’t have the wherewithal to make you happy.”

  His arms tightened convulsively around her. “Oh, Deanna, I love you,” he moaned with such depth of feeling that she had to believe him. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted in a woman.”

  “And you really canceled your appointments today on my account?”

  “Sure did. But you sound surprised. Isn’t that what you did for me when I abducted you for a weekend in the mountains?”

  “Hmmmmm.” She chuckled. “Different kinds of appointments … but I suppose you’ve got a point” She burrowed closer against the firmness of his chest “That was a wonderful weekend.”

  “Want to go back?”

  She sat up. “Say when.”

  “When.” He grinned rakishly.

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’d say you could use a good weekend’s rest what with all this unplanned excitement” He darted a glance at his watch. �
��We could leave right after lunch, if you can be ready by then.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “I thought you felt sick.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Speedy recovery?”

  “The best medicine in the world.”

  “I love you,” he whispered, his eyes filled with adoration.

  “That’s it!” She laughed, and opened her heart for another dose.

  Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky’s upcoming book

  SWEET SALT AIR

  In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin’s Press

  Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

  But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

  When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

  She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

  There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt-and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

  The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

  The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

  Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

  But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

  Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

  Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

  Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

  Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

  Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

  Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

  But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

  “You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

  His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. "What does it look like?”

  “Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. "Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

  He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

  He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

  Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

  Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

  Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.

  Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

  Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

  “Want some help?” she called up.

  He snorted.

  “Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

  “Two hands’ll do.”

  Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

  “I’ve done this before,” she said now.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have. I’ve built houses.”

  “That so.” He didn’t believe her.

  “Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”

  He continued to stare.

&nb
sp; “All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”

  “Really. I didn’t know that.”

  “Okay,” she granted. "So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.

  “I’m a man.”

  She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, "What does that have to do with it?”

  “Men run hot.”

  “Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”

  Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, "Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.

  “I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.

  “No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”

  “Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.

  So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.

  But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.

  She didn’t like being toyed with – and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.