Anne Stuart - Star Light, Star Bright

by Star Light, Star Bright

  “Not in particular,” he said. “Should I?”

  He seemed so innocent that she had to believe him. “No,” she said. “It was just the last time we saw each other before this winter. Jeffrey had left early for college and we danced. I think it was the only time.”

  “Did we?” He shook his head. “Sorry. Did anything interesting happen?”

  “No,” she said. “We danced, you were drunk, you made a pass and I fended you off. I just wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings.” It was sort of the truth. If one had a very broad definition where truth was concerned.

  “Really? Funny that I wouldn’t remember. What did we dance to?”

  “I have no idea. It was some old-fogey dance band the club had hired, and I don’t think they played anything written before nineteen-fifty. It must have been some old standard.”

  “I suppose so. You still haven’t told me why you’re asking.”

  She gave herself a tiny shake. “Just curious, I guess.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, sounding doubtful. “Lock the door behind me, Angel.”

  “Why? We’re perfectly safe out here.”

  “Do it for my peace of mind.”

  “All right.” She followed him to the door, holding it as he stepped out into the wintery night. He went down the front steps, then stopped.

  “Lock the door,” he said again.

  “Yes, sir.” She started to close it.

  “And Angel…”

  “Yes?”

  “It was ‘Night and Day.’”

  He was gone before she could say another word.

  SHE STILL DIDN’T know how she’d happened to find herself in his arms. She’d gotten along with almost everyone, but there’d always been tension between Jeffrey and Brody. For the first time in years she was there alone—Jeffrey had left early for college. She’d known Brody for most of her life, been to dozens of the same parties, yet she couldn’t recall ever dancing with him. And suddenly she was in his arms.

  “I’m very drunk,” he’d told her with great deliberateness as they moved through the music.

  “Maybe we should sit this out.”

  He shook his head. “This is my only chance. While the cat’s away the mice will play.”

  She didn’t bother arguing with him. He might be very drunk, but he could still manage to keep upright on the dance floor, holding her against him, not too tight, not too loose. “I hope you’re not planning to drive home,” she said severely.

  “I’m hoping you’ll take me home with you.”

  “You really are drunk, aren’t you, Brody?”

  “Very,” he said. He’d managed to steer her over toward the French doors.

  “Maybe you should get some fresh air,” she suggested. He had a strong body, warm, lean, and he was taller than Jeffrey. And there was nothing wrong with a harmless little crush—everyone in Crescent Cove went through one sooner or later. It didn’t mean that she didn’t consider Jeffrey her soul mate and her future. It just meant she was human, and Brody Jackson had the most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen. And always had.

  “Good idea,” he said, steering her out onto the deck that hung out over the lake. They were alone out there—the night was cool, and a light mist was falling, and if anything would sober him up that would. But he didn’t let go of her, and she didn’t try to move away. He pulled her a little closer, so that she fit perfectly against his body, and she felt a huge knot of tension begin to dissolve in a pool of heat that the cool mist had no effect on.

  Her face was tucked against his shoulder, her arms were around his waist and they were barely moving. She was suddenly, unaccountably happy. “You’re not really going to marry that pig’s butt, are you?” he whispered in her ear.

  “Marry who?” she asked, moving her head to look up at him, smiling.

  Big mistake. He kissed her then. He had to be drunk to kiss her like that, but she’d already known that he was, and she’d been playing with fire, coming out there with him. It was a shock of a kiss—openmouthed, hungry, and the biggest shock of all was that she kissed him back. And kept kissing him, as he pushed her into a dark corner where no one could see them. His hands touched her, his mouth promised her, and all she wanted to do was shut out the voices and the guilt and lose herself in Brody Jackson.

  But they weren’t inner voices; they were real ones, moving closer, and reality came rushing back. She pushed away from him, stumbling in her high heels, and she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. She’d run, down the steps to the street, and kept going until she reached her car.

  It had taken her ten minutes to stop shaking. Fifteen minutes to pull herself together and start the car. Twenty minutes to realize he wasn’t chasing after her.

  “You okay?” It was Patsy’s boyfriend, Ethan, peering into the car with a worried expression on his face. “Patsy sent me to check on you.”

  “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “I’m just going home. I’m driving to Chicago tomorrow and I need to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “He was drunk, Angie. He didn’t know what he was doing. I doubt he even realized it was you, and he sure as hell isn’t going to remember anything tomorrow. Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”

  It had been too much to hope that no one had noticed. At least Ethan was trustworthy. “Of course not. I was just…surprised. Where is he now?”

  “Passed out. I’m taking him back home and dumping him there, let him sleep it off. As long as I’m certain you’re okay.”

  “Fine. I’m sure he had no idea what he was doing.”

  “None at all. You positive you don’t want me to drive you home? He’ll be out for hours.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine, Ethan. Thank you.” And she drove off before he could see the tears on her face.

  “IS SHE OKAY?” Brody had been waiting, just out of sight.

  Ethan looked at him severely. “All you did was kiss her, right? It’s not likely to destroy her life. Just how did you manage to get that drunk that fast? If Jeff had been here you wouldn’t have gotten within ten feet of her.”

  “Exactly,” Brody said, turning his face up to the cooling mist. “What did she say?”

  “She’s leaving first thing in the morning. With any luck she’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “Most likely,” he said in an even voice. “Thanks, Ethan.”

  “Just how much have you been drinking?”

  Brody gave him a calm, clear-eyed smile. “I’m just about to start.”

  ANGIE PUSHED the door shut and locked it in a daze. Everything she had believed to be true had just shifted, and she was on very shaky ground. He remembered. He knew. Those hurried, hungry kisses in the rain weren’t some forgotten fantasy, fueled by drunkenness on his part and sheer insanity on hers. He remembered, he knew, just as she did.

  She still wasn’t quite sure what that meant. For him, or for her.

  It was after eleven. The living room was lit only with the glow from the angel candle and the lights from the Christmas tree, and it was much too late to call anyone. Except that it was three hours earlier in L.A., and even if it had been three hours later she would have still made the phone call.

  Jeffrey sounded the same—slightly self-important, oozing charm. How she ever could have believed in him so completely was still a source of embarrassment, but she’d had two years to come to her senses, and regret was a waste of time.

  “What went on between you and Brody Jackson?” she said abruptly.

  “And Merry Christmas to you, too, darling,” Jeff said. “How lovely to hear your voice.”

  Angie sighed. Jeffrey would answer her questions in his own time, and the sooner she got through the formalities the sooner he’d be willing to talk. “Lovely to hear your voice, too. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, how’s Margaret, how’s the baby, how’s work, what went on between you and Brody Jackson?”

  “Still my impetuous Angie. I thought age would have cured you of that,”
he chided. “Why are you asking me about that now? Brody Jackson has been out of our lives for years. He just missed being in jail by the skin of his teeth, and with luck he’ll follow his brothers into exile and no one in Crescent Cove will ever have to see him again.”

  “He may be out of your life, but he’s not out of mine,” Angie said. “He’s moved back up here, and I want you to tell me why the two of you never got along.”

  Jeffrey’s lazy chuckle would have fooled anyone who hadn’t been married to him. “Has he been putting the moves on you? Poor Brody—I would have thought he’d let go of that old rivalry. I’ve certainly moved past it.”

  “What rivalry? I know you two hated each other, but I never understood why.”

  “Jealousy,” Jeff said. “He wanted what he couldn’t have. It had nothing to do with you—he just wanted to score points off me.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. All I can say is he did his best to beat me at everything—tennis, sailing, golf. The one thing he couldn’t beat me at was you, and it drove him crazy.”

  “Jeff, he wasn’t out to beat you. He was just naturally good at all those things. Ridiculously so—he beat everyone. I don’t think it was anything personal.”

  “Trust me, it was personal. You just happened to get in the way. Don’t let him get near you, Angie. He probably thinks you’re fair game since our divorce, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try to score just for old times’ sake, but he’d just be using you.”

  “My mother liked him.”

  There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the phone. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “My mother didn’t like you.”

  “And I blame her for the problems in our marriage,” he said in a self-righteous voice.

  “You blame my mother for you having a series of affairs? Somehow the connection escapes me.”

  “You’re hurt and bitter. I understand, Angie, and I wish I could change the way things worked out.”

  “I’m not hurt and I’m not bitter, Jeffrey,” she said patiently. “I just want to know what—”

  “You were the one thing he couldn’t beat me at, Angie. It’s that simple. If you have any sense at all you’ll keep away from him.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been known for my good sense, Jeffrey,” she said softly. And she hung up the phone.

  Chapter Four

  Fourth Week of Advent

  Brody kept his distance, but it didn’t do Angela much good. The beautiful tree in the middle of her living room was inexplicably entwined with the presence of Brody Jackson. Her first instinct, after that troubling phone call with Jeffrey, was to march straight over to Brody’s house and demand an explanation.

  But it was dark, cold and snowing. And she wasn’t sure she could handle an explanation right then.

  It was really very simple, she decided. Some kind of midlife crisis as she was approaching thirty. She’d had a crush on Brody, one she’d never been able to admit to or even fantasize about, and it had stayed buried deep inside her. And without the restraining influence of Jeffrey, without anything to do on the long, lonely nights, it was flowering like a crocus after an endless winter. And she couldn’t quite bring herself to squash it down again.

  It hadn’t been the only time he’d kissed her, of course. If it had been, it probably wouldn’t have seemed so earthshaking. But that night on the deck of the Crescent Cove Harbor Club had simply been the culmination of something that had started five years earlier.

  The Jacksons were newcomers to Crescent Cove, part of the new breed of summer people. The town was evolving—it had been a farming town for more than a hundred years before the first Princeton professor and his family arrived on the shores of Lake Champlain.

  But taxes were rising, professors could no longer afford to take the entire summer off and wives worked, as well, and slowly but surely the big old cedar-shingled cottages along the lake were being sold in rapidly escalating bidding wars.

  No one was particularly thrilled to see an industrialist like Walker Jackson move in, but he and his wife had been friendly and unpretentious, and their three young sons had blended in quite nicely. And fourteen-year-old Angela had been admittedly fascinated by her new neighbors, in particular the youngest son.

  He’d been beautiful even back then—hair bleached by the sun, a tanned body, a dazzling smile. But that first summer he’d been lonely, spending his time out on the lake on his laser sailboat. When he wasn’t spending time with Angela.

  There’d been nothing romantic about it at all. She was fourteen; he was a year older. Jeffrey’s family was in Europe for that summer, and for the first time Angela was at loose ends, free to do exactly as she chose. And then there was Brody. She’d read enough books, seen enough movies to feel the first forbidden burgeoning of romantic longing, but she wasn’t ready to do anything about it. Jeffrey would be back, and Brody was nothing more than an increasingly close friend. They could talk about anything and everything—Brody’s bullying older brothers and Angela’s life as an only child. The stupidity of their relatively decent parents, how they wanted to live in Crescent Cove year-round as soon as they were old enough to do so.

  The Founder’s Day dance at the end of the summer had been a disaster. It should have warned her to avoid all such occasions in the future. It was the first dance she’d been to apart from the Wednesday-evening square dances, but the boys she’d known all her life weren’t ready to cross the dance floor and actually ask a girl to dance. The best that could be hoped for was a sullen stride through the crowd, a silent appearance in front of the chosen victim and then off to dance with suitable grimness.

  Brody didn’t even go that far. He stayed in the corner with a group of boys, not even looking at her. It would have been miserable, except that most of her friends were lined up like ducks in a row, with no one wanting to pick them off.

  By the time they announced the last song she was ready to cry, but she’d been experimenting with makeup and she thought it would run. So she lifted her head high as the kitschy sound of an Air Supply song filled the room, and then she rose and crossed the endless dance floor to stand in front of Brody.

  He’d seen her coming, and he’d tried to ignore her. But they’d been best friends, and she wanted her first dance, the last dance of the summer, to be with him. She plastered a hopeful smile on her face. “Would you dance with me, Brody?”

  She’d forced him to look at her. He was surrounded by his peers, all watching, waiting to see what he would do. She should have known it was a matter of teenage male pride and expected nothing less, but when he shook his head and turned back to his friends it crushed her.

  She’d walked away, that same, endless walk, with remarkable dignity for a girl just turned fourteen. She’d walked out of the room, out of the building, and the two miles home on the moonlit path along the lake, wiping the tears and the makeup away from her face.

  Her house was dark when she got there—her parents had gone to bed early. The Jackson house was still a blaze of lights, and she’d moved liked a shadow along the path. By that time tears and makeup and shoes were gone, and she wanted nothing more than to go curl up in bed.

  She moved up her wide front steps quietly, reaching for the screen door, when she saw him in the darkness. He was there on the green wicker sofa where they’d spent hours talking, laughing, doing crossword puzzles or just sitting in a comfortable silence. There was nothing comfortable about the silence now.

  He’d taken off his tie and jacket, and he looked as miserable as she felt. Her first instinct was to ignore him, go straight into the house and slam the door behind her. Her second was to demand what he was doing there.

  She did neither. She went over to the creaky old sofa and sat down, curling up in her corner, wrapping her arms around her knees as she waited for him to say something.

  He didn’t say a word.

  It was her first kiss, and it was a powerhouse. In itself it wasn�
��t astonishing—just the soft pressure of his lips against hers. And then on her tearstained eyelids, and on her cheek, and on her lips again. He’d been good even back then, a natural, and it was no wonder she’d been ready to put her arms around him. But then the porch light went on, and he drew back as if bitten.

  Her father stood there, rumpled hair, clueless. “Don’t you think you ought to come to bed now, Angie? We’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”

  “I can sleep in the car.” She didn’t want to leave Brody. She wanted more kisses from his beautiful mouth.

  “I should go,” Brody said, starting to stand up. He had his jacket with him, and he held it in front of him. “Good night, Professor McKenna. Have a good winter. Goodbye, Angel.”

  It had been the first time he’d called her that. And then he’d gone, taking the front steps two at a time, disappearing into the moonlit night.

  By next summer Jeffrey had returned, Brody had discovered he was irresistible to almost the entire female population of Crescent Cove and those chaste, almost dreamlike kisses had been forgotten. By Brody, at least.

  But every time Angie sat on the green wicker sofa she remembered. And she spent a very large part of her summers curled up there with a book, trying not to think about anyone at all.

  Oddly enough, she’d never kissed Jeffrey on the sofa. They’d necked on the steps, on the dock, in the boathouse, at the Harbor Club and just about everywhere else during their endless teenage years, but for some reason she’d never let him kiss her on the green wicker couch.

  She never did find out what happened to the furniture after her parents sold the house and the Jacksons had it bulldozed. Probably gave it to Goodwill—most summer cottages were furnished with shabby hand-me-downs and secondhand furniture to begin with, and there’d been nothing of any particular grace or beauty. And she wouldn’t have wanted the couch, really. She couldn’t imagine it on Jeffrey’s mother’s freshly painted porch; the woman probably would have insisted on painting it a baby-blue if she’d allowed it there at all. Angie decided she would rather have it gone, over with, part of her long-lost childhood.