by Donna Fasano
That’s how Cathy felt about her friendship with Heather. It was steadfast. Permanent. The love they shared would certainly outlast this silly anger that had taken hold of Heather.
Gripping her clutch, she walked toward her friend with purpose.
Daniel saw her before Heather did.
“Cathy!” He smiled, his tone filled with pleasant surprise. “How are you? It’s been ages.”
He kissed her on the cheek, and Cathy returned his smile as she said, “It’s been way too long, hasn’t it?”
“You look great,” he told her. “You’re in the auction, too?”
She nodded. “Couldn’t really get out of it. But it’s for a great cause, so…”
“I have strict orders to bid fast and bid high.” Daniel laughed.
“Heather always was the lucky one.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Cathy realized her mistake. Usually she, Sara, and Heather snarked at each other constantly; taunting one another was just their way. It meant nothing, and was always followed up with a barb from the one who’d been taunted. But with the situation between her and Heather the way it was, her remark sounded nothing but rude.
Heather’s eyes narrowed.
“Sorry,” Cathy murmured.
The apology trailed off into awkward silence. Cathy wanted to kick herself for the bad move.
“I love your dress,” she tried, but she knew the compliment was useless now. Then she said, “Brad told me Oliver and Amelia are here.”
“Great.” Daniel slipped his hands into his pockets. “I wonder how Ethan is doing. Do you know?”
“I don’t. But he’s here with his parents. Somewhere.” Cathy gazed out over the crowd. “I’m sure we’ll get an update on his condition at some point tonight. Brad said Oliver asked to say a few words.”
Finally, Cathy could stand it no longer. The question singeing her insides burned its way to the surface. She tipped up her chin and met Heather’s gaze.
“So… am I invited?”
Obvious confusion seemed to take Heather off-guard. “Invited?”
“To the baby party,” Cathy said.
Heather’s jaw dropped a fraction of an inch and her lips parted. Then she murmured, “Mia.”
Cathy nodded. “She told me when she came down for pancakes. Do you need me to do anything? Help you to—”
“No.”
The short, curt answer didn’t deter Cathy. Softly, she said, “Sara’s as big as a beach ball. You’re leaving it a little late, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been busy,” Heather said. “And if I wanted your opinion, I’d have asked.” Then she gave a little gasp and looked at Daniel. “Mia’s with Sara now. Do you think she’ll tell her about the shower?”
Daniel’s brows drew together.
“Heather, don’t be upset with Mia.” Cathy tucked her clutch under her arm. “It’s not like she meant to squeal. In fact, she didn’t seem to realize that—”
“What?” Heather snapped out. “That she was revealing a secret?”
Cathy felt like she’d been elbowed in the diaphragm.
Anger tightened Heather’s features. “Stop texting me. You’re not funny. You’re annoying.” She touched Daniel on the arm and told him, “I’m going to the ladies room.” And she walked away.
As soon as Heather was out of earshot, Cathy turned to Daniel. “When the hell is she going to forgive me?”
He looked contrite. “I keep trying. I swear. It’ll happen. She just needs more time.”
“But it’s been a long time, Daniel.”
Brad’s voice blared over the speaker system with a boisterous welcome that had the crowd cheering. Then he invited the Ferguson family to the stage.
People applauded and shouted encouragement.
Cathy and Daniel moved to a spot where they could view the young couple and their son.
Oliver, a tall, gangly man, took the mic from Brad.
“Hey, ever-body,” he said once the din subsided. “’Melia and I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for helping us. We’d like to thank the Ocean City Beach Patrol. And the Town of Ocean City. The Council Members. Me and ’Melia both know that we’d have gone bankrupt if it hadn’t been for your help over the years. Ethan here—” Oliver reached out and tapped his son on the shoulder. “He woulda had to do without that special wheelchair and the walker, if it hadn’t been for all the donations that we’ve received.”
Amelia Ferguson leaned toward her husband and said, “There aren’t words to express how grateful we are.” Tears of gratitude welled in her big green eyes and trailed, unheeded, down her cheeks.
Seeing his mother upset, Ethan buried his face in her skirt and wrapped his arms around her knees. The mic picked up his faint words. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’m okay.”
The boy was pasty and frail-looking, and he was small for his age. He’d been through hell and back; the long, lopsided scar marring his bald head proved it. The young mother smiled as she bent and clasped her child to her; her tears continued to stream and her chin quivered.
A knot rose in Cathy’s throat and emotion turned her gaze fuzzy. The local residents had rallied around this little boy, this whole family, ever since he’d first been diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. At the beginning, no one expected him to live to see his next birthday, but Ethan continued to show his fighting spirit.
The boy pulled away from his mom, reached up to curl his fingers into the pocket of his dad’s trousers, and he gave a yank. Oliver leaned down on one knee to hug his son.
“Can I tell ’em?” Ethan asked.
Oliver nodded and leaned the microphone toward Ethan’s chin. The boy turned to face the audience.
“I love my wheelchair!” He shouted the words so loudly, his father flinched.
Cathy chuckled around the lump lodged around her larynx. The chattering in the audience drew her gaze, and she marveled at how many people seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time.
“I don’t have to use it very often anymore,” Ethan said. “But when I do, all I have to do is push that little lever thing and I can go fast. I can back up, too. And turn in circles.”
The audience applauded, and several people in the room called out the boy’s name. Ethan waved to them. When he took the mic from his dad, some people began shushing others until the room settled.
“I know Daddy has ’surance, from his job, that pays some of my doctors.”
Oliver’s eyes went wide at his son’s words, and he started to reach for the mic.
“No, Daddy,” Ethan said. “I want to talk.” Then he looked out toward the audience and admitted, “I don’t really know what ’surance is, exactly, but I’ve heard Mommy and Daddy say a gazillion times they’re glad they have it.”
He shifted his weight to one foot and stuffed his hand into the pocket of his shorts. Cathy grinned because he looked so comfortable addressing the crowd.
“I’m not ’posed to know about our money problems,” Ethan said. “But I’ve overheard things. Once when I got up for a drink of water, I walked into the living room when Daddy told Mommy that, even with ’surance, we have more bills than we have money. And I know all you people are here tonight to help us, so I want to say thank you.” He took his hand out of his pocket and placed it on his father’s knee. “We want to say thank you, right, Dad? Very, very much.”
Oliver smiled at his son and quietly prodded, “You have something else to tell them, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah.” Ethan grinned. “I almost forgot. I have good news. I’m in rendition!” His grin widened for an instant, but when no one reacted, he looked confused. He tried again. “Um, I’m in rescission?” He looked to his father for help.
“Rescission will work,” Oliver said, chuckling, and he took the mic. “We are rescinding the power of cancer. Son, you’re in remission.”
“Remission!” Ethan lifted a triumphant fist into the air.
The crowd exploded, everyone jumped to their feet, c
lapping and whistling and chanting Ethan’s name. The little boy beamed as bright as a lighthouse bulb.
Cathy clapped her hands together so hard, her palms stung.
Brad approached center stage, carrying a tall, round package. Oliver handed over the microphone.
“Ethan, the Kite Loft donated this for you,” Brad told him. “And I want to see you out on the beach flying this baby just as soon as you’re feeling up to it.”
The kite was twice as tall as the boy, and he grabbed it with both hands. “Whoa! Mommy, do you see this?”
“I do,” she said. “It’s amazing. What do you say, Ethan?”
He turned his awe-filled eyes onto Brad. “Thanks!”
“It’s a phoenix,” Brad told him. “Do you know what that is?”
“No. But it’s big. And it’s cool, too.”
Brad laughed. “A phoenix is a mythological bird that… well, it keeps rising up… flying high in the sky.” Addressing the crowd, he asked, “Don’t you think that’s a perfect symbol for Ethan?”
Again the crowd went wild. Pure elation filled Cathy to the brim. She touched her thumb and middle finger together, placed them in her mouth, and let out a loud, piercing, unladylike whistle… a talent Brad had taught her years ago during a high school football game. If Sara and Heather had been standing here with her, they might have disapproved; Cathy wouldn’t have cared. She was that happy.
Oliver picked up his son, and Amelia carried the new kite. The Ferguson’s waved to the crowd as they filed off stage and down the steps.
“Bye, Ethan,” Brad said. “Everyone, let’s give Ethan a big send off.”
People shouted and continued to applaud.
Then Brad said, “Now let’s get this auction started!”
Chapter Seven
The deadbolt tendered a dull thud when Cathy turned the front door key. She pushed open the door and stepped into her living room.
The house might have been tiny, but it was her treasure. The square box structure with its tall, A-frame roof contained a living room, eat-in kitchen, bathroom, and a single bedroom downstairs, and an open loft area upstairs. During her teen years, she’d slept in the loft. The slanted ceiling. No door. The hip-high railing running the full length of one side. So many times she’d lamented the lack of privacy.
But she’d never complained.
Her grandmother had taken her in, provided a safe, warm place for her to sleep every night, rescued her from the chaotic life she’d lived for the first seven years of her life with her mother.
The house was small, but it was home.
She set down her purse and keys on the side table, and inhaled sharply when she felt Brad’s body press up against her back. He slid his hands around her waist and then reached up to cup her breasts.
The auction had been fun. One by one, the young men and women of the Beach Patrol team had gone out onto the stage. The twenty-somethings at the convention center had made their bids. After the first intermission, the business owners had gone up on the auction block. When it had been Cathy’s turn, there had been a few bids—as promised, Al and Lyle had both lifted their paddles—and then Brad had called out an outrageous amount of money. Even now, the thought of having won the highest bid of the evening made her smile.
He touched his nose to her skin on that sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder. She leaned her head to the side and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of his hot lips, the gentle rake of his teeth, the laving of his tongue. The light trailing of his fingers hardened her nipples into tight buds, the sensuous ministrations sending her blood thrumming through her body.
His hands settled on her hips and he nudged her to turn around. Automatically, her arms snaked around his neck, and they kissed. He tasted faintly of beer—and deep need; although the second flavor could have been entirely her imagination. She smiled against his mouth.
He urged her backward several steps, and when the sofa made contact with the back of her calves, momentum forced her to sit. She pouted when her lips, wet from his kiss, were no longer joined with his. But the sight of him removing his trousers and kicking them aside dissolved her momentary sulk.
Soft, cool fabric whooshed over her thighs as Brad loomed over her, pushing her dress higher, and higher. She let her gaze travel down the length of his torso. The hem of his dress shirt hid the most erotic bits of him, but when she looked into his face, she saw the intense desire concentrated in his deep blue eyes. She’d seen that look so many times before. She had no doubt he was granite hard. And ready.
Cathy shifted her hips, shimmied out of her panties, and then she leaned back, slid open her knees, and lifted her arms to him. He slipped into her, fully, deeply, and her breathy inhalation simmered with pure pleasure.
“When I unlocked the door,” she whispered huskily in his ear, “I meant to invite you in.” She couldn’t stop the sumptuous grin that curled her lips. “But now there’s no need, huh?”
Their hips began to move in a slow, well-orchestrated dance—one they’d performed enough times to perfect. Soon her shallow exhalations were accompanied by low, frantic moans.
She climaxed quickly; when he leaned away from her, she could tell he hadn’t.
He stood, straightened his shirt, and reached for his pants.
“Whoa, whoa,” she said, offering a throaty chuckle. “Hold on there, cowboy.” She rose from the sofa and tugged her dress over her head and tossed it onto the couch. She stood in front of him, completely naked except for her stilettos. Smiling at him, she whispered, “It’s your turn.”
She reached out her hand to him, confident he would take it.
And that’s exactly what he did.
As she led him through the house to her bedroom, she realized this was the reason she loved sex with Brad.
The living room, the kitchen, in the bed, on the steps, in the car, she never knew where the adventurous spirit might strike. Sometimes it was rushed, other times long and languorous. Sometimes they were tender, other times they were rough and tumble.
Right now, she intended to lie him down across her bed, straddle his gorgeous body, and take complete control. And he would let her. In fact, he would revel in the surrender. And he’d do it without feeling that his masculinity had been in any way diminished.
Of course, she’d take her shoes off first, determined to avoid poking another hole in her mattress.
Brad’s confidence—in his physical appearance, in his intelligence and talents, in his sexual prowess—appealed to her. She liked it. A lot.
“You’re in trouble,” she told him, the solid feel of his hand in hers reigniting her desire. “I’m about to have my way with you.”
Nearly an hour later, she padded into the bathroom.
“You have to feel good about tonight,” she called. “I’ll bet you had to have raised close to ten thousand dollars for the Fergusons, don’t you think?”
She flushed, then went to the sink to wash her hands. Over the running water, she told him, “Heather spoke to me. Just a few words. But it was better than nothing. She’s still angry.” Under her breath, she added, “And stubborn.”
When would Heather come to understand that, although Cathy had betrayed her confidence, everything had turned out for the best?
“Who the hell knows?” she muttered.
Drying her hands on a towel, she wondered if Brad had fallen asleep. Then she heard the distinct sound of metal teeth as he drew his zipper closed and the jangle of his belt buckle.
She stopped in the doorway, realizing he hadn’t responded to her. In fact, she couldn’t remember him having said a single word since they’d arrived at her house.
“Are you okay?”
He focused on buttoning his shirt. “It’s late. I’m tired.”
“Hey.” She stepped into the bedroom and waited for him to look at her. “You sure you’re okay?”
Brad sighed. “I’m fine.”
“But I’ve been talking and…” She didn’t bother f
inishing the rest of the sentence.
He snatched up his wallet and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Tonight was a great success. But I can’t take the credit. Every member of the team got involved.” He walked by her out into the living room, and she followed.
“Now every single one of them has to give up their next day off to fulfill all those lunch obligations.”
“Speaking of obligations,” she said, “when do you want me to make you lunch?”
He stared at her for a moment, and then bent to slip into his dress shoes. “I’m scheduled to work the next six days. It’ll have to wait.”
His tone… his whole demeanor puzzled her.
“You seem annoyed.”
He picked up his suit jacket from the arm of the sofa. “Like I said. It’s late. I’m tired.”
“If you were too tired to come over here, why didn’t you just say so?”
He moved to the front door and opened it, his mouth a flat line when he turned back to face her. “But, Cathy, this is what we do, right?”
Without another word, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Eight
Cathy pulled into Brad’s driveway, killed the engine, and gathered up the bags she’d packed with food and all the necessary accoutrements for a picnic, the items securely protected with gallon-sized plastic zip bags. They’d decided to double up on Brad’s jet ski and ride over to their favorite out-of-the-way sandy spot on the St. Martin’s River to eat. The heavy-duty plastic bags would protect the food, the napkins, the plates, even her cell phone, from the water. With a small jerk of her hip, she closed the car door, and headed toward the house.
There had been some doubt in her mind about when, or even if, this lunch date would take place. After Brad’s odd, post-coitus demeanor at her house last weekend, she hadn’t known what to think. However, he’d stopped into the café the very next morning to fill his thermos with coffee, acting as chipper as ever, so the only logical conclusion to draw regarding his behavior was that he’d been telling the truth; he’d merely been tired.
