Waiting for the One

by L. A. Fiore

“I left you three messages, Saffron. One that day, one when I landed in New York City, and one today with information on when I was returning to Harrington. As soon as we landed, we went to your house and when you weren’t there, we came here. This is Maria St. John, my agent.”

  I feel about the size of an ant. If only the ground would open and swallow me. To add to the ridiculousness, the only question I can form after all of this is “Agent?”

  “I’m an artist and had a showing at a gallery in Manhattan. Maria came back with me to see some of my new work. I wanted her to meet you.”

  At that moment, I feel like Ralphie from A Christmas Story after he dropped the f-bomb. There is just no way to pull that back. If I ever felt more ridiculous in my life, I can’t recall it. Trying to navigate the minefield of my thoughts is impossible, so instead I rise and somehow manage to maintain eye contact with Logan even though I want to crawl into a very dark hole.

  “Hope all went well in Manhattan.” I turn to Maria. “Welcome to Harrington. I hope you enjoy your stay.” And then I walk out of Tucker’s and keep on walking until I end up on Josh’s doorstep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For two days I hide at Josh’s, unable to show my face around town. I lie on the bed in his guest bedroom as my mind replays the abysmal scene at Tucker’s. I want to curl up into a ball and die. It isn’t that I don’t feel justified in my feelings. If he hadn’t called, then I was spot-on. The fact that he did call makes me feel like pond scum, fungus on pond scum, lice on fungus on pond scum.

  My cell phone was still in my purse. After Tommy dropped it off for me, I charged my phone, and sure enough there were three new voice mails. I saved them, since it is highly unlikely that Logan will ever again address me with the tenderness that his first message held. He mentioned the gallery showing, the trip, and then he told me how much he enjoyed our time together and how he wanted to see me again. The second message seemed a bit apprehensive and the third was almost curt, but I understand why. The man called and I never returned his calls, so the fact that he actually came to Tucker’s to see me took a lot of courage. And how do I respond to that kind of chivalry? I tell him I want to jab him in the eye with a butter knife, want to feed him to the lobsters. I bury my face in the pillow and groan. Maybe it’s time for me to grow facial hair and hermit myself somewhere. There are caves along the bay; maybe I can hole up there for a few years, decades, until the story of my profound stupidity is reduced to a mere urban legend. A slight knock on the door alerts me to Josh’s presence.

  “You can’t stay in here forever, Saffron. He deserves an apology.”

  I sit up as Josh comes over to join me on the bed. “I know, but how exactly does one apologize after messing up so superbly? I mean if there was an Academy Award for shoving your foot into your mouth, I would win it, hands down.”

  “It was a misunderstanding. You didn’t know he called. Explain that to him.”

  “I told him in detail how I planned to kill him.”

  Josh smiles as he takes my hand into his. “But that is a part of your personality. It’s who you are. If he likes you then he’ll not only understand what motivated your death threats, but will probably be charmed by them.”

  I am looking at Josh like he has just grown donkey ears and a tail. “Charmed by it?”

  “Okay, maybe not charmed, but he’ll understand.”

  Groaning, I drop my head on his shoulder. “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then you accept that you messed up royally and you move on.”

  “He hates me.”

  “No, he doesn’t, but you won’t know that until you go see him.”

  “You’re right, but when this crashes and burns, can I come back and cry on your shoulder?”

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  “You’re the best.”

  The meaning of the expression dead man walking sinks in as I make my way to Logan’s. How exactly am I supposed to start the upcoming conversation? Hey, Logan, got any butter knives? What must he think of me? It doesn’t take me nearly as long as I’d like to get to Logan’s, but when I arrive, it’s very quiet. The emotion that washes over me is probably very similar to that of a death-row inmate when the governor calls just in the nick of time. And points for me on keeping with the prison analogy.

  While I am patting myself on the back, Logan comes from around the side of his house. As soon as he sees me, he stops dead.

  “Where have you been?” His greeting is far nicer than I was expecting. I had it in my head his first words to me after the scene I made would be something along the lines of “Get the hell away from me, you crazy bitch” or “I’m calling the police.”

  “Hiding,” I say.

  “From me?”

  “No, Logan, from my outrageous behavior.” My nerves twist my hands together. “Look, I never got your messages. Anyone who knows me knows I never use my cell phone. We had a fantastic time together and then you were gone and stayed gone for a week. When I see you again, you’re with your outrageously beautiful agent. I was hurt and angry and I flipped out. I’m not proud of my behavior and I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friend.”

  There is no reaction at all from him to my apology. I’m tempted to say the words again on the off chance the first time was only in my head, but it’s more likely that we have just come full circle and are back to the silent treatment, not that I don’t deserve it.

  “I’m sorry, Logan, for all of it. I hope my freak-out doesn’t keep you from Tucker’s.” And since there is nothing more to say, I feel much like a dog with his tail between his legs when I start to walk away from him.

  “Stab me in the eye with a butter knife?”

  My feet stop, but facing him is impossible.

  “How long did you wait before you started plotting my death?”

  “Not until you walked in with beautiful Maria.”

  “Are you still feeling homicidal around me?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to see some of my work?”

  I do turn at that. “Shouldn’t you be helping me off your property?”

  “Do you want me to help you off my property?”

  “No, but the last time we spoke I was plotting your death.”

  The grin on his lips turns into a full-out smile. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

  Moving to stand just in front of me, he runs his hand down my arm in a delicate caress. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention the trip while we were together, but my mind just wasn’t on the trip; it had something infinitely more fascinating to contemplate.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad.” Linking our fingers, he starts toward his house.

  If I hadn’t liked Logan before, I would now at how he is handling all of this. He chuckles as we reach the door.

  “Why are you chuckling?” I ask.

  “You were jealous.” He’s definitely smug, though I can’t blame him.

  I am about to deny it, but what for? The whole town has either witnessed or heard about my jealous rage. Besides, with how decently he accepted my apology, it seems honesty is the only choice.

  “Yes, I was.”

  His hand snakes around my neck to draw me to him. His mouth fuses to mine in a very thorough kiss as his tongue seeks and savors. He reaches again for my hand and leads me into the lighthouse.

  It’s charming—the rounded walls, portholes, and rustic furniture. Logan leads me up the spiral staircase until we reach a room that has canvases leaning up against the walls.

  Logan starts from me. “This is my studio.”

  He grabs one of the two stools in the room and brings it over to me. Once I’m settled, he plants a hard kiss on my mouth before digging through the canvases and putting one after another on the easel for my viewing pleasure. He places before me a painting of Tucker’s that is a little off-center, so George Ward’s beat-up pickup can be seen—the owner walking around the trunk, heading to the bar still wearing h
is fishing garb. How beautifully he has captured the heart of Harrington. He’s pulled a stool over and now sits right in front of me, watching me with those incredible eyes.

  “That’s my favorite,” I whisper, my gaze moving from the painting to Logan. “You understand. That painting shows that you understand the magic of Harrington. Your work is breathtaking.”

  He leans a little closer to me so that our mouths are only inches apart and then, without saying a word, he closes the distance and proceeds to take my breath away again.

  Logan and I are taking things slowly since we had, for all intents and purposes, put the cart before the horse. We’re at the lighthouse, sitting on Adirondack chairs while looking out at the sea.

  “What a view. Is that what sold you on the place?” I ask.

  “That and it’s quiet.”

  Shifting in my chair to face him, I ask, “Quiet so you can paint?”

  “Yes, and I’m not really a big fan of crowds.”

  “Me neither. I have a confession.”

  A slight raise of his eyebrow encourages me to continue.

  “I watched you swimming a few weeks back.”

  His head tilts slightly and there’s definitely the beginning of a smile. “Watched me? For how long?”

  “Long enough to realize I was acting like a stalker.”

  “So do you often stare at nearly naked men in the moonlight?”

  “How did you know there was moonlight?”

  “That’s when I like to swim. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Only when they’ve got a body like yours.”

  He stands so fast, I nearly get whiplash. In the next second, he’s reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head. Tingles sweep my entire body. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a bit hot, don’t you think? I’ve a need for a dip. You want to join?”

  “I don’t have a suit.”

  “How’s that a problem?” He follows that comment with stepping out of his jeans so that his body is completely exposed except for the boxer briefs, which I have to say are my absolute favorite of the male undergarments. His six-pack—I want run my tongue over it.

  The idea of stripping down to my bra and panties so I can get wet with Logan has me doing so in record time. “Race you,” I holler, since I’m already running to the water. The man, despite his size, can move. He comes up behind me, sweeps me up into his arms, and carries me until the water reaches his waist.

  “Hold your breath.”

  Thinking he’s going to toss me, I’m delighted to find that he goes under with me instead. The water is too murky to see him, but I feel him, his strong arms holding me tight. Coming up for air, I wipe the water from my face and then his, but I don’t stop at his face. My hands travel over his shoulders and arms, down his back, brushing over his ass. I want him and know he feels the same, since I can feel him growing hard against my stomach. Since sex in the bay, however appealing, is likely illegal, I seek to temper our hormones.

  “Did you live in Manhattan before you moved here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you move?”

  “Not a fan of crowds.”

  Since that’s the second time he’s said that, I’m guessing his feelings about crowds is stronger than not being a fan. “But why here? It’s not like we’re a particularly well-known town.”

  “That’s the appeal.”

  “Manhattan to Harrington has got to take some adjusting.”

  “About six months,” he says with a wicked grin.

  I can’t tell if he’s being a smartass or if he’s serious. Either way, I like it. “I bet you left at least one broken heart in Manhattan.”

  His mouth closes over mine and his hands move to cradle my ass, rubbing me against the hard length of him. Conversation is apparently over and I am very okay with that.

  For the past few days Logan has sequestered himself in his house while he works on a painting. Part of me would love to watch him work, but I know he likes his solitude. His focus is amazing, because though he’s made it clear that he would prefer to spend time with me, our relationship being so new, he is dedicated enough to his craft that he can make himself stay away. I don’t have nearly as much willpower, but I do find ways to stay busy and it is during my jog one morning that I meet my new neighbor.

  The house, my only neighbor about a mile down the road, has been on the market for almost two years, so it’s nice to see that it has finally sold. I would have stopped by later in the week with a housewarming gift, but my neighbor beats me to the punch. I find her waiting at my front door, a pretty brunette in fabulous clothes.

  “I’m Elise. I just moved in down the street.”

  “Saffron. Hi.”

  “This is a great little town.”

  “It is. Where did you move from?”

  “Boston.”

  “Really? Is this your first experience living in a small town?”

  “Yes, it’s going to be quite the change for me.”

  “I bet.”

  She leans a bit closer before she adds, “Is it me or is there a shortage of younger men in this town?”

  “No, it isn’t you.”

  “Are you one of the lucky ones who has a beau?”

  On the surface Elise is quite friendly, but for some reason she puts me on edge. I have no plans to discuss Logan with her but my smile in reply wasn’t enough of an answer.

  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind showing me around sometime? Are you free tonight? I could take you to dinner. Oh, or do you have plans with your boyfriend?”

  My head is starting to hurt. Maybe it’s because she’s a Bostonian, but Elise seems awfully pushy. “Tonight doesn’t work for me—I work at Tucker’s in town—but maybe later in the week.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m like a charging bull. How about if you give me your cell number and I’ll give you a call in a couple of days?”

  “Sure.” She doesn’t need to know that my cell phone is more than likely already dead weight in my purse, as long as it gets her moving on and away from me. “It was nice to meet you, Elise.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Welcome to Harrington.” I wait until she realizes the conversation is over and starts back down the street. I walk inside, closing the door behind me and, as an afterthought, I flip the lock.

  I’m beginning to grow tired of my own company by the middle of the day, so I decide to walk to the docks. I’m halfway out the door when the phone rings. My heart jumps—maybe it’s Logan, but when I hear the voice on the other end, that hope is immediately dashed.

  “Saffron, it’s your mother.”

  “Mom, how are you? How’s Dad?”

  “Oh, we’re great. Your father is having lunch with some friends, so it’ll just be me today.”

  “Oh, okay.” I can’t deny I’m a little upset about this because I only speak to my parents exactly once a month, at a time convenient for them. I have tried calling them more often, but they never answer and they never return my calls. So the fact that my father can’t make himself available for the ten-minute monthly call he allows me is a bit callous, in my opinion.

  “How have you been, dear?”

  “I’m good. And you?” I ask.

  There is silence over the line because my mom is gearing herself up to start in on the lecture. According to her, I am wasting my life away because I am not married with children. She’ll start in on the bartending shortly.

  My friends were under the delusion, until recently when I filled them in, that my parents’ move to Florida was tough on me, but I was thrilled that they left. All they ever seem to want to do is harass me about my lack of a husband and kids. I’m not really sure why they are so insistent on it. They don’t have a maternal or paternal bone in their bodies. It isn’t like they are waiting with bated breath for grandkids while knitting booties and receiving blankets.

  I slump in my chair and attempt to listen to the lecture I now know by heart.

/>   “Really, Saffron, you’re turning thirty this year. You’re running out of time to have children. Stop wasting your youth and get a real job: one that will attract a husband.”

  Oh, because that is what I want—a man who likes my bank account. “Maybe I don’t want to get married or have children.”

  “Nonsense, of course you do, but you work at a bar, dear, so most men will assume you have very low morals.”

  My temper starts to simmer at the same old argument. I am nearly thirty, so isn’t it time for my parents to back off and let me live my life? They have no problem with living theirs—moving to Florida without even telling me. My parents sold their home while I was still in college and made all the arrangements for their move. On my graduation day, they dropped the bomb and a week later, they were gone. So, I think they kind of gave up their right to a parental opinion when they walked out.

  “Are you dating someone?”

  I really don’t want to share anything about Logan, but I can’t lie either. “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh, how nice. What does he do?”

  Here we go. “He’s an artist.”

  “Honestly, Saffron, what are you thinking? You met at that bar, didn’t you? He’s only interested in you because you have a paycheck. Why can’t you date someone with a real job, like a plumber or an electrician?”

  There are just so many things wrong with her statement that I can’t even begin to get into it, so instead I resort to sarcasm. “Because our plumber is seventy-three and the electrician is sixty-seven.”

  “Don’t talk back to me. You know what I’m saying. Your friend Gwen had no trouble landing a man with a paying job. Why can’t you?”

  I start to bang my head on the counter. Why the hell do I answer the damn phone? Note to self, do not answer the phone ever again when they call. After a few months they’ll stop trying, probably assume I died from my wild ways.

  “Well, this has been really great. Thanks for calling, Mom.”

  “Oh yes, well, good-bye, Saffron.”

  I want to hurl the phone across the room, but instead I take a few deep breaths before settling it back in its cradle. Why do they even bother to call? Unless my mom gets off on lecturing me, which is a definite possibility. They don’t care about me, never did. How many times was I told I was a responsibility and a burden? That’s why my relationship with Frank means so much. He is someone who really cares. I will not let the conversation get to me. I leave my house and head to the docks as planned.