All I Want Is You (15 page)

One of the big problems in the world was that ­people tried to take on too much for other ­people. All in the name of helping and caring. Sometimes plenty of good came from that, sure. Sometimes ­people really
needed
help. And there were certain folks who thrived on that kind of giving. But mostly, he believed it was best to let ­people take care of the biggest parts of their own dilemmas and responsibilities. Because he thought most ­people were more capable than they realized. And because it was when you started taking care of others that you sometimes forgot to take care of yourself.

He was afraid that was what Christy had done by taking on his burden. He only hoped he'd said enough to fix that. And seeing his granddaughter go after what she really wanted with her jewelry gave him a lot of hope that she'd work things out in her life for the best.

A look out his room's wide window allowed him a last glimpse of a purple sky before it faded entirely to black. And somehow that ethereal purple glow took him back to a particular night in his youth in Destiny, a night that had also been about dilemma and responsibility.

It had started innocently enough with Susan that summer he and his father had built her husband's barn. They seldom saw Mr. King at all—­he worked in faraway fields from sunup until dark. But the new barn sat close enough to the house that Susan brought them out sandwiches for lunch, wrapped in gingham cloth in a basket, and more bottles of Coke. Sometimes she would linger, quietly watch them work from a distance. And he'd liked just having her near, feeling her eyes on him, feeling her interest in what he was doing.

Even as innocent as it was, even as wordless and subtle, he'd felt the draw between them, like the powerful pull of a magnet. Something invisible and hard to quantify—­and yet so real, so viable, that there were moments he could have sworn you could touch it. He'd almost believed that some cord had stretched invisibly between them and had been tugging them closer and closer, even if he couldn't see it.

He'd felt his own maleness more in her presence. When she wasn't around, he was just him, just a kid hammering nails alongside his dad, working up a sweat, making some summer money, hoping Dad would let him take the truck into town after supper to look for his friends. But when
she
was there, he somehow became aware of the muscles in his arms and shoulders, the way they moved when he worked, because he felt her noticing. When she was there, he felt everything inside him kick into overdrive, like the very cells of his body had suddenly come alive for the first time.

It had been in July, in the middle of a long, hot, dry summer, that his father had hurt his back. And Charlie had started going over to the King place on his own to work on the barn.

The first few days of that had been both easy and maddening. Easy because nothing changed—­Susan brought out his lunch, then sat quietly watching him work for a time, then went on her way, both relieving him and breaking his heart as she went.

But then . . . they began to talk.

“See your garden every mornin' when I drive past the house. Looks like you got some tomatoes about ready. Pick any beans yet?”

“Picked a mess the other night and cooked 'em up with a cottage ham. You like green beans and ham?”

He'd nodded, still working. But from the corner of his eye, he'd noticed the way her skin had darkened from chores out in the sun over the past month or so, same as his. The warm glow somehow made her even more beautiful just when he'd thought that wasn't possible.

They'd gone on like that for a while. Talking about nothing as he labored, but every word still feeling magical.

Until, a day or two later, he'd finally gotten brave enough to stop hammering when they spoke, brave enough to turn and put his whole focus on her, look her in the eye. And Lord, the girl had pretty eyes.

“You like peach pie?” she asked.

“I do,” he told her, boldly meeting her gaze.

“Bought some peaches from the General Mercantile. Was thinkin' I might make a pie. Maybe I'll bring ya a slice with your lunch one day.”

“I'd like that.”

But those were only the words they were saying with their lips. With their eyes they'd been saying much more. About the magnetic pull. About the wanting. About how the relentless summer heat just made it all the worse—­and all the better at the same time.

And then had come the day when she'd brought him the pie. And by then . . . hell, he'd spent so many hot, breezeless nights in bed fantasizing about her, and so many hot, steamy days torn between aching for her and trying to fight off the feelings that he guessed the tension had been too much. And things had started to be said. Things he'd known they shouldn't say—­and yet, they'd
needed
to be said as badly as he needed air to breathe.

“You like the pie?” she asked. She perched on an old wooden stool in the shade of the barn and he sat on the dirt floor a few feet away, leaning his back against the wall of a stall he'd just built. It had been another blistering hot day in a summer when the heat refused to break.

And he looked her in the eye and said exactly what he was thinking, not trying to hide a thing. “Think it's about the sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.”

She'd swallowed visibly. Because he was talking about the pie, but there'd been sex in his answer. He knew it; he'd felt it. He'd gotten tired of pretending it wasn't sitting right there in between them every time they were anywhere near each other.

“Glad you like it,” she said, her voice going a little deeper. He got hard in his pants, just from that.

“I like it too much,” he told her, still locking their gazes, willing her to keep looking at him, not run away from it. “Wish I could have more.”

Her lips trembled and he saw her thinking about what to say. And finally she chose to change the subject. In a way. “You still go with that Della Mae girl from over on Blue Valley Road?”

He shook his head. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Wouldn't be right when there's somebody else on my mind.”

He watched as she drew in a breath, slowly let it back out. Finally, she ventured to ask, “So you got a new girl now?”

He just gave another shake of his head and laid it out between them. “The girl I want is married.”

She flinched, and for a brief second he felt bad for being so blunt, for forcing her to face something neither one of them could do anything about. But then he pushed the feeling aside. Because ignoring it didn't make it go away and he was tired of tiptoeing around it. So tired that, hell, he just wanted to get it all on the table, once and for all. “Why you gotta be married to him, Susan? It ain't right.”

Unmistakable pain—­shame—­passed through her pretty eyes. “I don't
wanna
be. Just
have
to be.”

He thought again of her sleeping with King and his stomach pinched up. Most of the time he managed to block that out, focus more on the weighty pull between them—­but now it snuck in, and it stung bad. “Because he has money?”

She nodded, her face grim. “My daddy said everybody's got a cross to bear and this is just mine. He said there's worse fates in life than lookin' out for your family. He said . . . he said it was the reason God made me pretty. So that Donald King would want to marry me and take care of us all.”

Charlie sucked in his breath. And wanted to rip Susan's father to pieces for using her that way, for making her feel it was the whole reason she existed. And he kept right on being honest. “Maybe God made you pretty for
me
.”

Another hard swallow from her—­he saw the muscles of her throat contract. And though she'd lowered her eyes at some point, now she met his gaze again. Dust floated in a shaft of sunlight angling in between the barn's wooden slats, shining between them like a barrier. “You think I'm pretty?” she asked. She sounded younger than usual, more like a girl of eighteen
should
sound, he thought—­and it was the first time he realized that marrying King had aged her, hardened her. He wanted to soften her again, wanted her to be a girl again, like she
should
be.

He wanted more than just that, though.

He wanted
everything
.

“You're all I think about,” he blurted.

And the invisible heat between them pulsed for a few long, sultry seconds that felt like hours—­until she pushed to her feet and said, “It's late—­I should go.” Then she rushed from the barn before he could stop her.

And Charlie ached. For himself. For her. For the injustices in life. And he took his frustration out with his hammer and nails the rest of the afternoon.

But it didn't help a thing. In fact, the aches all just got worse and worse. That night he worked until his limbs were as sore as his heart; he worked until the sun set and the sky glowed as purple as a fresh, tender bruise.

C
HRISTY
sat on her bed, back against the headboard, jewelry tray on her lap, working to attach a delicate glass bead to a clump of others in a multi-­colored brooch she was creating from a hodgepodge of leftover pieces. An old black-­and-­white movie played on the TV in front of her and Jack lay on his bed nearby watching it while also looking at the laptop computer he'd brought along—­browsing the Internet, she guessed. They'd eaten their pizza in the same fashion—­quietly, in front of the TV, and any communication between them had been brief—­Jack trying to be nice and her replying as shortly as possible.

She wasn't trying to be mean or to punish him—­but she just felt so exposed, and so rejected, that she didn't want to expose
anymore
of herself. And somehow, even just chatting pleasantly would feel like exposure right now. She had the urge to roll up in a tight little ball and bury herself beneath the covers—­so compared to giving in to
that
, working next to him while being a little withdrawn felt downright bold.

Refocusing on the brooch, she carefully attached a pink faux pearl and a tiny glass flower of pale green—­then smiled, pleased at the way the piece was coming together. When she felt Jack's eyes on her, she did what she'd been doing every time that had happened in the last hour—­ignored it and kept her attention on her work, the one thing she could trust to always make her happy, the one thing that was always there for her to run to and immerse herself in.

“All those beads and pearls are your potted plants, aren't they?”

She blinked, looked up at him. “Huh?”

“The way Mrs. Harrington loved her plants, that's the way you love making jewelry.”

And despite herself, her heart lifted—­just a bit—­to hear that he got that without her ever having told him. “Yeah,” she said softly. “It's exactly that way.”

“I'm glad you have something you love that much,” he told her.

And she pursed her lips, trying not to feel too deeply or respond too warmly, even though the sentiment touched her. Because lots of ­people had things they loved, things that became their touchstones in life, but since the death of her parents, Christy had
needed
what this gave her. She could scarcely imagine surviving without it. What would bring her joy, or peace of mind, or a sense of purpose if she didn't have jewelry to create?

“I'm really sorry for ruining your happy news earlier—­and for
everything
,” he said.

She tried not to look into his eyes—­she could see even peripherally that they shone particularly blue and beautiful at the moment. And she didn't want to just be sucked in by them, by him—­since she knew the need to protect herself now. “I appreciate the apology,” she said, accidentally flicking her glance to his, then away.

“Think you might forgive me?” His voice held just a hint of playfulness.

But she wasn't falling for playfulness right now. Even if she wanted to. “I don't know. I don't like that you still think I'm all about money.”

“I
don't
think that. I promise. Tonight was . . . illuminating for me. Forgive me, Alice? Pretty please?”

She tossed him one more accidental glance in time to see him raising his eyebrows and ­looking—­oh rats!—­cute as hell.

“I'll go find you a Twix somewhere,” he offered sweetly, his grin turning almost shy.

Christy sucked in her breath, let it back out. And began to forgive—­just a little.

“I guess it's possible a Twix could help,” she said grudgingly. “Maybe. We'll see.”

 

“ ‘Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes

the world go round!' ”

Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland

Chapter 14

T
HE NEXT ­
couple of days were quiet.

Christy and Jack spent time at the beach together, but didn't talk much. Because she was still a little embarrassed and still a little angry. And he responded by being patient and considerate.

And to her consternation, she discovered that even amid all those new emotions, she remained—­ugh—­crazy in love with him. Her heart still lit up when he entered a room. And it beat faster when he emerged from a dip in the ocean looking all tan and hot and wet and sexy as he came toward her in his swim trunks. And—­darn it all—­she somehow enjoyed his company, his very presence, just as much even when they barely spoke. She'd have never believed it was possible to feel so much pain, heartache, embarrassment, and anger while still enjoying being with the person who'd caused every bit of it.

The evenings were quiet, too—­quiet dinners at the Hungry Fisherman, quiet drives to Sunnymeade. Though they both became less quiet around Grandpa Charlie because she wasn't mad at
him
, after all, and she didn't want him to suffer just because things were uncomfortable between her and Jack.

On the third morning after Christy's grand humiliation, they agreed she'd spend the day on her own, making jewelry and delivering new pieces to her two new business partners—­and that Jack would simply see which way the wind blew him. “Might fish a little, or take a long walk up the beach,” he said over breakfast. “Maybe I'll swing by the rest home and take Charlie some lunch—­he liked the place where we all had lunch the other day. Just a little sandwich shop, but he went on and on about the chicken salad.”

“That'd be nice,” Christy said quietly from across the picnic table on the dock. He still got them donuts, every morning. And damn him for being so sweet to her Grandpa—­the man made it hard to keep being mad.

As they parted ways at the door to their motel room a few minutes later, Jack having decided to set off for his walk up the shore, he said, “Have a nice day, Alice.”

Though as he began to depart, he stopped, turned back to her.

“What?” she said, meeting his eyes and somehow being a little startled by their gorgeousness all over again.

“You ever gonna forgive me?” he asked.

And she sucked in her breath—­unprepared for the question. “Can . . . can you promise me you really don't think I'm all about money anymore?” she asked. “Can you promise me that . . . that you know I'm a nice person with good intentions?”

“Yes, honey, I can promise all of that, and I do.” No hesitation.

So she wanted to ask him the next part.
Does that mean you're not afraid anymore? Of something between us? Of . . . getting attached?
But she didn't. Because she wasn't sure how she felt about that now, either. And maybe the only thing that mattered right here, in this moment, was this one step forward. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

He looked heartened. “So . . . can we maybe get back to normal here now? Get back to enjoying our trip?”

She nodded. Though her boss had allowed her to leave their return date open-­ended, she couldn't stay here forever, nor could she expect him to keep paying for their room forever, and maybe it made sense to try to put this behind them and enjoy what remained of their time in Coral Cove.

The smile he cast warmed her heart—­and crap, other parts of her, too.

But maybe that was okay. If her heart was telling her to get over this now, maybe she just
should
. Maybe she should forgive and forget, and go forward remembering what a good guy he was.

A little while after Jack left, she took her jewelry and tools out onto the dock. A gentle breeze kept her cool as she strung some chunky, colored beads—­and the calls of seagulls and the view of boats drifting past in the bay made her happy she'd come here with Jack, happy she was experiencing Coral Cove all over again, just in a new way this time. Even despite the pain she'd experienced. Maybe things would get better now.

When a scuttling sound drew her attention, she glanced up to see Fifi ambling by in the distance. She wasn't leashed this time, but Reece followed behind her in his usual slouchy khaki shorts and faded T-­shirt. The sight of Fifi no longer startled her, proving that a person could get used to anything—­even having a miniature dragon for a neighbor.

When the giant iguana paused to sniff at what appeared to be a glob of pelican doo doo, Reece nudged her huge, scaly tail with his flip-­flop. “Fi, no,” he said gently—­same as you might to a puppy or a small child.

“You really do love that thing, don't you?” Christy asked.

Reece looked over, clearly not having noticed her on the dock until now. Then he cast a soft grin. “Found her on the roadside when she was just a baby—­she'd been hit by a car. Sometimes when somebody needs you, that's enough right there to make you love 'em.” Then he tilted his head, clearly thinking through his own words. “Or maybe it's the being needed part. But either way, yep, this scaly girl has my heart.”

Christy replied with a small smile. “Even though she's so . . . ugly?” she dared to gently inquire.

Reece just shrugged. “Eh, you know what they say about the eye of the beholder. I guess one man's border collie is another man's giant iguana.”

Christy laughed.

And Reece smiled, concluding, “Love isn't al­ways pretty.”

A
FTER
walking up the part of Coral Cove Beach where he and Christy had spent time playing in the surf and soaking up the rays, Jack headed beneath the pier and farther up the shore to the much quieter, desolate stretch of sand Christy had pointed out when they'd first arrived. Someone had pulled a rowboat up onto the sand, but otherwise the beach lay untouched and empty, sand dunes and sea oats stretching toward the road in the distance. And as he walked on, the beach curved away from the road, creating an even greater sense of isolation.

Immediately liking the sense of peace, he stopped, sitting down in the soft sand to peer out over the water. He was glad Christy had forgiven him—­and he hoped it meant getting back to the way things had been before. He missed the sweet, vibrant girl he'd been getting to know before he'd fucked up so badly with her the other night. And he really did believe her now.

What she'd said before going in the bathroom that night kept playing over in his head. That if he wanted something real with her, no rich guy could take her away from him. In one way, it made him feel . . . well, more special than anything had in a long time. But then he started thinking about the fact that he
was
a rich guy, and that she didn't know that, and how complex it made all of this—­and that's usually when he pushed the thoughts away altogether.

Maybe you should just do what you told her in the first place, back in Georgia. Have fun. See where it leads. Don't worry so much.
That had sounded like a damn good idea when he'd said it—­and maybe it was
still
a damn good idea. Maybe he'd complicated it too damn much, based on his unpleasant past.

Yep, he could do this—­he could get back to where he should be with her
. I like it here. And I like her. And the rest of this trip is going to be . . . a lot easier. Because I'm done mucking it up with my own shit.

As he walked on, small pastel cottages came into view on his right, dotting the higher ground beyond the beach with structures of sea green and pale blue, sunny yellow and faded melon. The sound of wind chimes echoed from somewhere, their music filling the air. Two rows of slanted white beach fencing created a twisting trail toward the cottages, along with a sun-­washed signpost that said: Sea Shell Lane.

Jack smiled upon realizing he'd found his way to Fletcher McCloud's house without even trying. So he followed the fencing up the sand until he passed through some sea oats and low sand shrubs, and then headed up a few weathered wooden steps to emerge onto the end of the street.

He'd just begun wondering how he'd figure out which house belonged to Fletcher when he saw a ponytailed man watering hanging pots of flowers at the very first house, on a wide side porch overlooking the beach.

As he started in the direction of the little blue cottage, Fletcher spotted him. “Jack, my friend!” he said, a smile unfurling as he stopped watering. “Good to see you. Noticed you and your lady hadn't been at the pier the last few nights.”

Stepping up onto the porch, Jack explained about Christy's consignment opportunities—­then complimented Fletcher on his home. It was modest but sunny and airy, with French doors that faced the water open to let the sea breeze waft through.

“Come on in,” Fletcher said. “It's almost lunchtime—­we'll make ourselves a ­couple of sandwiches, grab some beers from the fridge, then eat outside.”

Jack thought the bright colors inside Fletcher's house suited him—­maybe they made him think of carnivals and circuses, places Fletcher would fit well.

It was as he passed back through the living room a few minutes later, lunch plate and beer can in hand, that he noticed the little bag in which Christy had placed the bracelet Fletcher had bought for his wife. It lay on a table against a wall with other small bags and boxes, alongside a little stuffed parrot, a glass seahorse figurine . . . and more. Whereas the rest of the house appeared tidy, the pile of small items made this area feel messy—­creating question marks in Jack's mind.

So as they sat down at the round wicker table on Fletcher's side porch, Jack asked, “Did you, uh, give your wife the bracelet yet? The one you bought from Christy?”

Fletcher bit into his ham and cheese sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before replying, “No, can't yet. She's not here.”

“Traveling?” Jack inquired.

“In a sense,” Fletcher said with a light nod.

And Jack raised his eyebrows. “A sense?”

“She's been gone for a while now. Two years this September.”

Whoa. Jack had no idea how to reply, so he didn't. Other than an, “Um . . .”

“Used to move the show around,” Fletcher began to explain. “We brought it south for the winter—­hopping around to different beaches every ­couple of weeks. Stayed an entire season in Key West once, but mostly we drifted from place to place, wherever the street performers brought out the most tourists. In summer, we headed north, working street fairs and festivals from the Great Lakes to Cape Cod.

“She was my assistant,” he went on, offering a wry grin. “Yep, I used to
have
someone to toss me my knives and torches. And we traded banter back and forth, she and I—­the crowd
loved
our banter.”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes filled with a certain wistful joy as they met Jack's. “It was a fine life, my friend, a fine life indeed. Walking a tightrope for an hour or two each afternoon or evening—­and the rest of my time left for exploring the world and making love to my soulmate. Doesn't get much better than that.”

Jack had to admit Fletcher made it sound pretty amazing. And so he almost didn't even want to hear what was coming. Or question how a woman who was Fletcher's soulmate was no longer here.

“Then one afternoon I came back to our motel room and found . . . this.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wallet, and from it a small piece of worn paper, folded.

Jack took the slip of paper from Fletcher's outstretched hand, then opened it to read the handwritten message inside.

I'm sorry, Fletch. I love you, but I just have to go. Don't let this hurt too much. Everything will be okay.

Kim

“Wow,” Jack mumbled, quietly refolding the note and handing it back. He felt the words in his gut—­maybe because he, too, had once gotten his heart broken with a shocking jolt.

Then the obvious question finally hit him. “But . . . why did you buy a bracelet for her?”

And that was when he realized Fletcher didn't seem the least bit fazed—­by any of this. He'd relayed the whole story in the same matter-­of-­fact, wisdom-­laced tone he always used. “Because she's coming back,” he said now as easily as if his wife had just taken a stroll up the beach to look for sand dollars.

“You've heard from her then?” Jack ventured uncertainly.

But Fletcher shook his head, taking another bite from his sandwich.

Whereas Jack had pretty much forgotten about lunch at this point. He squinted slightly, lowering his chin. “Then . . . what makes you think so?”

“She loves me,” Fletcher said simply, lifting a napkin to wipe crumbs from his mouth. “And you have to have faith.”

Jack fiddled with a potato chip on the plate in front of him, and put forth his next question cautiously. Because he didn't want to be a downer, but . . . “Even in something you have no evidence for?”

“Isn't that what faith is?” Fletcher replied easily. “If you don't have faith in something, if you don't believe things can work out the way you want them to, then what do you have in life?”

Jack took that in. And fought with himself between wanting to explain to Fletcher that perhaps his hopes were unrealistic and impractical—­and wanting to believe that maybe his simple sureness would be enough to bring her back somehow. Even though it had been two years. It sounded crazy, of course, but something about his certain attitude made Jack feel bad for doubting him.

That was when it hit Jack that Fletcher had a house here, had made a home here. “So you don't move around anymore?”

“Can't,” he said after crunching a chip in his mouth. “We were here when she left. So this is where she'll come back to. If I go anywhere else, she won't be able to find me.”