Pictures of Emily (13 page)

He wasn’t a toucher.

And yet a hundred times a day he had to stop himself from touching her.

Right now he wanted to touch her face, her hair, her hands. He wanted to pull her into his arms and touch his lips to hers. He wanted to feel the softness of her hair slide through his fingers. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin against his.

But he wasn’t a toucher.

So why did he want to touch Emily?

You love her
, a voice in his head taunted.

Love?

No.

Denial roared through him.

It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true.

You didn’t marry her out of a sense of chivalry. You married her because you need her.

Over the past weeks, he’d been distantly aware of a change going on inside him, a change he had up until now tried to ignore. A softening, a crumbling of his defenses. But emotions long suppressed were fighting their way to the surface, coming closer and closer.

No.

He didn’t need anybody.

Sweat broke out on his forehead. Fear scuttled through him, running rampant, pounding like a madman to get out.

He’d always been so careful. There had been so many women who had desired him, but he’d had no trouble brushing them aside.

But Emily… Oh God. Sweet, sweet Emily. With her magic.

Her name was a sigh in his mind. Sweet, sweet Emily, with eyes the color of the ocean, eyes the color of the sky, eyes that seemed to look right into his heart.

Then it hit him, and the shock was like a blow: He was no longer on the outside looking in.

He denied it vehemently.

No.

Through a fog, he felt her small fingers brush the back of his hand, felt them curl against his palm, gently squeezing his fingers, just as he had the day of their wedding when he’d seen her fear and had felt the need to reassure her.

His throat tightened. The wind burned his eyes.

Lord, what have I done?

Behind them, Babbie’s little girl voice whispered, “Hello, Herman.”

Emily watched the tortured expressions flit across Sonny’s face. She sensed his withdrawal.

He’s leaving me, she realized with shock. She could see it in his eyes.

She was still holding his hand, and now he pulled away, slipping free of her light grasp.

Her heart hammered. Her mind raced, frantically seeking an answer. What could she possibly say or do to make him stay? What had she done to make him decide to go?

He couldn’t leave. She loved him.

She’d have told herself she could wait for him forever—if that’s what it took. But she couldn’t wait for someone who wasn’t there.

More than anything, she wanted to open her heart, she wanted to tell him that she loved him—in so many ways. She wanted to tell him she loved him for all the pain he kept locked deep inside. That she loved him for walking with her on misty mornings; she loved him for his patience with Babbie; for taking sad, soulful pictures that made her want to cry.

For planting flowers.

But she knew he wasn’t ready to hear those words from her. With something too much like grief, she realized he might never be ready.

Sonny.

He had so many colors in him. She’d wanted to be the one to touch his heart and set those colors free.

She’d taken his hand, offered her friendship and comfort, and he’d rejected her. In her whole sheltered existence, she’d never felt the sting of rejection.

It hurt.

She thought about Sonny, the child, growing up a commodity, left in the hands of uncaring strangers. How had he stood it? He’d stood it by building a wall, a fortress that was now possibly too big and too solid for anyone to tear down.

She turned away so he couldn’t see the pain in her eyes—pain for him, pain for her. She called to the girls, telling them it was time to go, telling them she would walk them home.

They put on their shoes, then gathered their treasures. Babbie returned Herman to the spot she’d found him. They started to walk away but stopped when Sonny gave no indication that he was coming with them. Emily paused and waited.

“Go on without me,” he said, standing with his hands in his pockets, the salt wind lifting his hair. The remote look was still in his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”

She thought about the sweater she was knitting. The sleeves were almost done. She’d planned to start on the back soon. The yarn matched his eyes perfectly, having been dyed with the gray-blue flowers that grew wild on St. Genevieve. Who would wear the sweater now? She knew of no one else with eyes the color of a stormy sea.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

He nodded.

She felt it in her heart, saw it in his face. It was over. This game they’d played, the pretending. But all the while they had been pretending, she’d cherished a hope that it would grow to be more, that it would eventually grow to become real.

With her sisters beside her, she turned and headed up the sand dune to the path that led to her father’s house.

After seeing the girls settled, Emily started home. The solitude of her walk was in stark contrast to the trip to church that morning. Earlier, her heart had felt light. Earlier, Sonny had been by her side.

She kept replaying the afternoon in her mind, trying to make sense of what had happened, what she had said or done that had caused him to retreat the way he had.

There could be no mistaking the trapped look she’d seen in his eyes. Sonny, who was so good at hiding his emotions, had come close to falling apart in front of her.

When she reached the cottage, Sonny wasn’t there, but she hadn’t really expected him to be. She changed into her soft corduroy pants and a pullover sweater. Then she went through the motions of fixing supper. She set the table, then sat down and waited.

He didn’t come.

She put the food away untouched and returned the plates to the cupboard.

She pushed aside the kitchen curtain. Darkness had fallen. A single glimmer of light could be seen coming from the small lighthouse window.

So, that’s where he was.

It was a fitting place for him. He spent a lot of time there; he seemed drawn to it. And in a way, they were alike, the lighthouse and Sonny. Strong and alone, wrapped in their solitude.

Hadn’t she done all she could do? But for every step closer she’d taken, he’d taken two away. Sonny was like a prisoner who’d spent most of his life behind bars and was afraid to be set free.

She longed to go to him, to talk with him, but he was making it quite clear that he wanted to be alone. She must respect that.

She curled up at one end of the couch, tucking her feet under her. They hadn’t gotten a television, both agreeing that it was unnecessary. But now Emily thought she would have welcomed the distraction.

Perhaps what bothered her most about all of this was the sudden realization that she was no closer to him now than she’d been that day he’d pulled her from the water. It seemed as if she’d breached one wall, only to find there were hundreds more on the other side.

She wished he would trust her, share himself with her. He thought she didn’t know him, but she did. He didn’t have to tell her his deepest thoughts in order for her to know who he was. His inner self came through in a thousand different ways.

Time passed. She must have drifted off to sleep. She awoke all of a sudden, her head lying against her arm at an uncomfortable angle, a cramp in her neck. She sat there awhile, disoriented from falling asleep in a place other than her bed.

A flash of lightning lit the room, and she realized just why she’d awakened so suddenly. Thunder rolled in across the ocean, echoing off the rocky shore, rattling the glass in the windowpanes. The wind howled. Somewhere in the house, a shutter banged.

The first thing she did was hurry to Sonny’s room and flick on the light. His bed was still empty.

Rain poured in the open window. She crossed the room, closed the window and secured the shutter, her thoughts on Sonny.

Was he all right? What if he was hurt? What if he’d slipped on a wet step? What if he’d fallen and hit his head?

Coming to a decision, she hurried through the sitting room and out the front door.

Wind tugged at her hair. Rain slashed her face as she stepped from the porch, the unexpected chill of it driving the breath from her lungs.

Aided by the occasional flash of lightning, she ran up the slippery wooden walkway to the lighthouse. Fingers wet and stiff with cold, she felt for the latch, found it and pushed open the door to stumble into the small, circular room.

There was no electricity in the lighthouse. Hanging from a metal hook embedded in the stone wall was a hurricane lamp, its flame casting shadows across the small, tidy room.

Sonny hadn’t heard her come in, the sound of her entrance drowned out by the storm. He was standing at the casement window, his back to her, watching the lightshow nature was performing over the crashing waves.

He’d changed clothes. Instead of the gray dress slacks, he was wearing a ragged sweatshirt and jeans.

“Sonny.”

She barely spoke above a whisper, but he turned toward her, one hand resting on the wide stone sill of the window.

“Emily.”

His low, deep voice seemed a part of the rumbling thunder, blending with the storm. His eyes still held the remoteness she’d seen on the beach, their barren depths chilling her more than the rain could ever do.

Don’t do this to me. Don’t pull away like this
. She’d been so careful not to intrude on his space, been so careful to give him the distance he needed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. It seemed as if he struggled to pull his thoughts together—as if her presence in the lighthouse confused him. Maybe because in his mind he’d already left her.

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have come out in the storm. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

Can you, Sonny? Can you take care of yourself?

Not waiting for an invitation that might never come, she crossed the room to join him at the window, the wet soles of her tennis shoes making tiny squeaking sounds on the flagstone.

She peered through the rain and sea-spattered glass. The electronic beacon was doing its job, cutting a bright path through the rain, its light reflecting off the water, the clouds.

“When they first put the buoy out there,” she said in a desperate attempt to make conversation, to draw him back to her, “my grandfather said a part of him died.” With one finger, she drew in the condensation on the window. A droplet formed, then trickled down the glass like a tear. “At first, he didn’t trust it. At night, he couldn’t sleep for fear the light might go out.”

“Did it ever go out?” Sonny asked, sounding truly interested.

“No. I really think my grandfather wanted it to. I think he needed to know that he couldn’t be replaced so easily. I think he felt that the buoy made a mockery of his life.”

Sonny sighed. “Everybody’s replaceable. It’s a sad truth nobody wants to hear.”

She turned to him, watching his profile as he stared out at the churning water. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

He shrugged, as if to say he knew better and there was no sense in arguing.

“How can you say that?” she asked. “Look at all the lives you’ve touched.”

He turned—and it shocked her to see the ravage of years reflected in his young eyes.

“It doesn’t count,” he said, “unless they’ve been touched in a positive way.”

What had put such darkness in his heart? She was afraid it was her, afraid it was something she’d done, something she’d said. “You’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you?” she asked.

He made an odd sound, half amused, half pained. “There you go, mermaid. Reading my mind. I always knew you were magic.”

“So, you
are
leaving…”

“You have to look at it from my angle,” he said. There was a forced lightness to his voice, a stiffness in his posture. “I’m not used to staying in one place for very long.”

It was an excuse. She knew it. “I’m not magic,” she said. “But I wish I were.” If so, she would use her power to make him stay.

“Oh, you’re magic, all right,” he whispered. “You’ve cast a spell on me.”

“A spell?” She was unable to stop the beginning of a smile, glad that the conversation was getting lighter. She hated to see him sad. “What kind of spell?”

The distance was gone from his eyes. He was looking at her, really seeing her. And then, with his deep voice breaking a little, “I want you like I’ve never wanted anybody before.”

Oh, my.

In the same instant Emily was struck dumb with wonder, a jagged knife of lightning struck something very close to the lighthouse, a flash of brilliant light illuminating the tiny room. A breath later, thunder rattled the windows and sent shuddering echoes through Emily’s chest. Out on the open water, sparks flew.

It took Emily a few seconds to fully grasp what had happened.

Lightning had struck the electronic buoy.

Like Fourth of July fireworks, a shower of sparks arched skyward, then slowly drifted down to hit the water, sizzling out. When it was over, Emily strained her eyes, but the spot where the buoy was anchored was now bathed in total darkness.

“My God!” A multitude of disjointed thoughts raced through her brain. Must get help…call coast guard…get to a phone…it could be hours before help came. A boat could be passing anytime; a boat could be passing right now—

Sonny’s voice broke through the confusion in her mind. “Is there someone on the island—someone responsible for the light?”

“No.” She swallowed, the implications of what had happened sinking in little by little. “The coast guard only comes by for routine maintenance. There isn’t anybody. Even if we used Papa’s phone, it will be hours before anybody gets here. Maybe dawn.”

She knew it was wrong, but beneath the horror of the moment, Emily felt a quiet hurrah for her grandfather. His life had mattered.