Pictures of Emily (5 page)

“Sonny! Wait!”

He stopped and turned and waited for her.

What on earth could she say to rectify what had happened? Nothing.

When she caught up with him, she handed him the jacket. Emily knew it was her fault, not Tilly’s. The child was only repeating what Emily had said not a week ago.

Emily reached for Sonny, but stopped before her fingers could touch him—an imploring gesture, begging his pardon for the unpardonable. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.” His voice was neutral, sterile and polite. “Forget about it. Go back to the house. It’s cold out here.”

“I did say those awful things, I can’t deny it.”

“Everybody has an opinion.”

“Yes, but that was before I met you.”

“That shouldn’t make any difference. I’m the same person I was a week ago.”

Oh, Lord. A sob rose in her throat. She clenched and unclenched her hands. “You saved my life! I’m so ashamed of myself. I never thought I was one to judge somebody on gossip before meeting him. I was wrong.”

“No, you were right. Absolutely right.”

Someone else may not have been able to detect it, but Emily could hear the pain that crept around the neutral edges of his voice. And it hurt her to know she’d hurt him.

Oh, Sonny. I’m so sorry.

A damp breeze curled around her legs, tugging her skirt, whipping it against her legs.

There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do. So she did nothing, said nothing.

He reached out and touched her very lightly on the cheek, the pads of his fingers barely skimming her skin. And in that touch she sensed regret—like someone who touches something he knows he can never have. “You’re crying,” he whispered with a sort of bewildered awe. His voice was so deep that it seemed she could actually feel it vibrating in her chest, around the ache she felt in her heart.

“Don’t cry, Emily.”

“I’m not.” She denied it, even though she knew it was true. All her life she’d cried other people’s tears.

“You
are
crying.”

He wiped a tear from her face, then draped his jacket around her shoulders. She reached up and grasped the collar, hugging it to her.

She felt rather than saw his eyes probing the darkness as he stared down at her, his warm hands on her arms. His next words took her by surprise.

“Are you real?” he whispered.

“I’m very real.”

“You feel real.”

“I’m real.”

Her heart was hammering. Her tears were forgotten. She thought about how his lips would feel, pressed to hers, and she suddenly felt dizzy.

His hands left her, and for a brief second fear stabbed through her. She was afraid he was leaving. But he lifted one of her hands, bent his head and pressed his mouth to her open palm.

When he let go, she curled her fingers, cupping the imprint of his kiss. She would keep it; she would save it forever. Sonny Maxwell’s kiss.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty.”

“So young.”

“Not so young.” She would have asked his age, but there was no need. She already knew he was twenty-eight.

He ran a finger along her jaw. Slowly. Drowsily…

“Have you ever been kissed?” he whispered, his words scaring and thrilling her at the same time.

She’d been kissed many times. By her sisters, aunts, her father, cousins. She’d even had a few dates, but the boys on St. Genevieve were in the market for brides, and she hadn’t been interested.

“Really kissed?” he whispered.

Things had turned. Earlier, she had control, but she’d since lost it. She was now in unfamiliar waters. “I’m not sure—” she said.

“Not sure?”

She sensed that he smiled. She could tell by his voice that he didn’t believe her.

“You’ve been—” she couldn’t believe she was asking this “—you’ve been kissed… a lot?”

“Not so many times. And never by a mermaid.”

“Oh.” What else was there to say?

He pulled her close against the warmth of his chest. She felt his hand cup her chin, tilting her face up while he lowered his to her.

Her lips parted in anticipation.

Her reaction was instantaneous. When his mouth touched hers, a languid heat crept through her veins, making her feel as if she’d drunk too much of Greta Svenson’s special cough medicine. She clung to his shoulders.

His lips were soft and gentle and full of tender reverence. She pressed herself closer, so close she could feel the hard, sinewy lines of his body, feel his warm, steady heartbeat beneath her breasts.

A shudder coursed through him. His mouth caressed hers one last time, then pulled away.

He took a deep breath. To Emily, the sound made her think of someone pulling himself together after a near collision.

“There. Now I’ve been kissed by a mermaid,” he said.

She could only smile, a little dazed.

“Goodbye, Emily Christian.”

“Goodbye.”

He turned and disappeared into the mist.

“Thank you for saving my life, Sonny Maxwell,” she whispered, her eyes blurring with tears, her throat aching.

Long after he’d gone, she stared and stared into the darkness. In her cupped palm and on her lips, she felt the imprint of his kiss. She was still staring into the mist when, only half-aware, she heard a door slam, then her father was beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Emily couldn’t ever remember a time when her father hadn’t been there for her. As a child, her lungs had been weak and she hadn’t been as robust as the other children. When she was sick, her father would sit beside her bed and read to her, or carve figures out of driftwood.

“I’m sorry, Emily.”

The Irish lilt that always crept into his voice during times of stress and high emotion was there now. “God knows, I’ll be forever grateful he was there to pull you from the water.”

It wasn’t until then that Emily realized she was still wearing Sonny’s jacket. She hugged it to her. “I’ve done a great wrong,” she said. “I prejudged someone I had no right to judge and my own spiteful words came back at me. A man’s worth shouldn’t be measured by how much weight he can lift, or how many loads of wood he hauls in a day, or how fast he can row against the wind.”

“I know, sweetheart. But you didn’t mean it.” The arm around her tightened. “Come in before you get sick. But I’ll have to warn you, the house is not a happy place to be right now. All three girls are yowling to raise the roof. Tilly because of what she said, Claire because she didn’t get the young man’s autograph, and Babbie because Tilly scared her prince away.”

For some reason, his words made her think of the fairy tale of Beauty and the Beast. No one could see past the beast’s outer shell. Even though Sonny was beautiful, it seemed he had the same problem. And she wondered if anyone would ever see the man within.

Emily sat in the dimly lit kite shop, head bent over the humming sewing machine. With a boot toe pressed to the foot pedal, she fed in red satin, folding the fabric as she went, making the dowel casing for the kite.

Her kite-making mail order enterprise began as a labor of love, but quickly grew into a thriving business—more business than she could handle. Rather than expand she’d chosen to turn down orders—which only seemed to make more of a demand for her creations.

She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been fascinated by kites. When she was a child her father would take her out in his fishing boat on lazy Sunday afternoons. She’d tie a string to the bow and fly the kite high above the ocean. But the ocean winds usually proved too strong for the delicate store-bought kites, so Emily began making them herself. Instead of using paper, she used cloth. And instead of string, she used fishing line.

The first kites she made were traditional diamond-shape. Later she tried more imaginative and daring designs. The dragon kite she’d lost the day she’d fallen from the wharf was her biggest and most elaborate undertaking.

Memories of that day just naturally brought with it thoughts of Sonny Maxwell. She’d tried but she couldn’t quit thinking about him. There had been something in him, in his eyes that seemed to reach out for something in her.

She came to the end of the fabric, took her foot from the treadle, cut the thread and shut off the machine. Then she stretched, straightening her spine and rubbing her lower back. Every muscle in her body ached, her eyes burned, and she’d had a headache all day. She wondered if she was coming down with something.

She got up and went to the cramped backroom that served as a makeshift kitchen. The clock on the wall read four forty-five. Four hours since she’d taken any aspirin. In fifteen more minutes she could lock up, but her day wouldn’t be over. She had an order to finish for a specialty store in Bangor, Maine. She’d promised to have a dozen kites in the mail by tomorrow and she’d never been late with an order before. She wasn’t going to be late with this one—not even if it meant staying up all night.

She filled a glass from the faucet and washed down two more aspirin. It hurt her throat to swallow.

She couldn’t afford to be sick. Not now.

It was no one’s fault but her own. She would have been done with the Bangor order by now if she hadn’t allowed herself to be distracted. Numerous times—too many to count—she’d found herself staring blankly out the window, thinking about a pair of stormy eyes, a pair of strong arms, a pair of warm, warm lips…

When Sonny had held her against his heart, when he’d pressed his lips to hers while the ocean roared and the night mist whirled around them, it had felt so right. So wonderful. If only…

The clock struck five, bringing her out of another daydream. Feeling a little irritated with her lack of self-control, she went to the front of the store and turned the Closed sign around. Through the glass she could see the purple unicorn she’d put out this morning. It was still flying high above the gray ocean. She sighed, wondering if summer would ever come, wondering if the sun had forgotten their tiny island.

She went down to the pier and brought in the kite. Then, before locking up, she looked outside to make sure no late customer was hurrying in the direction of her shop. The wooden walkway was deserted. She closed the heavy door, a gust of wind curling about her ankles, creeping up her woolen skirt.

Her eyes were drawn to the leather jacket that hung over the ladder-back chair. For the past two days she’d watched for Sonny, hoping he’d stop in looking for his jacket, but he hadn’t. And now she heard he was leaving. During the off-season the ferryboat came to St. Genevieve once a week—on Saturdays—and tomorrow was Saturday.

Tomorrow he would be gone.

Coming to a decision, Emily lifted the jacket from the wooden spindles of the chairback, took the key from the hook near the counter, and left the shop, locking the door behind her.

It wasn’t until she stepped into the lobby of the inn that she realized she’d have to ask for Sonny’s room number. And Kelly McFarlin was working the desk. Kelly was two years older than Emily and had a brood of four quite incorrigible little children, with another on the way. And nine times out of ten Kelly was the direct source of most gossip heard around St. Genevieve.

Emily had known better than to come here. Good women didn’t go to men’s hotel rooms. Maybe she should leave the coat with Kelly.

No.

She took a deep breath and marched up to the desk.

“Emily! What a surprise!” Kelly said.

She looked even more surprised when Emily asked for Sonny’s room number. As soon as the number left Kelly’s slyly smiling lips, Emily spun around and headed for the stairs, aware of the pair of curious and speculative eyes on her back.

When she reached the second-story landing, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She paused, a steadying hand on the wooden railing. The peculiar feeling passed almost as soon as it had come. Blaming it on nerves, she moved down the hallway. When she reached Sonny’s room she raised her hand, preparing to knock, but found herself unable to do so. Instead she had to fight the urge to hang his coat on the doorknob and run.

She forced her frozen arm to move, forced her knuckles to rap against the door. Then she stepped back and waited, the jacket gripped tightly in front of her.

She shouldn’t have come…shouldn’t have come….

The doorknob turned. The door opened. And then Sonny was standing in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. His sun- bleached hair was tousled. His eyes looked a little sleepy, as if he’d been resting, or sleeping, or—

Oh my.

She couldn’t help but think of some of the stories she’d read. Women went crazy over him. They attacked him. They craved him. They brazenly chased him. They waited in his bed for him.

Emily suddenly realized that she probably seemed no different than the millions of other women who wanted to be touched by Sonny Maxwell, who wanted to discover the sexuality his heavy-lidded eyes hinted at.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

He was watching her. Had any of her thoughts been mirrored on her face?

“Here—” Lest he think she’d come for any other reason, she thrust the jacket at him. “You forgot this the other night.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“Keep it.”

“No, I—”

“Go ahead.” He shrugged. “I have another one.”

“I couldn’t. It’s obviously expensive.”

An understatement. She could have purchased a new wardrobe for what the jacket must have cost. His languid body language said he was relaxed and at ease. But his eyes… He was watching her with an intensity that took her breath away.

He pushed himself away from the doorjamb, unfurling his arms at the same time. He took a step toward her, then stopped. One hand came up. Then she felt his knuckles lightly skimming her overheated cheek.

And the touch of his hand on her skin seemed… so …
nice
.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, the unmistakable longing in his voice surprising her. “Untouched,” he said.

His eyes roamed her face, her hair, back to her eyes.

She stood staring up at him. His eyes held secrets and wonderful promises. And his touch made her heart beat faster, louder.