Pictures of Emily (8 page)

She suddenly realized that in the few times she’d been around him, he’d never spoken a word about his family. Or very much about himself, for that matter.

But tonight she’d discovered something. Sonny took beautiful, sad, haunting photographs that the world should see.

She studied the wall again, now realizing that in all the pictures, there wasn’t a single photo of a person.

“No people?” she asked, hoping to sound offhand.

At first she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “I don’t take pictures of people.”

The strained remoteness was back in his voice.

Who are you, Sonny Maxwell? And what are you hiding behind those sad, secret eyes?

“This is one of my favorites,” he said, obviously changing the subject.

The picture to which he pointed was a lighthouse.

“I love lighthouses,” she told him.

This particular lighthouse had the caretaker’s home attached—unlike the lighthouse on St. Genevieve where the light was separate from the house.

“My grandfather used to be the lighthouse keeper on St. Genevieve,” she said. “I loved to climb the winding steps and watch him light the lamps.”

“Is it still in operation?”

“No. About ten years ago they replaced it with an electronic buoy. It broke Grandpa’s heart. He didn’t live very long after that. Keeping the light had been everything to him.”

She watched him as he thought over her words. “That would be tough,” he said, “to have such an important job replaced by a machine.”

“He used to tell me the most wonderful stories about ships and men who had been saved by the light. Grandpa never took any credit himself. It was always the light.”

“Who owns the lighthouse now?”

“The coast guard, but they’re trying to sell it. I’m afraid if someone doesn’t buy it soon it might be torn down.” She sighed, thinking about the plans she’d had. “I have to confess. It was my dream to be able to own the lighthouse myself someday.”

“I hope you do.”

She smiled a wistful smile. “Me, too.”

But she knew better. Because of her hospital stay, because of the bills she would have, her dream would never be more than that—a dream.

She reached up and straightened the picture. Before she could draw her hand away, his fingers wrapped around her wrist and gently brought it toward him. With a forefinger, he touched the purple-yellow bruise left by the IV needle.

“They had trouble finding my veins,” she said, thinking how ugly her skin must look to someone as flawlessly perfect as Sonny.

Slowly, carefully, tenderly, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the bruise. With her hand still near his mouth, close enough so she could feel the stir of his breath, he looked into her eyes and said, “That’s because mermaids don’t have veins.”

She laughed a little, but inside her heart was hammering madly. Here she was in the middle of nowhere, with a man she hardly knew. A man who was kissing her hand and staring at her with soft, heavy-lidded eyes. A man who had been labeled the sexiest man in the world, a man all women craved.

Almost as if he read her mind, he said, “I’d never hurt you, Emily.”

Her alarm subsided. Or had it been alarm at all? Maybe it was excitement that made her heart race and her breath catch.

“I’d never hurt you,” he repeated. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He let go of her hand. “You better get to bed. Dr. Berlin’s orders.”

She’d been tired earlier, but now, now she was wide-awake. Emily, who had never told as much as a white lie in her life, said, “I am a little tired.”

“The bedroom’s upstairs.” He lifted her suitcase. She thought about all the women he must know, all the women who had shared his bed. But not her. She hadn’t been brought up that way.

“Where will you sleep?” she asked.

His eyes went to the couch.

“I didn’t know I’d be taking your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“It’s okay. I can sleep anyplace.” He smiled, his eyes asking her to let it be okay.

What could she do but smile back?

Two days later Martin stopped by to check on his patient.

Emily was sitting on the edge of the bed, Martin beside her while Sonny hovered anxiously in the bedroom doorway. He didn’t like the idea of Martin unbuttoning Emily’s shirt, touching Emily’s soft skin.

Martin looked over his shoulder. “Would you give us some privacy?” he asked, his hand poised at the buttons of Emily’s shirt.

When Emily had been discharged from the hospital, Martin had taken Sonny aside and told him that there were no restrictions, that she could do whatever she wanted as long as it didn’t entail strenuous, heavy breathing. With that, he’d winked and Sonny had ground his teeth.

Now, thinking about that episode and Martin’s lecherous wink, Sonny was loath to leave the room. He should have taken Emily to somebody else, he thought, but knew he didn’t mean it. Martin was the best. And Martin would never do anything unethical. It was just that… damn, Sonny didn’t like him being so familiar with Emily. It scared her. Sonny could tell.

“Do you mind?” Martin repeated.

Emily and Martin were both watching him, Martin with a little bit of a smirk. Sonny could see that Martin knew he didn’t like him touching Emily. It was clear he found it amusing. Martin had a strange sense of humor. On the other hand, Emily’s expression was pleading and embarrassed. With her eyes, she was begging him to leave. Sonny realized he was making an uncomfortable situation even more uncomfortable.

He was poised to back away when Martin said, “Why not go chop some wood?” Humor still danced in his eyes.

He’d obviously seen the woodpile. Whenever Sonny’s thoughts focused on Emily, whenever he found himself dwelling upon the softness of her skin, the blueness of her eyes, about how warm and sexy she looked in his bed, about how her gown would creep up around her thighs while she slept… about how badly he wanted to make love to her in that bed, or on the soft clover near the brook… or under the pine trees…under the moonlit sky… Whenever he caught himself thinking of any of those things, he went outside and chopped wood.

So far, he’d chopped enough wood to last him several winters.

Arms crossed at his chest, Sonny pushed himself away from the wall. “I won’t be far,” he muttered, silently cursing Martin and his X-ray vision.

* * *

Emily heard the front door close.

Instead of putting the stethoscope to her chest, Martin got up, strode to the window and looked out. “There he goes. Straight for the woodpile.” He turned back to Emily. “How are you two getting along?”

Her hand hovered near the buttons of her blouse. How does someone get along with Sonny, she wondered. “He’s a very private person,” she said.

“No kidding. I first met him six years ago, when he donated money to add a children’s wing to the hospital. I consider him a friend, but I really don’t know him any better today than I did when we first met. But you’ve done something to break through that shell of his.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know him nearly as well as you do.”

Martin shook his head. “You’ve gotten to him somehow. This place is sacred. It’s his sanctuary. Nobody, I mean
nobody
comes here. Before you arrived on the scene, I’d never gotten past the porch. And now I’m only here because you’re here.”

He sat next to her on the edge of the bed, adjusting his stethoscope. She was hardly aware of the examination, caught up as she was in what he’d just told her about being allowed here—Sonny’s secret place.

“Sounds good,” Martin said, removing the stethoscope. “I’ll talk to Sonny about bringing you to the hospital the day after tomorrow. We’ll take some X-rays and if they look okay, we’ll send you home. How does that sound?”

Suddenly she wasn’t sure how it sounded. It would mean saying goodbye to Sonny.

* * *

The next day Sonny felt kind of silly, like someone reciting lines from a corny movie, but he asked Emily if she’d like to go for a walk.

She smiled up at him, and his heart thudded in his chest. “I’d love to.”

He’d never wanted anybody to see his place. Now, suddenly, he couldn’t wait for Emily to see his favorite spots.

They walked around the spring-fed pond where he sometimes fished. Spring was Sonny’s favorite time of year. Maybe because everything was new. The grass was at its greenest, the air its cleanest. But he didn’t share those thoughts with Emily. He could only give away so much.

“There are a hundred acres here,” he told her as they walked over the new grass. He wasn’t trying to impress her with the amount of land he owned—one hundred acres wouldn’t begin to keep a farmer in business. He simply used it to gauge the distance and space between himself and the rest of the world.

Emily laughed and asked if he was like Owl in
Winnie the Pooh
.

He didn’t get it.

She must have noticed his puzzlement, because she said, “Owl lived in the hundred-acre wood, remember?”

“Sure.” But he didn’t remember. He’d never read any kid’s stories. Whenever people made reference to a storybook character, he felt like a visitor from another planet.

He took her to his favorite place: Spring Hollow. It couldn’t even be seen until you were right on it—a huge opening in the ground filled with moss-covered boulders bigger than houses. Water poured from the side of one rocky crevice, cascading over delicate ferns and moss.

“It’s beautiful,” Emily said, her voice full of awe.

She meant it. He could tell. And he was glad that she liked it here. This was new to him, sharing the beauty of nature with someone. He felt a brief moment of panic, afraid for himself.

“I can feel the coolness from here,” she said, stepping closer to the side.

Sonny grabbed her arm, afraid for her.

“The hollow creates a cave effect,” he explained, gently urging her back. “It’s cool in the winter, warm in the summer. The Indians used to store food in some of those small caves.”

He would have liked to take her down to the bottom, where the waterfall tumbled into a crystal-clear pool. But the stone sides were almost straight up and down. And they were damp, slippery. It was a strenuous climb for someone who hadn’t been sick. Maybe another time.

Again he felt that strange disquiet as he remembered there would be no other time.

On the way back to the cabin, Sonny stopped to point out some plants that Emily may not have seen on St. Genevieve—plants that required shade and the protection of trees and mulch to survive harsh winters. He showed her a jack-in-the-pulpit and ginseng weed. He pulled a leaf from a nearby tree and handed it to her. “Some people say if you carry a hickory leaf in your pocket, it will bring good luck.”

“I think I’ve had my share of good luck already,” she said as she took the leaf.

It was getting late. The air was cooling. Emily should be inside.

Sonny knew what he was doing—trying to prolong the day, trying to save it.

“I have to go to the city tomorrow,” he said. “I have a meeting with Doreen.”

“Don’t worry about me. Don’t give me a second thought.”

But he would. A second and a third. He’d wanted her to look a little sad that he had to leave on what would probably be their last day together. But she was smiling, her eyes wide and honest, her face like an angel’s. “I’m glad I got a chance to see your place. Now, instead of thinking of you in the noise and confusion of New York City, I’ll remember you here—where it’s green and peaceful.”

He didn’t know why she would say such a thing, why it would matter where she remembered him. But he was glad that it mattered.

Side by side, they walked back to the cabin.

Sonny poured himself a cup of coffee and instantly regretted it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know any better. He did. Doreen was famous for her awful coffee. He took a suspicious sip. An acidic, hickory taste filled his mouth. He shuddered. “You trying to see if this will ferment?”

“Things get better with age,” Doreen said, leaning back in her chair, New York City skyscrapers framed in the window behind her. “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

He dumped the contents of his cup into the kitchen sink, hoping it wouldn’t eat up the pipes.

“Speaking of age,” Doreen said, “I went to see Martin Berlin yesterday.”

Sonny picked up an open bag of pretzels. “Oh yeah?” He hadn’t expected her to keep the appointment. She never had time for anything but her work. Sonny plopped down in the white vinyl couch, practically sinking to the floor. Cellophane crinkled as he pulled a pretzel from the bag.

“That friend of yours had his hands all over me.”

“Martin?” His head came up.

“Yes, Martin. Doctor Martin Berlin.” Doreen fumbled around, rearranging pencils in the pencil holder. “He made me take off my blouse. I’m too old to be taking off my blouse in front of a stranger.”

“Doreen, he’s a heart and lung specialist,” Sonny said around a pretzel. “He’s supposed to see you without a shirt. He’s supposed to have his hands all over you— you know that.” He held the open bag of pretzels out to her, but she shook her head.

“If you’d never seen me before,” she said, “how old would you say I was?”

So that’s what this was all about. Her age. He looked at her.
Really
looked at her. And he had to admit that she’d aged a lot in the last few years. Her hair was more gray than black, her face more fine-lined. It filled him with a vague feeling of alarm.

“You’d think old, wouldn’t you? Admit it.”

Sonny hedged. “What does age have to do with Martin Berlin?” Another thought hit him. He dropped the bag of pretzels and leaned forward. “Is something wrong? You’re not sick, are you?”

“He said I’m healthy except for being a little rundown. Nothing some iron tablets won’t fix.”

“Then…?”

She picked up a pencil, turned it sideways and closely examined the engraving. “He asked me out.”

Martin and Doreen? Sonny’s initial reaction was shock—they seemed totally incompatible. But the more he thought about it… They were both stubborn, both hard to get along with at times. They might deserve one another. “Look at it this way,” he said, “if you went out with him, he wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.”