Taste of Honey (32 page)

But now, as they kissed, she had the oddest sense of simultaneously being an onlooker, as if a part of her were in a dark theater watching this take place on screen. Scenes from movies flashed through her mind: Deborah Kerr on the beach with Burt Lancaster in
From Here to Eternity,
Sandra Dee and Troy Donahue in
A Summer Place.
That same part of her, the part watching, was feeling a bit smug as well, as if to say,
See? No problems here, folks.

Byron pushed a hand under her jacket. “You’re shivering.”

“Warm me up.” She burrowed into his embrace. Her fingers had thawed and she had no trouble unbuttoning his shirt. Lowering her head, she pressed her cheek against his bare rib cage. It was lean and smooth, almost hairless. An image of Matt’s thickly muscled chest matted with hair rose unbidden, bringing a rush of guilt.

She abruptly pulled away and wriggled out of her jeans. “Come on. Let’s.” She laughed, feeling the old thrill from long ago. “We won’t get caught. There’s no one for miles.”

Byron looked less than convinced, and she felt a moment of impatience—in the old days he wouldn’t have needed to be talked into it—then with a wicked laugh he was pushing her back onto the sand. When he shucked off his jeans she saw that
that
at least needed no encouraging.

Now he was in her, the heat from his body warming her inside the cocoon of the blanket. Oh God, yes …
yes.
It had been too long. This past week alone had seemed an ice age. In a burst of abandon, she rolled over so that she was on top. She caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes; she’d never been the aggressor (not that Byron expected her to be submissive). But now, as she sat astride him, the wind catching her hair and blowing it out around her face, she might have been a Siren luring some poor sailor to his death. She laughed out loud at the image, while beneath her Byron begged for mercy, saying breathlessly that if she kept it up he wouldn’t be able to hold out.

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Are you—?”

“Not yet.”

He groaned. “Oh God … I’m coming.”

She felt him pulsing inside her. Curiously she didn’t mind that she hadn’t come. In some ways it was better this way. She felt wilder. Freer somehow. She rolled off him onto the sand, the cold, wind-whipped air against her flushed skin intoxicating.

Mindful that someone could come along at any moment, they were quick to throw on their clothes. All the while she could see the question in Byron’s eyes: Where had
that
come from? Not that they hadn’t made love in some strange places. And not that she wasn’t capable of initiating it. But something had been different this time, something a less-trusting soul might have imagined to mean she’d learned a few tricks in his absence.

Her thoughts turned once more to Matt. Why did she feel unfaithful when they’d done no more than shake hands?

She scrambled to her feet. “I’m starving. Have you eaten?”

“Does half a bagel count?”

She grabbed his hand. “Come on, if we hurry we can snag a table at Manny’s. I have a sudden hankering for
huevos rancheros.
”

Then they were racing down the beach, the wind blowing her jacket out like a sail. Byron pulled ahead, knees pumping, sand spurting from his heels, grinning like a madman. Her heart swelled with love. She didn’t want him to be any different, just for him to see
her
differently. Was that too much to ask?

The following day Byron headed back and Kitty drove Claire to the airport. On the way they talked about Tea & Sympathy South, as they’d dubbed it. Kitty was planning to fly down the week of the opening. Until then they’d rely on phone, fax, and e-mail. Already Kitty had made arrangements with her tea distributor in Oregon.

“It’s all going to work out just fine, don’t worry.” She pulled into the terminal, skirting double-parked cars with the ease of someone who scarcely noticed they were there. She was dressed in her usual crazy-quilt assortment of layers, as if a wind had blown through her closet and she just happened to be standing nearby: a beltless red kimono over a tunic and drawstring trousers, a bright green scarf tied about her head.

“What could I possibly have to worry about?” Claire answered dryly. “Only six weeks to go, and we’re nowhere near finished. Not to mention I’m a nervous wreck.”

Kitty smiled reassuringly. “Par for the course. My first year everything that could go wrong did—the dishwasher died, I kept running out of things, and the girl I’d hired quit. Oh yes, and the chickens stopped laying eggs.”

“Chickens?” This was one story she hadn’t heard.

“I had the bright idea that with my own coop I’d save money on eggs. It didn’t occur to me that playing chicken farmer and running a tearoom were two very different things.”

“I feel like a fake,” Claire confessed. “As if any minute someone’s going to call my bluff.”

“Go on thinking that way. It’ll keep you on your toes.” Kitty pulled to a stop and leaned over to give Claire a quick hug smelling of spices. With her kimono sleeves fluttering, she looked like an exotic bird. “Bye, kiddo. And remember, it’s the chicken that comes first, not the egg.” Whatever
that
meant.

An hour later Claire was touching down at LAX. Earlier in the week, she’d phoned, and Matt had assured her that everything was under control. No surprises there, at least. What she was unprepared for when she stepped off the plane was the big, shaggy-haired man in jeans and a worn denim jacket who greeted her at the gate.

Matt strode over to her, a toothpick angling out from under his mustache. “I figured you’d need a lift.” As if he’d come from around the block, not two hours away.

Claire, too flustered to think straight, said the first thing that came to mind. “You didn’t have to. I’d have taken the bus.” He reached for her bag, and they wrestled with it a moment before she released her grip with a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It was nice of you to come.”

“Don’t mention it.” He tossed the toothpick aside, flashing her an easy grin. In clean clothes, with his hair neatly combed, hair that usually made her think of an unmade bed, she was suddenly seeing him in a different light—not so much Paul Bunyan as Sundance Kid. And from the looks he was getting from other women, she wasn’t alone in her opinion.

It wasn’t until they were in his pickup, barreling along the interstate, that she got up the nerve to ask, “Is it the house? Did something happen that you didn’t want to tell me about over the phone?” She imagined the roof caved in from a fallen tree, an exploded furnace, a flooded basement—maybe all three.

Matt shot her an amused look. “Do you always think in terms of worst-case scenario?”

She noticed he’d taken the time to shave, and for some reason it touched her. In the bright light bouncing off the hood she could see the little webs of lines around his eyes. He wasn’t as handsome or as well educated as Byron, but there was something so … well,
solid
about him.

“Force of habit,” she said, smiling a little. “When I’m not around, things have a way of falling apart.” She was thinking of her parents.

Matt cast her a sidelong glance. “How’s your mom?” He seemed to have read her mind.

“Sitting up doing needlepoint when I left.” Her gaze dropped. The hole in his pocket was large enough now to wiggle a finger through.

“A heart attack’s nothing to fool around with.”

“Actually, it was a false alarm.” Before Matt could comment she found herself adding, “But guess what, it worked—I came running, didn’t I?” Claire immediately felt ashamed. Had she really said that? Oh, God, what must he think.

But if Matt thought she was a terrible person, it didn’t show. “People do strange things in the name of love, even when they don’t know they’re doing them,” he said in a soft, considering voice. “Like this girl I knew in high school who got knocked up. When she told her folks, they went ballistic. Talked about disowning her and the kid, and how she might as well be dead. Well, to make a long story short, she lost it, the baby. Started bleeding right there on the spot.”

“What an awful story. Are you sure it’s true?”

He flipped on the turn signal and edged into the right lane as they approached the turnoff for 33. “I oughta know. I married her—the minute she turned eighteen.”

“That was your
wife
?” Claire stared at him. “Then …”

“Yep. My kid, too.” He shrugged, but she could see from the tightening of his mouth that he wasn’t completely over it, even after all these years. “The damnedest thing is they were right: It probably would’ve ruined our lives, though we did a pretty good job of that on our own. But, hell, I got two great kids out of it.”

“I guess that’s all that matters.”

The sky was beginning to cloud over by the time they made it to the outskirts of town. She said she hoped it wouldn’t rain, at least not until the gutters were replaced, and Matt had assured her there was very little likelihood of it this time of year. When he suggested they pick up a pizza on the way, she didn’t have the heart to say no. He’d gone out of his way to pick her up; the least she could do was see that he got fed.

The moment she walked in the door, she saw why he’d been so eager to accompany her home. The front room that had been in shambles when she’d left was swept clean, the wainscoting gleaming with a coat of wax and the newly installed shelves varnished. Claire did a slow circuit of the room, running her hand along the woodwork, breathing in the scent of turpentine.

“Oh, Matt, it’s beautiful.” She turned to him. “How on earth did you manage to get it done in time?”

“Me and Gil, we worked most of last night. I wanted to surprise you.”

She watched him place the pizza box gingerly atop the table by the door, and thought of the care that had gone into leveling every surface and hammering every nail. If this were a boat, it would be seaworthy.

Claire had a sudden image of Matt and her adrift on the open sea, and for an instant could almost feel the floor rocking gently beneath her feet—an illusion aided by the fact that she hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights. Outside, dusk had faded into twilight, and the ghost of a moon floated on a raft of clouds above the distant hilltops.

When Matt slipped an arm about her waist, she didn’t pull away. She dropped her head onto his shoulder instead, as if they’d stood like this on many a night, looking out at the lengthening shadows and listening to the call and response of dogs up and down the street. He smelled of shaving cream and pepperoni.

“Thank you,” she said.

Matt drew her around and put a hand under her chin, tipping her head up to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark and unreadable, glimmering with the reflected glow from the porch light.
He’s going to kiss me,
she thought with a mild panic that ran through her like a faint electrical current.
He’s going to kiss me and I have to stop him before he does because if I don’t
—

His head dipped. His mouth closed over hers, warm and firm, lips parting just enough to feel the tip of his tongue. His mustache tickled her upper lip, sending the current amping up a notch. Oh, God. She’d only just come from Byron’s arms … his bed …

Matt made a noise deep in his throat, holding her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. She could feel how much he wanted her, and all the resistance went out of her then. He could have picked her up with one arm and slung her over his shoulder like a goose-down pillow.

“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” she murmured.

“The kids are with their mom.” He studied her in the half-light, his eyes pooled with shadow, his mustache drooping at the ends. “Listen, if you’re not sure …”

She let out a cracked little laugh. “I’ve never been less sure of anything in my life.”

He grinned, his teeth white below the dark line of his mustache. “Should I take that as a no?”

“Would it matter what I said?”

“No, I don’t believe it would.”

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, cradling her head in one huge hand as his mouth moved lower, exploring her throat. The prickling of his mustache, coupled with the softness of his lips and barest hint of tongue, shot through her like sparks from a frayed cord. Small muscles and nerves buzzed below her skin. She was melting, her insides flowing downward.
This isn’t happening,
she thought in some distant part of her brain. But right now Byron was the furthest thing from her mind.

Matt unbuttoned her blouse and ran his thumb along the soft curve of a breast just above the line of her brassiere. She felt her knees start to buckle, and she might have sagged to the floor if he hadn’t been holding her so tightly. His hugeness made her feel small, almost dainty.

Silently she took his hand and led him into the bedroom. She hadn’t gotten around to buying a frame for her mattress—the old one, a hand-me-down from her parents, she’d left on the curb when she moved—but from the look on Matt’s face, it could have been a haystack for all he cared. She watched with a smile as he tugged off his boots, awkwardly hopping about on one foot.

Moments later they were lying on the mattress, their clothes heaped on the rug. They kissed some more, and she was reminded of when she’d been a kid in an amusement park, dizzy from the rides, not knowing which one to go on next. He guided her hand until she was touching him, but after a minute pulled away.

“I want to be inside you when I come,” he murmured.

Then he was touching her. Down there. And oh, how sweet … his big fingers that might have looked clumsy moving with expert feather strokes. The heat between her legs built to an exquisite point. She moaned, threading her fingers through his hair.

“Now,” she whispered. “Make love to me now.”

He groped blindly on the floor in search of his jeans. In the minute or so it took for him to fish out a condom and put it on, her head cleared and she thought,
Do I want this? Am I ready for what it will mean?

The hell with it,
a voice whispered back.

She gasped a little as he entered her—he was so big—then it was okay. He was going slow, taking care not to hurt her. She tilted her hips up, wrapping her legs about him. It ached a little when he drove in, but she was past the point of separating pain from pleasure. Yet Matt wasn’t in any hurry. She’d start to slip over the edge and he’d slow his strokes. When she couldn’t hold back a moment longer, she gripped hard, pulling him in tight.