The Rescue (26 page)

Still, she had to admit she was drawn to him. He'd stumbled into her life when she'd least expected it, in the most unlikely of ways. He was already more than a friend. But at night, lying under the sheet with the oscillating fan rattling in the background, she found herself hoping and praying that the whole thing was real.

"How much longer?" Denise asked.

Taylor had surprised her by bringing over an old-fashioned ice-cream maker, complete with all the ingredients needed. He was cranking the handle, sweat running off his face, as the cream churned, thickening slowly.

"Five minutes, maybe ten. Why, are you hungry?"

"I've never had homemade ice cream before."

"Would you like to claim some ownership? You can take over for a while. . . ."

She held up her hands. "No, that's okay. It's more fun watching you do it."

Taylor nodded as if disappointed, then played the martyr as he pretended to struggle with the handle. She giggled. When she stopped, Taylor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Are you doing anything Sunday night?"

She knew he was going to ask. "Not really."

"Do you want to go out for dinner?"

Denise shrugged. "Sure. But you know how Kyle is. He won't eat anything at most places."

Taylor swallowed, his arm never stopping. His eyes met hers.

"I meant, could I take just you? Without Kyle this time? My mom said she'd be happy to come over and watch him."

Denise hesitated. "I don't know how he'd do with her. He doesn't know her too well."

"How about if I pick you up after he's already asleep? You can put him in bed, tuck him in, and we won't leave until you're sure it's okay."

She relented then, unable to disguise her pleasure. "You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

"I didn't want you to have the opportunity to say no."

She grinned, leaning in to within inches of his face. "In that case, I'd love to go."

Judy arrived at seven-thirty, a few minutes after Denise had put Kyle in bed. She'd kept him busy outside all day in the hope that he'd sleep while she was out. They'd ridden their bikes into town and stopped at the playground; they'd played in the dirt out back. It was hot and steamy, the kind of day that saps the energy, and Kyle started yawning right before dinner. After giving him a bath and putting on his pajamas, Denise read three books in his room while Kyle drank his milk, his eyes half-open. After pulling the shades closed-it was still light outside-she closed the door; Kyle was already sound asleep.

She took a shower and shaved her legs, then stood with a towel wrapped around her, trying to decide what to wear. Taylor had said they were going to Fontana, a wonderfully quiet restaurant in the heart of downtown. When she'd asked him what she should wear, he'd said not to worry about it, which didn't help at all.

She finally decided on a simple black cocktail dress that seemed appropriate for almost any occasion. It had been in the back of her closet for years, still draped in a plastic sheath from a dry cleaner in Atlanta. She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn it, but after slipping it on, she was pleased to see that it still fit well. A pair of black pumps came next; she considered wearing black stockings, too, but that idea was dropped as quickly as she'd thought of it. It was too warm a night, and besides, who ever wore black stockings in Edenton, except for a funeral?

After drying and styling her hair, she put on a little makeup, then pulled out the perfume that sat in her bedstand drawer. A little on her neck and hair, then a dab on her wrists, which she rubbed together. In her top drawer she kept a small jewelry box from which she withdrew a pair of hoop earrings.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she evaluated herself, pleased with how she looked. Not too much, not too little. Just right, in fact. It was then that she heard Judy knocking. Taylor arrived two minutes later.

Fontana's Restaurant had been in business for a dozen years. It was owned by a middle-aged couple originally from Berne, Switzerland, who had moved to Edenton from New Orleans, hoping for a simpler life. In the process, however, they'd also brought a touch of elegance to the town. Dimly lit, with first-rate service, it was popular with couples celebrating anniversaries and engagements; its reputation had been established when an article on the place had appeared in Southern Living.

Taylor and Denise were seated at a small table in the corner, Taylor nursing a Scotch and soda, Denise sipping Chardonnay.

"Have you eaten here before?" Denise asked, scanning the menu.

"A few times, but I haven't been here in a while."

She flipped through the pages, unused to so many choices after years of one-pot dinners. "What do you recommend?"

"Everything, really. The rack of lamb is the house specialty, but they're also known for their steaks and seafood."

"That doesn't really narrow it down."

"It's true, though. You won't be disappointed with anything."

Studying the appetizer listings, she twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers. Taylor watched with a mixture of fascination and amusement.

"Have I told you how nice you look tonight?" he asked.

"Only twice," she said, playing it cool, "but don't feel you have to stop. I don't mind."

"Really?"

"Not when it comes from a man dressed as spiffy as you."

"Spiffy?"

She winked. "It means the same thing as goob."

The dinner that followed was wonderful in every detail, the food delicious and the setting undeniably intimate. Over dessert, Taylor reached for her hand across the table. He didn't let go for the next hour.

As the evening wore on, they immersed themselves in each other's lives. Taylor told Denise about his past with the fire department and some of the more dangerous blazes he'd helped to battle; he also talked about Mitch and Melissa, the two friends who'd been with him through it all. Denise shared stories of her college years and went on to describe the first two years she'd spent teaching and how utterly unprepared she'd felt the first time she'd stepped into a classroom. To both of them, this night seemed to mark the beginning of their life as a couple. It was also the first time they'd ever had a conversation in which Kyle's name never came up.

After dinner, as they stepped out onto the deserted street, Denise noted how different the old town seemed at night, like a place lost in time. Aside from the restaurant they'd been in and a bar on the corner, everything was closed. Meandering along brick sidewalks that had cracked over time, they passed an antique shop and an art gallery.

It was perfectly silent on the street, neither of them feeling the urge to speak. Within a couple of minutes they'd reached the harbor, and Denise could make out the boats settled into their slips. Large and small, new and old, they ran the gamut from wooden sailboats to weekend trawlers. A few were illuminated from within, but the only sound came from the water lapping against the seawall.

Leaning against a railing that had been set up near the docks, Taylor cleared his throat and took Denise's hand.

"Edenton was one of the earliest settled ports in the South, and even though the town was nothing more than an outpost, trading ships used to stop here, either to sell their wares or to replenish their supplies. Can you see those railings on top of the houses over there?"

He motioned to some of the historic homes along the harbor, and Denise nodded.

"In colonial days, shipping was dangerous, and wives would stand on those balconies, waiting for their husbands' ships to enter the harbor. So many husbands died, however, that they became known as widows' walks. But here in Edenton, the ships would never come directly into port. Instead, they used to stop out there in the middle of the harbor, no matter how long the voyage had been, and women standing on the widows' walks would strain their eyes, searching for their husbands as the ship came to a stop."

"Why did they stop out there?"

"There used to be a tree, a giant cypress tree, standing all by itself. That's one of the ways that ships knew they'd reached Edenton, especially if they'd never been here before. It was the only tree like it anywhere along the East Coast. Usually cypress trees grow close to the banks-within a few feet or so-but this one was at least two hundred yards from shore. It was like a monument because it seemed so out of place. Well, somehow it became a custom for ships to stop at the tree whenever they entered the harbor. They'd get in a small boat, row over to the tree, and put a bottle of rum in the trunk of the tree, thankful that they'd made it back to port safely. And whenever a ship left the harbor, the crew would stop at the tree and members of the crew would drink a dram of the rum in the hopes of a safe and prosperous voyage. That's why they call it the dram tree."

"Really?"

"Sure. The town is ripe with legends of ships that neglected to stop for their 'dram' of rum that were subsequently lost at sea. It was considered bad luck, and only the foolish ignored the custom. Sailors disregarded it at their own peril."

"What if there wasn't any rum there when a ship was on its way out? Would they turn the ship around?"

"As legend has it, it never happened." He looked over the water, his tone changing slightly. "I remember my dad telling me that story when I was a kid. He took me out there, too, to the very spot where the tree had been and told me all about it."

Denise smiled. "Do you have any other stories about Edenton?"

"A few."

"Any ghost stories?"

"Of course. Every old town in North Carolina has ghost stories. On Halloween, my father would sit me and my friends down after we'd gone trick-or-treating and tell us the story of Brownrigg Mill. It's about a witch, and it's got everything needed to terrify children. Superstitious townsfolk, evil spells, mysterious deaths, even a three-legged cat. By the time my dad was done, we'd be too scared to sleep. He could spin a yarn with the best of them."

She thought about life in a small town, the ancient stories, and how different it all was from her own experiences in Atlanta.

"That must have been neat."

"It was. If you'd like, I could do the same for Kyle."

"I doubt if he'd understand what you're saying."

"Maybe I'll tell him the one about the haunted monster truck of Chowan County."

"There's no such thing."

"I know. But I could always make one up."

Denise squeezed his hand again. "How come you never had kids?" she asked.

"I'm not the right sex."

"You know what I mean," she said, nudging him. "You'd be a good father."

"I don't know. I just haven't."

"Did you ever want to?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, you should."

"You sound like my mother now."

"You know what they say. Brilliant minds think alike."

"If you do say so yourself."

"Exactly."

As they left the harbor and started toward downtown again, Denise was struck by how much her world had changed recently; and all of it, she realized, could be traced to the man beside her. Yet never once, despite all he'd done for her, had he pressured her for anything in return, something she might not be ready for. She was the one who'd kissed him first, and it was she who'd kissed him the second time. Even when he'd stayed late at her house after their day at the beach, he'd left when he sensed that it was time to go.

Most men wouldn't have done that, she knew. Most men seized the initiative as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Lord knew that was what had happened with Kyle's father. But Taylor was different. He was content to get to know her first, she mused, to listen to her problems, to hang crooked cabinet doors and make homemade ice cream on the porch. In every way he had presented himself as a gentleman.

But because he'd never pushed her, she found herself wanting him with an intensity that surprised her. She wondered what it would feel like when he finally took her in his arms or what it would be like to have him touch her body, his fingers tracing over her skin. Thinking about it made something tighten inside, and she squeezed his hand reflexively.

As they neared the truck, they passed a storefront whose glass door had been propped open. Stenciled on it was "Trina's Bar." Aside from Fontana, it was the only place open downtown; when she peeked in, Denise saw three couples talking quietly over small circular tables. In the corner was a jukebox playing a country song, the nasal baritone of the singer quieting as the final lyrics wound down. There was a short silence until the next song rotated through: "Unchained Melody." Denise stopped in her tracks when she recognized it, pulling on Taylor's hand.

"I love this song," she said.

"Would you like to go inside?"

She debated as the melody swirled around her.

"We could dance if you'd like," he added.

"No. I'd feel funny with all those people watching," she said after a beat. "And there's not really enough room, anyway."

The street was devoid of traffic, the sidewalks deserted. A single light, set high on a pole, flickered slightly, illuminating the corner. Beneath the strains of the music from the bar drifted the sound of intimate conversations. Denise took a tentative step, away from the open door. The music was still evident behind them, playing softly, when Taylor suddenly stopped. She looked up at him curiously.