Warm Hearts (51 page)

“When we started to see each other and I got to know you, I saw that what you'd said was right. Model or psychiatrist, you were the same man underneath. You were so open then, making up for all you hadn't said on the island. And right about that time I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite.”

“You? A hypocrite?”

“Mmm.” She breathed in his natural scent and was buoyed up by it. “For all my talk, I really wasn't any more honest with you—or myself—than I'd accused you of being. I did love you. I loved you back on St. Barts. When we made love, well, I played games with myself. I told myself that the only thing that mattered was the moment, that I didn't care about the past or the future. But I did. I should have been more open about my feelings then. I should have let you speak when I knew you wanted to.” She raised soulful eyes to his. “It was my fault that you didn't tell me about yourself. But I was afraid—afraid of what you might say, afraid that it might burst the bubble of illusion we'd created. It was such a lovely bubble. I didn't want anything to happen.” She looked down. “So you see, I was pretty bad myself. I created an illusion and clung to it as it suited me. But I was fooling myself to think that I could return to New York and forget you. I realized that during the cab ride home from the airport.”

Oliver skimmed her cheek with the side of his thumb and brought her chin up. “I love you, lady. Do you know that?”

Seeing it written on every plane of his face, she smiled and nodded. “You know,” she whispered through a veil of happy tears, “I feel sorry for all your female patients. If you'd been my therapist, I'd have certainly fallen in love with you.”

“If you'd been my patient,” he growled, rolling slowly over to pin her to the bed, “I'd sure as hell have been guilty of some mighty unethical thoughts.”

“Only thoughts? No acts?”

“Nope.”

“I'm not pretty enough? Or rich enough? Or thin enough? Why not?”

“If you want to know the truth, that sofa happens to be the most uncomfortable thing I've ever been on!”

“Oh? So you have … tried it out?”

He nipped her shoulder in punishment. “I've sat on it. I've fallen asleep on it once or twice.”

“Have you ever
made love
on it?”

“No. Maybe we'll try it sometime.”

“Aw, I don't know, Oliver. That might feel … unethical.”

“But you're not my patient.”

“I know, but.…”

“Tell me you're tired of me already.”

“Are you kidding? It's just … well … even though Diane won't be suing you, I think I'll always remember her threat. I'd feel guilty making love in your office. Your patients have problems so much more serious than ours.…”

Adoring her sensitivity, Oliver felt choked up. When he could finally speak, his voice was a husky murmur. “You're amazing, you know that?” Before she could answer, he sealed her lips with his own in a kiss so gentle and loving that she could have wept for all she did have. “It doesn't bother you then,” he mused against her mouth, “that I'm a psychiatrist?” He was thinking of her mother and what Tony had told him.

She sent her tongue in search of the corner of his lip, then smiled. “I'm proud of you.”

“You will have to meet my parents,” he quipped, recalling an earlier discussion about pride.

She remembered too and blushed. “I did wonder for a while there what kind of parents would be proud to have a gigolo for a son. Now that I know better, I'd love to meet them.”

“And you'll marry me?”

“I'd love that, too.”

He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly as he raked the length of slender flesh beneath him. “You are beautiful. Not too thin. Not too rich. Just right. When we get back to the city I'm going to buy you a silky white negligee. I'd love to be able to take it off.…”

“Oliver!” she exclaimed, delighted by the very definite effect the simple thought of it had on him. “You must have this thing for nudity. What would Freud say about that?”

He moved more fully on top of her. “I don't give a damn. Freud was nothing but a constipated old—”

“Shhhhh.…” She put a finger to his lips, then let it wander to his hairline, into the thick waves, around his ear to trace that silver arc. “I like nudity, too. Knowing that you were naked beneath that sheet in your ad nearly drove me crazy. Oliver?”

He managed a muffled, “Uh huh?”

“Will you stop … doing that for a minute so … I can speak?”

“Doing what?”

“Moving like that.” He'd begun to shift against her on the pretense of kissing her eyes, then withdrawing, kissing her nose, then withdrawing, kissing one earlobe, then the other. In essence his entire body was rubbing her in all the right places, and she'd begun to sizzle.

He stopped instantly, propping himself above her. “There. Better?”

Was frustration better? “Not really … except for speaking.”

“So … what were you going to say?”

“I wanted to, uh, to ask you a favor.”

“Shoot.”

She raised her hands to his shoulders and followed their progress as they slowly descended over his chest. When her palms felt the unmistakable tautness of his nipples, she stopped. “It's about your modeling. When we're married.…”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

She shot him a glance, then retreated. “I know it's silly of me to even think of this—”

“Out with it, woman, so we can get on with it!”

“I don't want you posing nude! I don't think I can stand it! I don't want other women seeing your body! I want you all to myself!” Running out of breath, she lowered her voice. “I told you it was silly.”

“It's not one bit silly, Leslie,” Oliver returned gently. “It's sweet and loving and possessive, and it pleases me tremendously.”

“Really?” she asked timidly.

“Really.”

“Because I love your body.” She slid her hands from his chest and ran them down his sides to his thighs. “I do love your body.” Lifting her head, she pressed her lips to the turgid spot that her palm had just deserted.

“It's yours!”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. There's just one little catch.”

“Uh oh. Here it comes.” She shut her eyes tightly. “Okay. Tell me.”

“I want
your
body. That's a fair exchange, isn't it?”

“I suppose.”

“What do you mean, ‘you suppose'? You're supposed to be ecstatic.”

“But … what about my mind? Don't you want that, too?”

“Your mind? Oh. That. Uh, well, let's see. We could always put it in a little box on the nightstand—hey, that tickles!”

“The ad was right, you know. You
are
a rogue.”

“Any objections?”

She smiled and spoke with confidence, serenity and love. “None at all, Oliver. None at all.”

 

Read on for an excerpt from Barbara Delinsky's upcoming book

sweet salt air

In hardcover in 2013 from St. Martin's Press

 

Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole's place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn't invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn't keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn't be left behind.

Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn't hurt.

Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn't know.

Then, like a vision, Cecily's house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn't see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn't parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

“You're trespassin',” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”

“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won't see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder's shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn't run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn't want the Feds threatening their cures.

Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn't smell it now, and she did know that smell.

Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.