CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On Saturday morning, Catherine finished cleaning the house, exploring the sensation that she was scrubbing not just mold off the shower and dirt off the floor, but removing Russell, too. As she tried to picture her husband moving home again, or to imagine Russell in bed with her or even cooking in the kitchen, she had trouble breathing. It felt as if a heavy animal, maybe a raccoon or a monkey, was sitting on the back of her neck, a dead, itchy weight that made it difficult to move.

It took a few hours of housework before the strange sensation disappeared. Her body was telling her what her mind had been having trouble acknowledging: She didn’t want Russell to move back in, no matter how logical that step might seem in terms of making a home for Willow.

She’d been too busy cleaning to eat anything. By noon she was starving, and her arms and legs were trembling the way they had when she’d had to take steroids once for poison ivy. She inhaled a quick lunch of canned soup and half a ham sandwich, washed down by more coffee.

Within a few minutes, she knew the caffeine was a bad idea. She was even more jittery. Or was that just nerves, now that she was finally ready to see Zoe?

Catherine had lied to Russell about Zoe giving her the address. The truth: she’d found the piece of paper after doing a thorough search of Willow’s room. Yes, she felt guilty, but she was desperate. And the paper wasn’t even hidden; it was folded in half and tossed onto Willow’s desk. She knew it was the right address because it was in Zoe’s round, loopy handwriting.

Salisbury made sense. Zoe used to surf that beach with one of her boyfriends, a guy from California with ear gauges as big as quarters. His earlobes had practically hung to his shoulders. Catherine had met him after tracking Zoe down on the beach one summer weekend when her sister had refused to come home. Zoe was only seventeen; their parents were out of their minds with worry.

“They treat me like a baby,” Zoe had fumed when Catherine found her on the beach. She was wearing a wet suit, and her blond ringlets curved in gold commas around her face. “They won’t let me live my life, so I have to run away and live it myself!” she’d cried, then whooped and ran into the crashing waves with her board.

Catherine had watched her sister surf for a few minutes, furious but envious, because she’d scheduled that entire weekend around studying for the SAT exam. Why did Zoe get to have all the fun?

Because you chose to be good, she reminded herself then and now. Zoe had made her parents so miserable that Catherine couldn’t rebel.

To Zoe, Dad would say, “You want to do what?” whenever Zoe described some of her outlandish plans for the future: to be a rock star, a fashion model, a doctor. “But that doesn’t even make sense,” he’d say. “Pick something sensible. God knows you probably won’t even get into college with your grades. Maybe it’s time you looked at hospitality programs, Zoe. Or secretarial schools.”

Catherine had tried to pick something sensible, a job she could do even while having a family. A career that would give her the flexibility to work part-time. She was thinking ahead, she told her parents. Nursing was perfect.

“I don’t want to have to go to school forever, so forget medical school. And I don’t want to have to work long hours like Mom,” she’d added pointedly. She had hated it that her mother’s job in public relations meant she was hardly ever home, even in the evenings.

“Now, that sounds like a sensible plan,” Dad had agreed about nursing.

Meanwhile, Zoe’s transgressions grew in number and severity as she got older: an arrest in middle school for shoplifting, a drunk-driving charge in high school, drug possession. Catherine couldn’t understand what propelled her sister to keep screwing up.

“Why do you always make the wrong choices?” she’d screamed at Zoe once, after Zoe lost her license for drinking and driving at seventeen.

“Why are you so boring?” Zoe had shouted back.

Thinking about all of this made Catherine decide to stop in Newburyport on the way to Salisbury and invite her mother to join her. Zoe would be less hostile if their mother were present for their conversation.

Besides, if Zoe was living rough, Catherine wanted her mother there as a witness and an ally. It was easy to imagine her sister holed up in one of those welfare motels along Route 1, maybe the one near Tiger Cubs, the strip club that advertised “Mini Mary” and “Tiny China.”

It took her less than forty minutes to drive north from Cambridge to Newburyport. The seaside town was all but deserted now that the summer day-trippers were gone; the Christmas shoppers hadn’t yet descended. Driving down High Street, past the stern white Federalist houses and the curvy Victorians with their turrets and grand porches, Catherine pictured women in long skirts and bonnets, their hands tucked into muffs, wandering the brick sidewalks beside men in stovepipe hats.

Catherine’s father had bought their Victorian on Water Street before the town experienced its resurgence in the 1970s and began attracting tourists and Boston commuters. It was a Queen Anne style and painted in three colors like the Painted Ladies in San Francisco: yellow clapboards with green and red trim. Her favorite was the turret overlooking the Merrimack River; this round space jutted out from one corner of her parents’ bedroom.

Her father had built a window seat there. As she approached the house, Catherine remembered now, with startling clarity, a morning spent sitting there with her mother. Both were in their bathrobes. They’d read the newspaper while snow fell on the river, pockmarking its smooth surface. The reason Catherine remembered this particular morning was because her mother had been so tense, chewing her nails as she read, biting them to the quick. Eventually her mother had started crying and had sent Catherine away. She still had no idea why.

Now she thought back to the strange conversation with Russell weeks ago, the one in which he’d claimed that her mother had had an affair, too, as well as her father. Catherine still had trouble believing this. Shouldn’t she have suspected? And yet she never had. As a child, and even as a teenager, Catherine had viewed her parents’ marriage as a foundation, one as immovable as their Victorian house. A house that had withstood countless storms since it was built in 1880, including one that had sent boats crashing up onto the riverbank when she was ten years old.

“Don’t you worry,” her father had said during that storm, as the wind howled and the windows rattled around them. “This house was built to take a thrashing. You’ll always be safe here.”

That’s exactly how she’d always felt with her parents: safe. How silly. They must have been unhappy with each other, at least during some of their long marriage. Otherwise, why would they have sought out other lovers? Now she wondered, on the heels of Russell’s offer, how they’d resolved those affairs and trusted each other again.

She pulled into the circular driveway and parked behind an oversized pickup truck with a Vermont license plate. What sort of workman would her mother call to come down from Vermont that she couldn’t find locally?

Catherine was also surprised that anyone would show up on a weekend. Yet, there he was, a guy in a green jacket up on a tall ladder. He appeared to be clearing leaves out of the gutter. Well, good. At least Mom was taking care of the house.

She didn’t bother knocking, just opened the front door and went in. Catherine smiled at the familiar homey smells of coffee and bacon. That was a good sign, too. For weeks after Dad died, her mother hadn’t cooked. Had hardly eaten. Grief must be loosening its grip on her as time passed, especially now that Zoe had reappeared.

“Mom?” Catherine called.

She heard footsteps on the second floor, a startled series of light thumps, and went to the bottom of the staircase. “Mom? It’s only me!” she called. “Are you decent?”

“Not exactly.” To her shock, her mother appeared at the top of the stairs in an unfamiliar bathrobe, something ivory and silky. Her mother’s short brown curls were tousled and her face was free of makeup despite the fact that it was early afternoon.

“Hi,” Catherine said. “Are you sick?”

“No, no. What are you doing here?” her mother said. “Did we have a date and I forgot?” She pushed the hair out of her eyes.

“No,” Catherine said. “I stopped by on impulse. Were you sleeping?”

“Yes. Just resting.” Her mother’s laugh was a nervous giggle. “Hang on. I’ll be down in two seconds. There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want.”

Catherine went into the kitchen, puzzled by her mother’s odd behavior. Her mother was usually up with the sun and never greeted company unless she was fully clothed, yet today she had a workman here and was wearing lingerie after lunch.

She poured a cup of coffee and went to the refrigerator for milk, then took a spoon out of the drawer. It was only as she started to put the spoon in the dishwasher that she noticed the two mugs and two plates on the counter. That was strange, too. Her mother had never tolerated dirty dishes in the kitchen.

She was rinsing the plates when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned, smiling, expecting her mother, but it was the man she’d seen up on the ladder. He was rangy and tall, well over six feet, with an angular, patrician sort of face and intelligent gray eyes. He smiled and stuck out a hand in greeting. “Hello. I’m Darcy.”

“I’m Catherine. Eve’s daughter,” she said, shaking his hand. Maybe he’d come in for a glass of water. Nervy guy, but at least he looked clean enough. “Can I help you? Did you need something?”

“No, no. I was just looking for Eve,” Darcy said.

“She’s upstairs getting dressed. She’ll be down in a minute.”

“I’m right here,” Eve said, coming into the kitchen, looking breathless, her hair combed but still not tidy. She’d misbuttoned her blue flannel shirt. “Hello, sweetie.”

When she saw the way Darcy was looking at her mother, Catherine suddenly got it. “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “You’re not here to work on the house, are you?”

“What? Why would you think that?” her mother said. “Oh! You saw Darcy outside. On the ladder. No, no. He’s not working on the house.” Her mother was blushing, even her neck bright red now. “Well, he is, but only as a favor. Leaves were clogging the gutters. He volunteered to clear them for me.”

“That was nice of you,” Catherine said, as the big black dog her mother had brought to her house wandered into the kitchen and gazed up at them hopefully, smelling bacon. “I like your dog.”

Darcy laughed and glanced at her mother again. “Not mine. My son’s. And now he’s your mom’s. Likes it here and plans to stay.” Darcy looked like he was about to reach for Eve’s hand, but she sidled away, broke off a bit of bacon, and fed it to the dog.

“What are you doing up this way?” she asked Catherine. “Nothing’s wrong, is it? Where’s Willow?”

“She’s with Russell this weekend. I’m on my way to see Zoe.”

“Oh?” Her mother’s voice held a note of warning.

Catherine ignored it. “Yes. I just, you know, want to catch up a little. I stopped by to see if you want to come with me.”

“Actually, I’ve already been there,” Eve said. “She lives in a trailer near the beach. It looks clean enough. I think she’s doing all right. I believe she’s telling the truth about not doing drugs.”

Catherine felt a ripple of tension across her shoulders, as if someone had dragged a wire across her skin. As usual, her mother was going to side with Zoe. She should have predicted that.

“My wild monkey,” Eve would call Zoe affectionately, whenever her sister ran around the yard, hooting and out of control. Their mother loved that streak of abandon in Zoe. She’d encouraged it. “Zoe’s not afraid of anything,” Catherine had once overheard her mother saying to a neighbor. “Catherine’s another story. She’s afraid of her own shadow, poor thing.”

“I hope you’re right about Zoe cleaning up her act,” Catherine said. “If she’s not, no way will I let Willow even visit her. I’m going to check things out for myself.”

“She’s living with someone now,” Eve said. “A man.”

“I know. I met him.” Catherine looked again at Darcy, whose weight was resting on one foot more than the other, so that his body listed slightly toward her mother’s. Yes, they were definitely lovers. God, this was uncomfortable.

“So, do you want to come with me?” Catherine asked.

Her mother shook her head. Her body had responded to Darcy’s subtly; she had cocked her hip in his direction while still looking attentively at Catherine. “No. It might be better if you saw Zoe on your own. Did you call her? She works odd hours.”

“No,” Catherine said. “I wanted to surprise her.”

“All right. Good luck. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will,” Catherine said, but as she left the house and the realization sank in that she was truly on her own, she felt slightly nauseated from fear. Hurt, too. Her mother had apparently moved on from her father and had easily embraced Zoe’s return. Catherine felt like she was inhabiting a completely different reality. Alone.

•   •   •

She found Zoe’s place without difficulty. Her mother was right: the trailer was well kept, at least the outside, and the trailer park appeared to be quiet, just a few modest vehicles parked in front of the mobile homes, children’s toys and bicycles in some of the yards.

Catherine stepped out of the car and smelled the bittersweet tang of the ocean. She could hear the surf in the distance. Tall, tawny marsh grass hemmed the trailer park. The grass shivered and whispered in the breeze. Seagulls wheeled overhead, like white boomerangs flung into the sky. The bright day mocked her dark mood.

Grey’s motorcycle was parked in the driveway, the only vehicle. So maybe Zoe did have a job. Catherine sensed that her sister wasn’t here. She should probably leave and come back later. On the other hand, this was her chance to see the real state of her sister’s new life.

She squared her shoulders and walked up the path leading to a narrow wooden deck that ran the full length of the trailer. It was easy to imagine sitting out here in nice weather, listening to the ocean and the trills of red-winged blackbirds.

The door opened before she could knock. Grey stood there in a white T-shirt and jeans, his hair loose around his shoulders, black and silky. Catherine took a step back and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, embarrassed by her desire to touch him.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you. I came to see Zoe,” she said.

“She’s not here.” Grey didn’t invite her in.

Catherine wanted to see the inside of the trailer. To know how her sister lived with this part-time gypsy. She still couldn’t believe Grey was only a friend. Zoe didn’t know how to be just friends with a man. She screwed them for fun or used them for something more tangible—money, drugs, a place to crash. Catherine had seen her do it all.

“When’s she coming back?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Mind if I come in and wait?”

Grey’s impassive expression finally gave way. Now he looked surprised. “That’s a long time to wait.”

“I drove a long way. Look, I need to talk to her. Does she really not have a cell phone?”

“She does, but she doesn’t like to give out the number to people she doesn’t trust.”

Of course that would include her only sister, Catherine thought irritably. “If I wait, will she see me, do you think?”

“Only one way to find out, I guess.” Grey finally opened the door wider and gestured for her to pass through it.

The living room was ordinary and clean, except for a few scattered magazines, mostly devoted to boats and motorcycles. A flat-screen television dominated the wall across from the couch, and in one corner by the window was a desk with a laptop open and humming.

The combined dining/living room was separated from the kitchen by a narrow counter. The feeling was more bungalow than trailer; the space was bright and comfortable, welcoming, with red knobs on the cabinets picking up the bright red poppies on the taupe rug beneath the dining room table.

“This is nice,” she said. “Are you renting it for the winter?”

“I own it.” Grey closed the door behind her. “I own the park, actually. I bought it as an investment. I have a house on the beach between here and Seabrook. My mother lives in that house now. I’m fixing up another place now. I’ll move in there soon.”

“Oh,” Catherine said, confused. “So you spend most of the year here?”

He laughed at her expression. “Zoe told you I was a gypsy, huh?”

She nodded. “I thought you must spend most of your time on the road.”

“Not all of us do. Can I get you a coffee?”

Catherine’s stomach was still sour from the coffee at her mother’s house and the shock of meeting Darcy. “No, thank you.”

“Want to sit down?”

She shook her head. “I think you’re right. A couple hours is too long to wait. I should go.”

Grey eyed her curiously. “You don’t look like you should drive. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. I might take a walk on the beach or something, then stop back, if that’s all right.”

“Anytime.”

“Thanks.” She turned around and opened the door again, welcoming the cooler air.

“Wait.” Grey grabbed his leather jacket from a peg near the door. “Why don’t I go with you? I could use some air, too. I’ve been working all morning.” He gestured toward the computer.

They followed a quiet street that paralleled the main road, and after a few blocks arrived at the beach. It was nearly empty, except for a lone surfer and a dog walker, and the tide was out, the beach wide and flat.

As soon as she saw the water feathering out on the sand, leaving silver tide pools behind as the waves retreated, Catherine felt homesick for Chance Harbor. How silly that she hadn’t stayed longer there with Willow and her mother to make the most of what could be their last days on Prince Edward Island.

The wind was stronger as they began walking along the packed sand toward the main State Park reservation. The dunes were gold in the sunlight and the water mirrored the deep blue autumn sky. The simplicity of these colors mocked Catherine’s complicated thoughts. She couldn’t think of anything to say to Grey. They walked for several minutes in silence. Finally, she asked him how long he and Zoe had been living together.

He didn’t turn to look at her, his profile fierce-looking with its black eyebrows and prominent brow and nose. “A few months.”

“And you were living with your sister down in Florida?”

He was silent for so long that Catherine thought he mustn’t have heard her. Finally, though, Grey said, “Yes. For a little while. Just until the end.”

“The end of what?” she asked.

Grey stopped walking so abruptly that Catherine took several steps beyond him before she caught on and turned around. “The end of my sister’s life,” he said.

Catherine opened her mouth, then closed it again, too shocked to speak for a moment. “But I thought Zoe worked with her,” she said finally. “I thought that’s how she ended up living with you guys.”

Grey nodded. Now he was looking away from her and toward the water, squinting a little. “Zoe and Sadie were friends from work, yeah. One day my sister went to a bar and nearly overdosed. A guy at the bar found Zoe in her contacts on her phone and called her when they took Sadie to the ER. Sadie didn’t want anyone to call and tell our mother what she’d done, so Zoe called me to come down to Florida to help. I got Sadie into rehab, and I invited Zoe to move into our house in Homestead. I thought that having Zoe there would be good for Sadie when she got out of the clinic. Someone who could understand what she was going through. For a while it worked. Then it didn’t. And then Sadie was gone.” He stopped talking and bowed his head, kicking at the sand with the toe of one black boot.

Catherine stood quietly beside him, facing the sea. A pair of cormorants surfaced, then dove and surfaced again, their narrow heads and skinny necks like black umbrella handles sticking up from the blue water.

“What happened?” she said softly. This was always the story she’d been afraid she might hear about her sister. It still was.

“Sadie overdosed. She was alone in her car, in the parking lot of the restaurant where they both worked. Zoe’s the one who found her and called the police. Sadie had gotten some heroin tainted with fentanyl.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He nodded and finally turned to look at her. His skin was brown with an undertone of gold, the same color as the damp sand they’d been walking on, as if Grey had grown up from the beach fully formed, like a tree springing forth from the earth. “It could have been your sister,” he said. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? But Zoe is stronger. And luckier.”

“At least so far,” Catherine said. The wind had picked up. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her body. “Zoe has always had luck on her side.”

“So far.” Grey smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All addicts are lucky until the one time they’re not,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go back. You look like you’re freezing.”

“No. I’m fine. Let’s walk some more.”

They went on for another few minutes in silence before she said, “So do you think there’s any chance Zoe will relapse?”

“There’s always a chance.”

“How big?”

“I don’t know,” Grey answered. “Zoe had been clean for several months by the time she met my sister. Sadie’s death really shook her up. She and Sadie were close. Like sisters.” He glanced at her. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. It’s fine. I know we’re not close. We never have been. I’m glad Zoe had somebody in her life who felt like family.”

“Why weren’t you?” he said. “Was it the drugs?”

Catherine thought about this. “Partly. We were close sometimes, as kids. Then Zoe changed.”

It was true. She had fond memories of her childhood with Zoe. At Chance Harbor, making cities for the snails and crabs they caught, jumping off the bridge at Basin Head Provincial Park, or looking for bottle caps and sea glass.

In Newburyport, the early mornings on weekends were theirs because their parents slept in. She and Zoe had made forts, invented pancake recipes with everything from chocolate chips to hot peppers. Dared each other to stand on their hands on the couch or go down to the basement alone in the dark. Despite being younger, Zoe won almost every contest. She was smart, quick, and fearless.

“Zoe could have done anything with her life,” Catherine said. “Something happened in middle school to change her. A boy, maybe. The wrong friends. We never really knew what it was. But by the time she was fourteen, Zoe might as well have been a stranger living with us.”

“She says she always admired you,” Grey said. “But I get the impression that she was afraid of you, too.”

“I was a snitch and never any fun,” Catherine said, hearing Zoe’s voice in her head. “She called me a flying monkey.” When Grey glanced at her, she said, “From The Wizard of Oz. Zoe accused me once of always swooping out of the sky to snatch her up whenever she was having fun. One year she even made me a hat like those monkeys wore, a cap trimmed in red felt cut in a zigzag pattern.” She smiled. “Zoe gave it to me for a birthday present and I thought it was pretty. Then she told me what it was and I cried. But Zoe was right. I was a snitch. My parents relied on me to help control her. I was more like another parent than a sister to her.”

“I get it. I had the same role with Sadie in our family. You can never let your guard down.”

“Exactly.”

By now they had reached the breakwater at the end of the reservation, near the mouth of the Merrimack River. So funny, Catherine thought, that they were standing across the river from Newburyport. From her mother’s house.

Her mother and Darcy. My God. Her mother had a lover. She felt the corners of her mouth turn up. Such a weird thought.

“Why are you smiling?”

Catherine felt her cheeks burn. She hadn’t realized Grey was watching her. “My mom. I stopped at her house on my way up here from Cambridge, and I surprised her with a gentleman caller.”

Grey’s dark eyes danced. “Good for her.”

“I know. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.” Catherine was laughing, and then she wasn’t. She was crying, crazy salty tears rolling down her cheeks.

“What is it?” Grey said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I can even explain what’s wrong. It’s just that I don’t recognize our family anymore. Everybody’s so different. So far apart.”

Grey reached out and pulled her close to him with one arm around her shoulders. Brotherly and warm. Zoe was so lucky to have him, she thought.

“Tell me,” Grey said. “Everything.” He tugged her gently until they were sitting next to each other on the sand and leaning against the stone breakwater overlooking the river. The rocks protected them from the wind and the sun was surprisingly warm.

Catherine leaned her head against his shoulder. Somehow it was easier to talk freely if she didn’t look at him. “My dad died in May—Zoe told you that, maybe—and it seems like my mother is moving on. She’s seeing this other guy, apparently, and she’s selling our summer house on Prince Edward Island.”

She stopped and swallowed hard, then went on. “It’s weird. I’m at work or whatever, doing just fine. Then I see someone who reminds me of Dad, you know, an older guy in the grocery store or walking his dog, and I fall apart. Or I hear one of his favorite songs and can’t move until the song ends. I can’t seem to get my head around the idea that he’s not with us anymore.”

“It’ll take time,” Grey said. “My dad died while I was in high school. I still have those moments when I see him walking toward me, looking just the same as he always did.”

“I’m sorry. That’s a tough age to lose a parent.”

“Any age is a tough age to lose a parent.”

Catherine felt sleepy and leaned in to him a little more. “Now Zoe’s back. I know you think of her as your sister’s friend, but she’d been gone for five years without a trace. I really thought she was dead. I’m happy she’s okay, of course, but everything seems very uncertain now.”

“Like what?”

She suddenly wondered if she could trust him. “Oh, I don’t know, like what Zoe might do next,” she said, and stopped talking.

“What else?” Grey said, nudging her with an elbow. “You might as well pour all of your worries and sorrows into the sea and let them be washed away by the tides.”

She smiled. “Is that some kind of gypsy creed?”

“It’s mine,” he said.

“Okay. Let’s see. There’s my husband, Russell. Well, maybe my ex, now,” she said. “That’s confusing, too.”

“Which one was he, that night I came?” Grey asked.

“The shorter one with the dark hair.”

“Who’s the other guy? The one who looks like a runner?”

“Seth. Just a friend.”

“He wants to be more, though,” Grey guessed.

Catherine turned to look at him, surprised. He met her with a grin. She jabbed him, not so gently, with her elbow. “He’s just a friend,” she repeated. “I met him when I treated his son in my clinic.”

“All right. Russell?”

“Russell was having an affair with one of his students. Now she’s pregnant and he’s living with her. But suddenly he’s saying he wants to move back home and give things another try with me. His girlfriend is kicking him out.” Catherine took a long, shaky breath. “I can’t believe I just told you all that.”

“I can’t believe you’re living all that,” Grey said, but his voice was calm and deep, as if the surf itself were speaking, washing gently over her.

Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of the surf dictate how she breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “I guess I needed to vent.”

He laughed. “Clearly. How do you feel now?”

“Much better.” She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. “Do you think Zoe’s back yet?”

“Only one way to find out,” he said, but didn’t move.

She didn’t move, either, aware of a slight shift in Grey’s posture. They were still sitting side by side, leaning against the rocks, but he was no longer simply supporting her weight against his shoulder. He was embracing her, curving his arm around her in a way that held her close to his body.

Her own body was responding, a warmth starting in her feet, oddly, that moved up, as if someone had put her feet close to a fire. Soon she was burning up, almost feverish, despite the fact that she hadn’t moved.

But Catherine wanted to move. She wanted that more than anything: to move from where she was next to Grey and straddle him, to look into his black eyes and hold on to his silky hair, to tip his head back so that she could put her lips and tongue on his throat, to feel him grow hard under her and slide her jeans down from her hips. To take him inside her.

All of that went so much more smoothly in the movies than it would go in real life, though, and she was being ridiculous. She didn’t even know this man. This boatbuilder and trailer park dweller. This friend of her wayward sister’s. This motorcyclist. This gypsy. She wouldn’t even know how to have sex with somebody who wasn’t Russell, whose every move in bed she could predict with 99 percent accuracy.

Catherine stood up and brushed off the seat of her jeans, looking down at Grey from a safe distance.

Except it wasn’t safe, not at all. Because he was looking back at her, and then he reached up and drew her back down, as if he were reading her mind, placing her gently on top of him and kissing her mouth, her neck, her collarbone. “Is this all right?” he murmured.

She glanced around the deserted beach and then rested her lips against his warm, sleek black head. “More than all right,” she whispered back, and began slowly unzipping her jacket, inviting him in.