IT WAS HIM. Blue-gray eyes, dark hair swept back carelessly from his forehead, as if the gulf breeze had had its way with him. Just as he'd had his way with Lisa, some fifteen years ago. Yes…it was Matt Connell, all right.
Lisa ducked behind the magazine rack at Thompson's Drugstore. She felt an odd, constricted feeling inside, and she had to force herself to take a steadying breath. This was absurd, she told herself. She was no longer an insecure, awestruck sixteen-year-old. She was over thirty. A woman with her own life now, her own career. Her own man. She tried to conjure up a reassuring image of Patrick. Handsome, good-natured Patrick, waiting for her back at the bed-and-breakfast. But somehow the image faded. And all Lisa could remember was a shimmering summer day all those years go, when she'd first looked into Matt Connell's blue-gray eyes, and known she would do anything to keep on looking.
Now, with an effort, Lisa reached out and picked up a magazine at random. She flipped through the pages automatically, pretending to be engrossed. She was hiding out in her hometown drugstore— and meanwhile, the very first love of her life, Matt Connell, was one aisle over. Suddenly she was tempted to make her getaway straight out the door. Or she could stay here behind the magazines until she was absolutely certain that Matt had left the place. In other words, she could go on hiding.
She turned and gazed out the window. The view was something that had often haunted her dreams: the boardwalk stretching all along the curve of the beach, the sands sparkling silver-white in the sun, the blue-green of the gulf waters, the old-fashioned cupola of the marina clubhouse rising on the horizon. And the wharf beyond…unseen from this vantage, but Lisa knew it well. That was where Matt had first kissed her, one magical summer's night.
She grabbed another magazine and headed down the aisle. She'd get what she had come for. She'd go about her business like a normal, rational adult, and she would forget Matt Connell. After all, she'd managed to forget him once before. She refused to look around as she went along, refused the possibility that she might catch a glimpse of him again. She found a certain row of medicines, and surveyed the choices available. Usually, she didn't have any trouble making up her mind about things, but even this minor decision seemed too complex at the moment. She read one label, then another, but not a single word seemed to make sense. She could feel Matt's presence in this small store, even if she couldn't see him. It was almost as if the humid summer air had bestirred itself, and now vibrated a warning to her.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered. She grabbed something in a box, hardly noticing what it was, then she set off down another aisle. And there he was, standing in profile before her. Matt Connell, his features etched in the uncompromising lines she had once known so well. Uncompromising…that had been the best word to describe him back then. Lisa was the one who had yielded, who had given far too much of herself.
Matt was no longer an eighteen-year-old boy, of course. He was a man. He had worn well with the passage of time, but he had worn. Subtle grooves had worked their way into his forehead, as if he'd grown accustomed to frowning. His hair was still dark and luxuriant, still curling a bit long over his collar, but the way it swept back from his face was different, giving him a new sternness. There was something rigid and aloof in the way he stood, apparently absorbed in his own thoughts. Obviously he hadn't noticed Lisa yet She had another chance to escape. She could just back away a few steps, turn and leave. This chance encounter at the drugstore wouldn't have to be an encounter at all.
Lisa actually did take a step backward. It was then Matt glanced up and saw her. He drew his eyebrows together as he studied her, looking faintly puzzled. And, with an unpleasant jolt, Lisa realized he didn't recognize her. Matt Connell, the person who'd once had the power to tear her life apart, didn't even know who she was.
She could still turn away. She could pretend she didn't know him. But some reckless pride prevented her from doing that. Instead, she moved a step toward him.
“Hello, Matt,” she said coolly.
The look of puzzlement didn't leave his eyes, but it mixed with what seemed a flicker of irritation. She sensed that he preferred to be left alone, and that made her more determined to stay.
“So,” she said in on offhand manner. “You're back in town, too.”
He didn't answer. She almost had to admire that he made no pretense at politeness. He didn't try to cover up the fact that he couldn't place her. He just gazed at her with that slight frown, as if waiting for her to go elsewhere.
She wouldn't oblige him. “I didn't know you spent the summers here anymore,” she said.
“I don't.” He spoke even these few words grudgingly. But she could tell that his voice had deepened, grown richer.
“I moved away a long time ago,” she said, and wondered why she'd offered the information. He was making it clear that he didn't want a friendly chat
He hadn't been like this once. Those many years ago, he'd been fully aware of his own charm, his own ability to entice. And he had used that ability to devastating effect. But the Matt Connell before her now seemed to have lost all tolerance for charm…his own or anyone else's.
What was making her linger here? Already he'd gone back to perusing the shelves of candy before him: gumdrops, licorice, chocolates, caramels. From the look of him now, Matt hardly seemed the type for anything sweet.
“Saltwater taffy,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Matt gave her only a brief glance, not even bothering to ask what she meant. His very disinterest compelled her to say more.
“You used to like saltwater taffy,” she said, managing to keep her tone offhand. “The stuff you could buy out on Conway's Pier. But they probably don't sell it anymore.”
“I wouldn't know.” Again he spoke reluctantly. He leaned down and picked up a bag of butterscotch candy, jiggling it a little in his hand. At last he glanced at Lisa again. “They're not for me,” he said.
Lisa understood immediately. The butterscotch was intended for some woman or other. Perhaps Matt was going to do flowers and candy—the whole bit. Why should that be a surprise? Even at eighteen, he'd understood the value of romantic gestures. Lisa despised the emotions swirling through her. Anger, and a baffling sense of longing she hadn't experienced in years. But what did it matter to her if Matt Connell was embarking on yet another summer affair?
She turned to go, only to find herself pausing and examining him once more. Admittedly, this Matt did not appear the type for countenancing romantic gestures. He stared broodingly at the butterscotches, as if they had offended him in some way.
“It's interesting,” Lisa said. “Women still do fall for that kind of thing.”
Matt gave her another quizzical glance. And Lisa wondered why she couldn't just leave the drugstore. Why did she have to go on standing here beside him, saying whatever came to mind?
She went on in spite of herself. “It's true,” she said. “Women, for some silly reason, still go for all the trappings. Valentines, red roses…even butterscotch.”
He seemed to consider this. “So,” he said, hefting the bag of candy from one hand to the other. “You think these will do the trick?”
“Absolutely. She'll fall for it.” Lisa heard the acid sound of her own voice, and realized she had to stop this conversation. “Well, goodbye—”
“I take it you don't fall for anything.” Again he spoke as if each word came reluctantly, as if he'd lost all inclination for small talk.
Lisa hesitated. “I've learned,” she said at last. “I'm not as foolish as I used to be.”
When he gazed at her this time, his look was enigmatic. Blue smoke, that was the color of his eyes. Lisa told herself to glance away, but she couldn't. She just gazed back at Matt, feeling that odd tightening inside. And suddenly she remembered exactly how it felt to be sixteen, aching for something you couldn't even describe, yearning naively for all your unspoken wishes to come true.
Somehow, she finally did glance away, focusing her gaze on the magazines and the small box of medicine she clutched. Matt looked at the box, too.
“It's not for me,” she said ironically. “It's for— a friend. Someone with…indigestion.” How mundane that sounded, how staid. Lisa tried to remind herself that there wasn't anything staid about Patrick Dannon, and anyone could get a touch of indigestion. -
Once again Matt seemed to give her words grave consideration. “Hope he feels better.”
Lisa felt herself flushing. It hadn't been her intention to inform Matt that she had a man in her life. That wasn't necessary. She could very well stand here on her own, and prove to him that she'd gone on, that what had happened fifteen years ago hadn't defeated her.
It seemed that, just now, she'd forgotten two rather important details. Number one, Matt didn't know the whole, painful truth of that long-ago summer. Number two, he no longer even remembered her name.
She gave him a smile she knew was tinged with bitterness. That much she couldn't help.
“Nice talking to you,” she said, proud of the negligent tone in her voice. “Hope the butterscotch does its job.” When she turned this time, she really did walk away. She was almost at the end of the aisle when he spoke, his own voice quiet.
“Goodbye, Lisa Hardaway.”
AMY WAS AT IT AGAIN—taking charge, behaving optimistically, as if all she had to do was whip up a family meal, and all problems in the Hardaway clan would be resolved. With a familiar mixture of exasperation and defensiveness, Lisa sat on a stool at the kitchen counter and watched her older sister move around. Amy washed lettuce in the quick, competent way she had, then began chopping celery. She smiled to herself as she worked. That was another thing about Amy—she seemed remarkably happy these days. And why not? She was engaged to be married. Her fiancé, in fact, was none other than Jon Costas…Lisa's very own ex-husband.
Lisa winced, just thinking about it. Her gaze strayed across the kitchen and into the living room, where a small group had gathered: Lisa's mother, Helene, Lisa's current boyfriend, Patrick, and Lisa's former husband, Jon. What a combination. From here, Lisa could see Jon as he leaned down to pet Sam, Amy's golden retriever. The dog thumped his tail appreciatively. It appeared that no one in the Hardaway clan had any problem with Jon and Amy's engagement. No one but Lisa.
She told herself that she ought to be glad for her sister. How often did two people find genuine love together? Just because these two people were Lisa's ex-husband and her sister, that was no reason to object—
“Lisa,” Amy said, her tone earnest. Apparently, she'd caught the direction of Lisa's gaze. “I wish you would just let me explain, for once.”
Lisa sighed. “I understand. The two of you fell in love. End of story.”
“No—it's not the end. Not as long as there's any chance I'm hurting my own sister.”
“Look, Amy,” Lisa said. “You shouldn't pay any attention to what I think. If you and Jon are right for each other, you should grab him and forget about everything else.”
“I can't forget about family,” Amy said stubbornly. “I can never forget about that.”
Lisa sighed again, and asked herself why she couldn't just put on a cheery face about Amy and Jon. That way, at least Amy would stop plaguing her with questions.
Here came another question—Lisa saw it forming on her sister's very pretty and very expressive face. “You told me you didn't love Jon anymore,” Amy murmured. “That maybe you never truly had loved him. You even have a new man in your life. So what is it, Lisa? Why is it that every time you look at Jon and me, you seem so…so uncomfortable?”
Why, indeed? Lisa glanced across at the living room again. She studied her ex-husband from afar. If anything, Jon had grown more attractive over the years, the premature silver of his hair only emphasizing his strong, clear-cut features. Amazing what love could do for a man, giving him an air of contentment he'd never possessed before. Certainly not when he'd been with Lisa.
Failure. That was what Jon and Amy made Lisa feel—a sense that she had been failing at love for a very long time now. It had no doubt been a mistake to marry Jon in the first place. But the mistakes went back even further…to the summer Lisa was sixteen, when she had looked into the smokyblue eyes of a boy named Matt Connell, and known that nothing about her life would ever be the same again.
Lisa realized that she was gripping her hands tightly on top of the kitchen counter, and that her sister was observing her with concern.
“Leave it, Amy,” she said. “For once, just leave it alone.”
Amy started to speak, but then, surprisingly, she let the subject go. She went to peer into a pot that simmered on the stove.
“The sauce is almost done,” she announced. “Lisa, find out what everybody wants to drink. I have sodas in the fridge—lime, cherry, orange— but don't forget the wine Patrick brought over last night. A nice man, your Patrick.”
Lisa clenched her teeth. She didn't know why it bothered her so much to hear Patrick referred to as “hers.” He was hers, the first steady man in her life in quite some time. And he was, admittedly, a good man. Maybe she finally had a chance to be successful at a relationship. So why did she feel annoyed?
Despite Amy's instructions, she remained where. she was, perched on her stool by the counter. It was time to discuss something besides her own love life. “It's no use,” she told her sister. “You can go through all the motions, gather us around the table—the works. You can even go on planning that big anniversary party of yours. But none of it will convince Mom to move back in with Dad.”
Amy paused in the middle of slicing a tomato, and gazed at Lisa. “Lisa, I wish you wouldn't give up on this. I thought we agreed that at least we were going to try—”
“No, Amy. You decided you were going to solve all Mom and Dad's problems. The rest of us are just along for the ride.”
Amy's knife attacked the tomato with rather more vigor than Lisa thought necessary. “I wish Megan were here,” she muttered. “I wish she didn't have to delay her visit till next week. Because she'll come round to my side—”
“Don't get your hopes up,” Lisa cautioned. “Megan is just as realistic as I am.”
Amy ignored this last comment. She began rummaging through one of the kitchen cabinets, turning away from Lisa purposely, it seemed. As always, Lisa was struck by her sister's vibrancy. Amy's long, strawberry-blond hair rippled down her back. She was gracefully tall—had been since junior high—and Lisa had never once known her to slouch. She always moved confidently, with her head up, as if she expected to see something wonderful off in the distance somewhere. And, wherever she went, she seemed to create a stir of color and warmth. Just look at her kitchen, brimming with such cozy disorder. Red and yellow and green peppers spilled across the counter, pans jostled each other for room in the sink and a Chinese hibiscus flowered extravagantly on the windowsill.
The old sensations came over Lisa—wanting to retreat from her sister's all-encompassing vitality, yet secretly admiring it. Lisa stood restlessly. She went to look inside the refrigerator and saw that Amy had indeed stocked lime, cherry and orange sodas. That was Amy, all right, never content with only one choice. She seemed determined to gather the world into her arms, refusing to admit there might be just a few limitations on how much she could hold. Lisa firmly closed the refrigerator door.
“I never should have let you convince me,” she told Amy now. “I never should have let you talk me into coming back to Hurricane Beach.” The very name of her hometown evoked unease, turmoil.
Amy started chopping the bell peppers. “Maybe, deep down, you're as concerned about Mom and Dad as I am—and that's why you're here. You won't admit it, that's all. Besides, it's not like I drag you here kicking and screaming all the time. Before last spring, you hadn't been back in ages. Doesn't that tell you something?” It told Lisa a great deal.
It told her that she'd made a new life for herself in Connecticut, building a career where she'd found some genuine meaning at last. It was only when she returned to Florida that the old discontents and longings threatened to overwhelm her. But how could she explain any of that to Amy?
“You'd never have come back at all,” her sister went on, “if Mom and Dad weren't making these ridiculous noises about a divorce—oh, damn.” The knife clattered down and Lisa could see blood forming around a small cut on Amy's finger. Amy cranked on the faucet and stuck her hand underneath the stream of water.
Lisa went to her sister and pressed a paper towel over the cut. “It's a miracle you didn't do worse damage, the way you had that knife flying around. Here—hold it like that. The bleeding will stop in a second or two.”
Amy gave her a considering glance. “You've developed a very reassuring tone. Are you like this with those teenage girls of yours?”
Lisa gave a small smile, feeling the tug of “her” girls in Connecticut. Young pregnant teenagers— defiant and difficult to the last one. But they were, after all, kids. And that meant occasionally they could surprise you with laughter, no matter how scared and lonely—and, yes, difficult—they might be.
“You know, Lisa,” Amy said, “I really think it's great how you founded that home for girls. It's so worthwhile—”
“Oh, I'm a regular model of virtue,” Lisa said caustically. No sense in telling Amy what a struggle it was to keep the girls' shelter open. It wasn't intended as a moneymaking endeavor by any means—and that meant Lisa and the partner who'd helped her found the home were constantly scrounging for donations. Lately, finances had become more precarious. Patrick had offered to help, but so far Lisa had turned him down. She didn't like the thought of complicating their relationship with money matters. She knew, of course, that she could go to her father for money, but she'd always hesitated. Whenever her father got a financial foot-hold in anything, he had a way of taking over. Somehow, Lisa would just have to come up with the solutions on her own.
“It is admirable,” Amy insisted. “All the good work you're doing—”
“Yes, I'm just a real whiz at saving the world,” Lisa remarked.
Amy shook her head. “You always do this. Someone tries to pay you a compliment, and you get sarcastic. Nothing's wrong with just saying thank-you.”
“I'll keep that in mind.” Lisa knew she was doing it again, heard the bite in her own voice. But she couldn't seem to help herself whenever she was around family.
Amy blotted her finger with the paper towel, then gave Lisa a hard stare. “Doesn't it drive you crazy, too? The way Mom and Dad are acting about each other… Surely you don't want them to divorce any more than I do.”
The truth was, the whole thing bothered Lisa a great deal. Her parents had been married almost fifty years. That was something solid, something irrevocable…at least, it was supposed to be. Maybe Lisa disliked coming home to Florida, but in a strange way it had always comforted her knowing that her parents were together. Merrick and Helene Hardaway—even their names sounded like a venerable institution. But a few months ago they had suddenly started arguing with each other. At first the reasons for their discord had been close and murky. Then Merrick had shown interest in selling the Hardaway beachfront property to a developer, and Helene had balked at the idea. The disagreement had escalated. Helene had moved out of the family home, and now Merrick scowled when anyone so much as mentioned his wife's name. What on earth was going on with them? They'd hardly disagreed about anything before. It was very disturbing, as if a foundation Lisa had trusted all her life was slipping beneath her feet.
She didn't know how to share any of this with her sister. So she merely sat down on one of the kitchen stools again, propping her elbows on the counter.
“Mom and Dad are kicking up their heels a little,” she said flippantly. “Why not let them— what's all the fuss?”
Amy muttered something that Lisa couldn't quite catch.
“You know what?” Amy said, louder now. “I'll go ask everybody what they want to drink.” She went toward the kitchen door, wrapping the paper towel around her finger. But then she paused and glanced back at Lisa. “It wouldn't kill you. Now and then you could actually admit you have feelings. Would it really be so difficult?” With that, Amy vanished into the living room.
Lisa wearily rubbed her temples. Whether she was talking to Amy on the phone, or discussing something face-to-face, she invariably ended up at odds with her sister. It seemed to be a special talent she had. And. like everything else regarding her family, Lisa had no idea what to do about it.
She sat and listened to the simmering of the spaghetti sauce on the stove. Left to herself at last, the thoughts she'd tried to submerge popped up again. Matt Connell… It turned out he had recognized her. Oddly enough, the knowledge gave her no satisfaction. All she could do was wonder who would be the lucky recipient of those butterscotch candies.
A woman…was that why he'd come back to Hurricane Beach? But the way Lisa had understood it all those years ago, Matt had known few people in town. He'd come from New Mexico to spend summers in Hurricane Beach with his grandparents, but he'd always been vague about even that much. Lisa had known so little of his personal life, which had made him seem all the more exciting and mysterious. The summer she'd turned fifteen—that was when she'd first seen him, walking along the beach. She'd been too shy to approach him. She'd just stood and watched how his dark hair lifted in the breeze, and how golden-brown his shoulders looked in the sun. He had seemed so unattainable, a boy you only dreamed about. But then he had come back to town the next summer, too, the summer Lisa turned sixteen.
She went to check on the spaghetti sauce. It ought to simmer a bit longer, she supposed she could finish the salad. She scattered fresh mushroom slices over the lettuce, but then she ran out of inspiration. Once again, she looked into the living room. Amy had knelt down beside their mother's chair, and was talking earnestly to Helene. Their voices were low, and Lisa couldn't catch what they were saying, but the conversation seemed too intense to be simply about lime or cherry soda. Couldn't Amy let up a little? No matter how much she wanted it, she couldn't force Mom and Dad to get back together.
Lisa's gaze flickered to the opposite side of the room. Patrick lounged on the sofa, regaling Jon with stories of the flight from Connecticut Lisa could all too plainly catch his voice.
“Lisa's certain it must have been the airplane food,” Patrick said. “But I told her that airplane food never disagrees with me. I'm used to traveling everywhere.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Everywhere but Florida, I suppose.”
Patrick looked pleasingly handsome as he sprawled on the sofa, his fair complexion perfectly complemented by his white cotton shirt. White was his best color, something he seemed to know well. It made him appear so clean. Lisa had never realized that before. Patrick always looked as if he had just stepped out of the shower. And he always smelled fresh, as if he had just patted shaving lotion on his cheeks. Why did that suddenly make Lisa grimace?
Jon sat on the other side of the sofa, listening to Patrick with an air of resigned patience. Then his gaze drifted toward Amy, and Lisa saw the unmistakable love in his eyes. She felt like a voyeur, witnessing a moment not meant to include her.
Swiftly she went to the opposite side of the counter so that her back was to the living room. She began slicing carrots for the salad, trying to concentrate on this one, simple task. Instead, she almost cut her finger with the knife. What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she just accept seeing Jon and Amy together? It wasn't that she begrudged their love. It wasn't that she still wanted Jon for herself. Whatever had existed between the two of them had died a long time ago. Maybe, if she were honest, what disturbed her most was that Jon and Amy were so right for each other. They were so happy, and it was the kind of happiness you couldn't help envying. It seemed something special, unique, the kind of emotion you believed in only when you were very young. Sixteen, perhaps…
“I told Amy I'd help with lunch. She's treating me with kid gloves, but I am perfectly capable of handling spaghetti.”
Lisa was startled by the sound of her mother's voice behind her.
“Mom…hi,” she said lamely. She and Helene had already exchanged rather awkward greetings today, but nothing they'd said had dispelled the long-standing tensions between them. Lisa had never experienced outright arguments or differences of opinion with her mother. No, it was something mote subtle than that, an inability to go below the surface with each other. Even as a child, Lisa had checked any extremes of emotion around her mother, knowing instinctively to restrain herself. Perhaps she'd simply wanted to please Helene. After all, Helene herself had always been so calm and gracious. Lisa had tried to emulate her, perfecting her role as the quiet, obedient daughter. But then she'd turned sixteen, and done something no obedient daughter ever should. She'd gone too far with Matt Connell—so far that a frightening new world had opened before her. If only she could have confided in her mother about it! But the training of her childhood had been too strong. Lisa had gone on pretending to be the quiet one, the one who didn't cause any trouble. No one had known her fear. Not her mother, not her father, not her sisters. Lisa had been alone in the midst of her own family, but that had seemed far better than risking the loss of her family's love. Back then, she couldn't imagine any of them loving her if they ever learned the truth.
She was an adult now, not the vulnerable kid she'd once been. What had happened to her at sixteen was something long buried—no need to bring it up after all this time. Nonetheless, the careful politeness she and her mother had observed for years was starting to show the strain. It manifested itself in uncomfortable pauses, sentences left dangling. Lisa wondered what would happen if she ever did try to have a real conversation with her mother. Not about Lisa's own personal life, of course—that would be just a little too real. But there were plenty of other topics that might take them below the surface. Would Helene be horrified at the possibility? Did she ever talk about emotions with anyone? Or was the problem simply one between her and Lisa, the youngest of her daughters? Lisa had grown so distant from all the family that she couldn't answer any of these questions.
Helene went to the stove and stirred the sauce. “Imagine,” she said. “Amy makes this from scratch. She stews the tomatoes, everything. It would be much more convenient just to open a bottle.”
Lisa almost had to smile at that. Amy's recipe for homemade spaghetti sauce had been handed down from Helene herself. All during the time Lisa and her two sisters had been growing up, Helene had taken pride in providing the family with homecooked meals. Now, however, Helene took pride in tossing frozen dinners into the microwave. It seemed to be one of the many small rebellions she'd embarked upon lately.
Helene took another pot, filled it with water and placed it on the stove. She cranked the heat on high. “I told Amy you and I would finish up in here. She needs to spend more time with Jon.”
Lisa glanced into the living room yet again. Jon and Amy now sat together snugly at one end of the sofa, chatting with Patrick. Correction: Jon and Amy were gazing into each other's eyes while Patrick chatted.
“Your Patrick seems to be a very nice man,” Helene said. Those were exactly the words Amy had used—“your Patrick.” And the phrase was still annoying. Lisa reminded herself how lucky she was to have Patrick.
“He is very nice,” she said. She tried to ignore what a bland word that was. “Nice.” It was the type of word people used when they couldn't think of anything else to say about someone. It was a word that they hid behind.
Lisa elaborated. “He's not just nice. It's more than that. He's…considerate. After all, he didn't really have to come on this trip with me. It took some rearranging of his schedule to do it. Which means he's supportive. And responsible.”
“I'm glad for you, dear. He sounds like a fine person, exactly the kind of man you deserve.” Helene uttered these statements in a formal manner, as if congratulating an acquaintance. Her expression carefully portrayed nothing more than benign interest. Lisa experienced a spark of irritation that surprised her with its intensity. Again she wondered what it would be like to have a real conversation with her mother.
Maybe it was time to find out.