PATRICK SAT IN BED, wearing a pair of cotton pajamas, looking—as he always did—fresh and clean. No matter that he'd been sleeping in those pajamas all night; they didn't even look rumpled. Lisa, on the other hand, felt rumpled and frazzled and bleary-eyed. She hadn't slept well at all, her dreams filled with dark, restless images of Matt Connell. She slid out of bed, grabbed her robe and headed toward the bathroom. Maybe she'd feel better once she brushed her teeth and splashed water on her face.
“Lisa, wait,” Patrick said. “Come here.”
Patrick was using his amorous voice. Lisa remained where she was, hovering by the door.
“We can't possibly,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked reasonably.
“This place is so small. There's not enough privacy.” The bed-and-breakfast they were staying at was a trim clapboard house run by Constance Valentine; the few rooms for let were all occupied, and situated snugly next to each other.
“We'll be quiet,” Patrick said with a roguish smile. An endearing smile, actually.
“We just…can't,” she said lamely. “I told Amy I'd meet her this morning down at her shop.”
Patrick's smile faded, only to be replaced by his astute look. “That's not the real reason you won't come to bed. Why not admit it?”
“Don't start,” she warned.
“Let's face it. There's someone else in this room with us. Your old flame Matt?”
Lisa winced. All she wanted was her toothbrush, and a little time to herself. “You're letting your imagination run away with you,” she said.
“Then tell me why we haven't made love since landing in this town.”
“It's only been two days, Patrick—”
“That's a long time for us, and you know it,” he said, perhaps a bit smugly. Since-they'd become serious in the past few months, their sex life had been…active. Patrick could justifiably commend himself on a certain expertise, as well as a certain enthusiasm. Lisa reminded herself how lucky she was to have a man so attentive and affectionate.
“Look,” she said. “You can understand, can't you? This town puts me off balance. Being around my family is distracting, at the very least. As soon as we're back in Connecticut, everything will be different—”
“At least you could be honest with me,” Patrick said. “Is the reason this town unsettles you because of your old boyfriend?”
Lisa almost groaned out loud. Why couldn't Patrick just let it be? “Matt Connell was never my boyfriend. Not officially, anyway. And it was all so long ago.”
“Then come to bed, Lisa.”
All she had to do was take a few short steps, and allow Patrick's arms to engulf her. The rest would proceed naturally enough. Perhaps if they did make love, she would finally be able to erase the stark image of Matt Connell from her mind—
Lisa turned and escaped into the small adjoining bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. She leaned against the sink, feeling her heart pound absurdly. After a moment she stared into the mirror, as if her reflection would give some clue to the turmoil inside her. She looked as awful as she felt—hair sticking out this way and that, skin pale, eyes watery. Yes, she looked rotten, but on the other side of the door was a man ready and willing to make love to her, nonetheless. She couldn't deny it—Patrick was a special person, an all-around great guy. And she knew she'd hurt him just now. He might put on the appearance of confidence and self-satisfaction, but she could tell he was genuinely worried about Matt Connell's effect on her. Which was why he kept testing that effect, as if to find out how serious it really was.
Patrick appeared to have forgotten one thing, however. Matt had made it clear he was no longer even remotely interested in Lisa.
She glanced at the closed door. All she had to do was open it and go to Patrick. It wasn't too late—not yet. She even reached out her hand, started to twist the knob.
But then she grabbed her toothbrush, put on a good dollop of toothpaste, and went after her teeth with a vengeance.
AMY'S SHOP, Rêve Rags, was a lot like Amy herself—full of color, vibrancy and life. Weavings in a rainbow of hues were scattered about. Bright chunky jewelry adorned the counters, and racks of clothing made their own splashes of color. Amy's considerable artistic talents were also in evidence: all along one wall was the mural she'd painted with the enthusiastic help of the young students in one of the art classes she taught at the YMCA. The mural vividly captured the tropical beauty of the town's pier and waterfront.
This morning, as soon as Lisa entered the store, Amy commandeered her. “I have just the thing for you,” she said, taking a gauzy turquoise dress from one of the displays. The next thing Lisa knew, she was in a dressing room, trying to make the turquoise gown behave. It seemed to have straps in all the wrong places. She gave up attempting to organize them and emerged from the dressing room.
“Amy,” she began, but her sister was already beside her.
“Let me do it. There's a trick to it” Amy turned Lisa around, gathering up a wayward strap here, a sash there, and ended by adeptly tying a knot at Lisa's waist. Then she stood back and regarded her sister with a pleased expression. “Perfect,” she pronounced.
“Any dress that needs instructions ought to be banned,” Lisa grumbled.
“I don't believe in censorship,” Amy said cheerfully. “But take a look at yourself.”
Lisa glanced into the full-length mirror nearby. This time her reflection was more presentable—her hair neatly combed, mascara and lip gloss doing their part. As for the dress…Lisa didn't know quite what to think. It was striking, she could say that much for it. All those straps seemed strategically placed—showing off her shoulders, accenting her waist, even giving her cleavage.
“You'll have to wear it for Patrick—it's a very sexy dress,” Amy declared.
“That wouldn't be a help right now,” Lisa said in a dour tone. Instantly, Amy looked perturbed.
“You and Patrick, you're not having trouble, are you?”
Lisa tried to picture telling her sister about the little episode at the bed-and-breakfast: as a matter of fact, I couldn't make love with Patrick this morning, and he seems to think it's because I still have a crush on the boy of my teenage dreams…
Lisa had never breathed a word about Matt Connell to either of her sisters, because the way she'd felt about him had seemed too fragile, too shattering to put into mere words. She'd guarded the knowledge of him, kept it to herself. Then, when the worst had happened, she hadn't known how to talk about it. Her silent burden had just grown more and more frightening, until she thought it would destroy her completely.
“Lisa—what's wrong?” Amy asked. “I thought you and Patrick were getting along so well.”
With an effort, Lisa brought herself back to the present. She glanced across the shop. Amy's partner, Grace, was out running errands, but her young assistant, Kieran, was working away at the computer. Kieran bent her head studiously over the keyboard, but she was probably listening to Amy and Lisa. Any self-respecting teenage girl would perk up her ears when the topic of conversation turned to men and love.
Kieran was Jon's fifteen-year-old niece. She had been a small child during the time Lisa and Jon were married, but now she was turning into a lovely young woman. Not that the road had been smooth for Kieran. Her mother had died some four years ago. And then, early last spring, her father, Nick—Jon's brother—had walked away from a drug rehabilitation program and hadn't been heard from since. Kieran had rebelled. Under the influence of an unsavory young man she'd met while cruising the Internet, she'd tampered with her school records and then pilfered money from the bank accounts of several local merchants, Amy amongst them. But this brief computer-crime spree had frightened Kieran, and the tight-knit community of Hurricane Beach had decided to give her a second chance. All the money had been recovered, Kieran's so-called friend run out of town—and Kieran herself placed on strict probation under her uncle Jon's careful supervision. So far, Kieran actually seemed to be flourishing under these new circumstances. Certainly she seemed fond of Amy, who would be her new aunt, just as soon as Amy and Jon managed to set a wedding date.
Lisa wondered what was keeping them from choosing a date. Did Amy still feel guilty about snagging Lisa's ex-husband? Maybe that was why she seemed so anxious for Lisa and Patrick to be a happy couple. Maybe she couldn't truly enjoy her own happiness until she was convinced her little sister's love life was all taken care of. If only it were that simple.
“Amy,” Lisa said. “Patrick and I are…fine. Don't be concerned about us. And instead of trying to reform my wardrobe, you should be thinking about your own wedding dress.”
Kieran no longer even made a pretense of not listening. She raised her head. “Yeah, Amy, when are we going to start shopping for your dress? You said we could do it together.”
“I don't know. Sometime.” Amy, usually so ebullient, suddenly seemed downright evasive. She started rummaging through another rack of clothes, pulling out a pair of billowy pants in an exotic print “You should try these on, Lisa. You're always too conservative in what you wear.”
Lisa saw the anxious look on young Kieran's face. Obviously the girl realized that something was wrong, too. Lisa took Amy's arm and propelled her toward the back of the store. There were some things Kieran shouldn't overhear.
“Amy,” Lisa said in a low voice once they were in the back room. “Tell me you and Jon aren't delaying the wedding because, well, because you think I'm upset about it.”
“You are upset, aren't you?” Amy challenged.
Lisa didn't know how to answer that question. She still couldn't deny that the thought of Amy and Jon together sent a peculiar shaft of pain through her. Lisa had failed miserably in her marriage to Jon…while Amy and Jon together represented what love should be. None of that was easy to take.
“It doesn't matter what I think or feel,” Lisa said, “and you know it, Amy. If there's something else going on with you and Jon, you'd better figure out what it is and do something about it.”
Amy didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she gave a shrug that almost seemed weary.
“There is something else,” she said. “It's…I can't talk about it. I really can't.” Amy headed abruptly for the front of the store. Lisa stood where she was for a second or two. Her sister routinely accused her of being too closemouthed, but now Amy was doing the same thing. What could be the matter between her and Jon?
Lisa didn't think she would find the answer lurking back here. She followed Amy, who was now holding up a scarf.
“Orchid rose is a wonderful color for you, Lisa, but stay away from mauve. Do you remember when we were kids, and I used to pick out all the clothes for you and Meg? I don't think you ever complained, but Meg did. She said I wanted her to look like a fluorescent lamppost.” Amy paused. “Do you remember, Lisa?” she asked softly. “There was a time, way back when…the three of us were close. We shared so much.”
Lisa did remember. As a kid she'd worshiped her two older sisters. She'd let Amy, who was three years older than Lisa, choose any number of fanciful outfits for her, and she'd always wished she could be as smart as Meg—two years older than Amy—who'd been one of the best students in school. Lisa had tagged after Amy and Meg, sometimes feeling like the awkward baby of the family, but always delighted to be let in on her sisters' adventures. All that, of course, was before she'd seen Matt Connell walking along the beach one summer's day.
Now Lisa observed the wistful expression on Amy's face. Lisa knew Amy wanted to recapture the closeness she and her sisters had known so long ago. But so much had happened since those days. Lisa had made a completely new life for herself in Connecticut. Meg had made a new life, too, far away in Nebraska—far away from Florida, where her young son, Derek, had disappeared some twelve years ago. On what should have been a routine, ordinary excursion to the shopping mall, fouryear-old Derek had simply vanished. The police had conducted a thorough investigation, but no trace of the little boy had been found. Meg, understandably, had a difficult time when she came back for visits, and always left as soon as possible. She, perhaps even more than Lisa, had reason to stay away. How could all the bad memories ever be forgotten?
Now several customers came into the shop at once, and both Amy and Kieran were instantly busy. That left Lisa to her own devices. She wandered to the window, gazing into the street. Gulfview Lane was three blocks long and ran parallel to the beach. The usual summer tourists were out and about, along with townspeople Lisa had known since she was a child. Maida, the owner of the art gallery, walked past, her little dog poking his nose from a patchwork tote bag. Lisa waved, Maida waved back. Lisa supposed there was something comforting about living in a place where you'd known everyone forever. She had just never stayed in Hurricane Beach long enough to find out.
She was turning away from the window, when she saw him. Matt Connell, carrying a bag from the Costas Family Bakery, and just about to pass right in front of her.
Lisa glanced wildly around the shop, seeking a place to hide. She considered diving under one of the clothes racks, but fortunately stopped before she could make an idiot of herself. When she glanced back at the window, she saw Matt gazing in at her.
She couldn't think of anything more awkward than this: she and Matt Connell staring at each other through a plate-glass window. Matt didn't make it any easier. He stood there, studying her without so much as a smile.
Her heart was doing that ridiculous pounding again. She cursed small towns, where you were always running into people at the most inconvenient times. And she considered, once more, the advisability of diving under the rack of billowy pants behind her.
Instead, she forced herself to behave rationally. She went to the door of the shop, stepped outside and caught up with Matt on the sidewalk.
“Hello,” she said coolly.
“Hello.”
She almost wished she could have the plate-glass window between them again. Now her view of him was too unobstructed. She saw the way his hair moved over his forehead in the gulf breeze, reminding her of the boy he'd once been. But his features were no boy's. They were a man's, hardened by the passage of years. Again Lisa had the disturbing sense that time had played harshly with Matt—and he had toughened in response.
Evidently he wasn't going to make small talk. He didn't say a word, not a single one. He simply went on gazing at her—almost gazing through her, as if she were something insubstantial in comparison to the weight of his own thoughts. She realized that she was barefoot, her shoes left behind in the shop. And she was wearing this flimsy dress Amy had insisted upon. It fluttered around her in the breeze. She had to hold on to the skirt to prevent it from doing something wayward.
The minutes stretched. Finally, Lisa focused on the bag Matt held.
“So,” she said, “you've been to the bakery.”
“Yes.”
Strike one for fascinating conversation.
“You should try their almond rolls,” Lisa said.
“I have.”
Strike two.
“I practically grew up on those rolls,” she said. “And then I married into them.”
Matt looked faintly quizzical. Strike three—definitely strike three. Why on earth had she said that? But it was too late now; she had to explain herself or really look like a fool.
“I married Jon Costas,” she said. “His family owns the bakery. We went to the same university.”
“I see,” Matt said in a noncommittal tone.
Lisa could feel her skin heating, as if the Florida sun had burned into her. She knew why she'd brought up the pitiful fact of her marriage. She wanted Matt to know that she hadn't waited around pining for him. No—she'd gone ahead and married, fresh out of college. Then she and Jon had moved to New York, far away from Hurricane Beach. Far away from memories of Matt Connell.
“Anyway,” she said, unable to stop herself, “Jon's back in town. He came to help out his family with the bakery and all, but now it turns out he's handling finances for a company that's setting up its headquarters right here in Hurricane Beach.”
“Impressive,” Matt commented, deadpan.
“I'm not trying to impress you. Obviously I'm divorced now,” she said irritably, “or I wouldn't be dating Patrick.”
“Obviously.”
Just for an instant she saw the humor flickering in Matt's eyes. But it was gone quickly, as if he had no real inclination for humor these days.
Matt could leave anytime, of course. He could say goodbye to Lisa and walk on down Gulfview Road. Why didn't he? Why did he stand here, allowing her to say one wrong thing after another?
“So, Matt,” she found herself saying next, “did you ever get married?”
“No.”
“Never even came close?”
“Never.”
“Good for you,” she muttered. “At least it's given you the chance to perfect one-word responses.”
Again the amusement, gone so quickly it was barely perceptible. “It's true. I'm not the greatest conversationalist. Maybe that's why I'm still single.” The edge to his voice conveyed that there were other reasons. But certainly he couldn't have lacked for opportunity; females had always flocked to Matt.
“How's your friend?” asked Lisa. “The one who likes butterscotch.”
Matt seemed to consider her words carefully. “She's all right,” he said. “But she's already finished the candy. It's difficult to keep her supplied.”
“A woman not afraid to admit she has a sweet tooth…I like that.” Lisa managed to speak in an offhand manner, but she felt it again, anyway—that spark of jealousy. “Well, have your friend try the almond rolls. She'll like those.”
“Think so?”
“Absolutely. Quickest way to a woman's heart.”
Matt shook his head a little. “I don't know. She likes sweets, but they're not good for her dentures.”
Lisa wondered if she'd heard right. “Dentures…”
“Of course, she didn't start losing her teeth until she hit seventy. Grandma Bea makes very certain I'm clear on that point.”
“You're talking about your grandmother?”
“That's right. Grandma Bea, the butterscotch lady.”
Lisa felt her skin burn all the more. She hadn't just made a fool of herself—she'd made a colossal fool. For twenty-four hours she'd been jealous of Matt Connell's grandmother.
“I suppose I should have remembered,” she said. “I knew you came here all those years ago to spend summers with your grandparents.”
“Why should you have remembered?” Maybe she was still imagining things, but his voice had sounded oddly gentle just then.
She turned to go back into the shop—she'd already done enough damage for one day. Then, over her shoulder, she said, “We keep bumping into each other. I suppose we'll see each other some other time.”
“Goodbye, Lisa.”
And there it was again. A finality to his voice, as if he did not expect—or care—-to see her again.
MATT SAW IT as he drove down the narrow two-lane highway out of Hurricane Beach. He was on his way to Tallahassee to meet with one of the Connell Brassworks' longtime distributors, but the sign at the side of the road caught his eye. Plane For Sale, it read in crude letters, and it was propped up against the side of a weathered but lofty barn.
Matt pulled over and got out of his car. As always, his knees protested at the various bendings and unbendings required of them. He ignored the dull ache that never quite seemed to leave him, and walked to the house a short distance from the barn. It was surrounded by live oaks, branches festooned with Spanish moss so that the trees looked like ladies wearing tatters of lace. Matt knocked at the door of the house a couple of times, but no one answered. Retracing his steps, he went to look through the wide doors of the barn.
The small plane inside was in a jumble of parts—the engine exposed, the fuselage stripped down to the frame. But it was an old Stinson bush plane, a sturdy little machine when in flying form, and Matt knew a pure, unalloyed moment of pleasure as he entered the barn. He pressed his hand along the side of the plane. Still solid, despite all the obvious years of neglect. This thing was meant to soar, not molder away here in the dirt.
Matt had been no more than a kid in New Mexico when the allure of flight had first possessed him. Later, as a teenager exiled to summers in Hurricane Beach, membership in the local aviation club had kept him from going stir-crazy. The same aviation club where he'd met Lisa Hardaway. She'd seemed to understand what flight could mean back then—freedom, exhilaration, a cutting loose from every earthbound tie. That had drawn Matt to her, as much as her shy prettiness.
She wasn't shy anymore. And she was no longer merely pretty. This morning, when he'd seen her through the window of that shop, her gold hair had cascaded around her shoulders, and every womanly curve of her in that turquoise dress had announced that this Lisa was someone to be reckoned with. A sensual person, but one whose inner strength could not be ignored. She'd gazed back at him through that window as if seeing him from a great distance—and he'd had the desire to touch her.
He had no right to touch her anymore. He'd probably had no right to touch her in the first place, back when he'd been an arrogant kid, full of himself… and full of the power flight could bring him.
Matt's brief moment of pleasure vanished. He was still in the barn with the little plane, but it no longer gave him any feeling of exhilaration. He hadn't flown since that day five years ago—the day his life should have ended.
For him, the freedom was gone.