THE AIR IN THE BARN was very warm. Matt's touch was warm, too, his hand cupping her cheek. As more tears spilled down Lisa's face, she knew they would wet his fingers. But she couldn't stop. It seemed she had been storing up these tears for a very long while, and they would have their way.
Matt just let her cry, and that surprised her. He seemed to be a man so drawn inside himself, one who would not easily witness displays of emotion in others. But he didn't move, didn't try to cover up this awkward moment His hand was steady against her cheek.
At last it was over. She didn't seem to have any more tears to spill. Stepping back, she bent her head and began searching through her purse for a tissue. She couldn't look at him, but the next thing she knew he had handed her a large white handkerchief.
She blotted her eyes with it. “Funny, but you don't seem the handkerchief type,” she said. Her voice sounded oddly scratchy to her own ears.
“They're a new addition to my life—Grandma Bea's idea. She used to send my grandpa to work every day with a fresh handkerchief, and now she seems to think she'll do the same for me.”
Somehow this prosaic bit of information almost set Lisa to crying again. She clutched the handkerchief, willing the tears to leave her in peace. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I don't usually do this type of thing.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Here was her opportunity, if ever she'd wanted it. She tried to imagine the words she would use. You never knew it, Matt, but fifteen years ago you got me pregnant. My world fell apart, and sometimes I think I'm still trying to pick up the pieces.
Abruptly she shut her mind to these thoughts. “No,” she said. “I really don't want to talk about it.”
He didn't say anything more, didn't urge her to tell him what the trouble was. It occurred to Lisa that if Patrick were here, he would behave in exactly the opposite manner. He would needle her. He would poke and probe at her emotions until finally he'd uncover the problem, and then he would proceed to resolve it. He'd tell Lisa how she felt, and how she ought to feel. But Matt…he just took another step away from her, that shuttered expression coming over his features.
“It's time for me to leave,” she murmured.
He didn't argue this time, either.
THE HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD schoolhouse at Connell Brassworks had been converted into a series of small offices. The job had been accomplished with a great deal of care. All the partitions were fashioned of rich dark mahogany, the doorjambs and baseboards ornately carved. The place always made Matt feel as if he had shrunk and landed inside one of those old-fashioned postal cabinets, the kind with myriad cubbyholes, nooks and crannies. Although the effect was appropriately quaint, it didn't make for a whole lot of privacy. The partitions did not reach all the way to the high ceiling, allowing sound to travel freely.
Matt walked down the narrow corridor to his cousin's office. He knocked, but didn't wait for an answer. Swinging open the door, he stepped inside. “Jo—”
Joanne sat hunched at her desk. She didn't appear pleased to see Matt.
“This is supposed to be a place I call my own,” she muttered.
“Jo, let's step outside for a talk.” He was offering her the benefit of privacy, but she shook her head.
“If you have anything to say, just get it over with here. I'm busy.”
His cousin didn't seem busy doing anything but nursing a bad mood. In the past few days, Matt had tried to be reasonable. He'd suggested that the two of them oversee the brassworks as a team. Joanne would have none of it, avoiding Matt as much as possible. Whenever she was forced to encounter him, she treated him to a baleful stare, just as she was doing now.
He gave it another try. “Jo, we're family. You and Bea and I, we're all that's left—”
“Well, you saw to that, didn't you, Matt?” Her voice shook, perhaps from anger or sorrow or both.
He couldn't argue with her. The old refrain still haunted him, echoing through his mind. I could have saved them—I should have saved my own family.
He waited a moment for the words to recede. Long practice had taught him that if he did wait, he would be able to go on—shutting out the past, and focusing only on the present moment.
“Don't tell me you barged in here to get chummy, Matt. What do you want?”
“You've gone too far, Jo, trying to fire Pete Martin. He's worked here over thirty years—”
Jo straightened. “I didn't try to fire him. I did fire him.”
“Consider him unfired.”
She pushed her chair back and stood. “You can't do that. You can't undermine my authority—”
“I'm in charge now,” he said quietly. “You didn't like the idea of teamwork, so this is the other option.”
Bright spots of color mottled Joanne's thin face. “Damn you, Matt. I know what I'm doing. Pete Martin is a lousy worker—”
“He's slowed down a little, that's all.”
“He'll have his pension—”
“He doesn't want a pension. He wants his job, and he's got it. From now on, all personnel matters go through me. Everything goes through me. Got that, Jo?” He didn't wait for an answer. He closed the door and went back down the hall. He knew that everybody in the office had heard his exchange with Joanne. He could almost feel the curiosity vibrating behind the other closed doors. The truth was, Matt had never wanted to be a manager. He had always preferred solitary endeavors, such as flying. But he hadn't flown in five years, and now he was the new manager of Connell Brassworks… courtesy of Grandma Bea.
He reached his own cramped office and sat down behind the desk. He tried to concentrate on the latest ad layouts scheduled for printing in the Victorian Quarterly Magazine. But Matt had never much cared for advertising, either, and eventually he set the layouts aside. All morning he had been holding a thought at bay. It had become too persistent, however, and now it broke through. It was the thought of Lisa Hardaway, standing with him in that barn yesterday, tears trickling down her cheeks.
AMY HAD ORCHESTRATED another of her infamous sleepovers: the three Hardaway sisters, bunking together, supposedly just like old times. But of course, it wasn't like old times. Amy wanted the reunion so the three of them could plan an anniversary party for their parents. She still hoped a big celebration would bring Helene and Merrick to their senses.
Meg had flown in from Nebraska only this afternoon. She possessed neither Amy's exuberance nor Lisa's tendency to sarcasm. Instead, she always seemed wrapped in her own intense concentration, everything about her turned protectively inward. Now she sat curled in a chair on the deck of Amy's beach house. Lisa occupied another chair, while Amy sprawled in the hammock, her faithful dog, Sam, lounging beside her.
The nighttime sky was a deep indigo, stars glittering like a thousand diamond earrings. As far as Lisa was concerned, this was the best hour on the gulf—the breeze cooled, all the bustle of the day over, nothing but the sound of the waves lapping on the shore. All evening Amy had kept up a determined chatter, reminding her sisters of “the way it used to be”—the closeness they had all supposedly shared long ago when they were kids. But neither Amy's effort, nor the beauty of the surroundings, seemed to do anything to foster closeness among the three sisters.
Lisa's gaze strayed to Meg. It was impossible to read her expression in the dark, and Lisa suspected that Meg preferred it that way. It was true that of the three sisters, Meg appeared to be the most composed, the most self-sufficient. But Lisa knew better. She knew that underneath the apparent calm, Meg suffered—would perhaps always suffer. Meg would never be able to forget that twelve years ago, her young son, Derek, had disappeared. One fouryear-old little boy—gone.
Lisa felt an ache inside. How did you live with a pain like Meg's? How did you go forward day by day? Maybe all you could do was immerse yourself in the small details of your life, stay so busy that you scarcely had time to think. Perhaps Meg could accomplish that in Omaha, where she worked as director of nursing at a retirement center. But here in Hurricane Beach, she would be faced too often with memories of her four-year-old son.
At last Amy struggled to a sitting position in the hammock. “We have to think of something!” she exclaimed. “Things are even worse, now that Mom's decided she wants to sell the property. What if that slimy Palmer Boyce actually gets his hands on it?”
Lisa stirred. “Aren't you exaggerating a little? This Mr. Boyce doesn't seem the least…slimy…”
“All he does is try to manipulate people,” Amy said. “Look at the way he flirts with Mom.”
“The way I understand it, she's done some of the flirting herself,” Lisa said. She spoke mildly, but she was disguising her unease. It seemed that Palmer Boyce of Silver Sands Development had been wooing Helene a bit, trying to make her agree to a sale. And Helene, from all reports, had responded to the man's attentions. Lisa knew she could feign indifference, but she hated the thought of Mom with anyone besides Dad.
“It will be horrible if Silver Sands takes over,” Amy said direly. “Just think of it—they'll tear down Sea Haven. We'd be losing our childhood home. It would be gone forever.”
“You make it sound like a tragedy,” Lisa said. “But wouldn't it be for the best? Sea Haven doesn't seem to make anybody happy anymore. Not Mom and Dad, certainly not the rest of us.” Lisa thought about the beautiful home where she had grown up—the rambling, Mediterranean-style house with its tiled roof and graceful pillars, its hurricane shutters that could be fastened securely against any outer storm. But the inner turmoil, that was something else. Sea Haven was the place where Lisa had silently faced the ordeal of a teenage pregnancy. It was also the place where Meg had cared for and loved her son right before he'd disappeared—every room no doubt reminding her of what she'd lost. Those were reasons enough to leave the family home behind.
“Well, here's a news flash for you,” Amy said. She paused dramatically, then went on. “When Dad and I were driving in to pick up Meg at the airport, he confessed something to me. It turns out maybe he's changed his mind. Now he's not so sure he wants to sell.”
This was news indeed. Lisa stood and went to lean against the railing of the deck. The humid, tropical air of the gulf surrounded her. “It's like Sea Haven's become a battleground,” she murmured. “Where will it end?”
“We have to do something, that's all.” Amy propelled herself out of the hammock and took up her own post at the railing. Meg joined them. The three sisters ranged side by side…but there seemed no unity between them. Sam whined a little. He got to his feet and padded over to his mistress. Amy reached down to scratch him behind the ears. “Don't worry. We'll think of something,” she told him.
“Amy, I'm not sure it's any of our business,” Meg said, a current of tension in her voice. “Maybe if Palmer Boyce buys the place, everybody will adjust and get on with their lives. All this arguing and criticizing isn't good for anybody. And I'm not sure the anniversary celebration is a good idea. If Mom and Dad want—”
“Listen to the way you're talking. With that kind of attitude, how will it ever be a success?”
“We can decorate Sea Haven with a hundred balloons and party streamers,” Meg said. “We can hire a band and bring in the caterers, and all the rest of it. But it still won't get Mom and Dad back together again. Don't you see that? Miracles don't happen. Impossible dreams don't come true.”
How desolate Meg sounded all of a sudden. Usually she kept her pain so well hidden, but now it threatened to spill out. Meg turned away from her sisters, and Lisa understood that gesture. She herself had turned away often enough.
“Amy,” Lisa said, “unfortunately Meg's right. We could hire a marching band, and it still wouldn't do the job, not if Mom and Dad don't really want to get back together. Look, we've agreed to plan this celebration with you…but you just have to know what the odds are, going in.”
“My sisters, the defeatists,” Amy muttered. She bent her head, staring at her clasped hands. “Except that maybe you're both right. Maybe dreams really don't come true.”
It was one thing for Lisa and Meg to be cynical, but to hear Amy express doubt didn't seem right. Amy was the eternal, incorrigible optimist of the family. She had always been that way, and certainly the world could not go on turning if she gave up.
Lisa and Meg glanced at each other in the darkness. For the first time in a long while, the two of them seemed to understand each other, even without speaking. Lisa turned to Amy.
“Okay, out with it,” she said. “You wouldn't be talking this way unless something bad was bothering you. Something besides Mom and Dad. And I'm willing to bet it's something to do with Jon.”
Amy gave an explosive sigh. “I don't want to talk about it.”
“You don't have any choice,” Meg said. “We're your sisters. You have to talk to us.”
Now Amy made a sound of disbelief. “Right. Like that's really counted for a lot in the last few years.”
Lisa and Meg exchanged another meaningful glance. It really was bad if Amy was starting to be snide about family.
“What's wrong?” Lisa asked. “Has Jon done something to hurt you?”
“Of course not. He's wonderful, really wonderful.” At least this sounded like Amy—overly fervent But maybe that was just a hazard of being in love. You praised the beloved to excess. You were dazzled by him. Lisa had never felt that way about Jon. She wondered if she could feel that way about Patrick. So far, the only man who'd had the capacity to dazzle her was Matt Connell.
No, she told herself fiercely. Don't think about him. A useless admonition, of course. Since yesterday, when she'd made an absolute fool of herself crying in that barn, Matt had shadowed every one of her thoughts.
“Amy, tell us what's wrong,” Meg said, making it sound like a command. And at last Amy spoke.
“It's Jon's family,” she said miserably. “His parents. They used to be so warm and friendly toward me. They accepted me…they embraced me. They treated me just like family. Until I decided to marry their son, that is. Now Jon's mother will hardly even look at me when I go into the bakery.”
“If it's any consolation,” Lisa said, “they didn't accept me, either. Jon and I went ahead and got married, anyway.” Too late she realized that these words were not the most reassuring to offer. “The Costas are a very tight-knit clan,” she added hastily. “They tend to get set ideas about who their kids should marry. You shouldn't take it personally, and you shouldn't let it stop you from doing what you want.”
Amy's head came up. “Lisa, can you honestly tell me that Jon's family wasn't a problem in your marriage? Can you really say that?”
It struck Lisa that she had maneuvered herself into a humiliating position. She was attempting to give romantic advice about her ex-husband. “Your situation really isn't the same,” she hedged.
“Same man, same tight-knit family,” Amy said. “Only the bride is changing, and maybe not enough. After all, I am your sister.” Her voice wavered. That drew both Lisa and Meg a little closer to her. Neither one, however, seemed to know how to offer comfort to Amy. All three sisters now stood in an awkward little circle, not touching, and for a long moment not speaking. The light cascading from the kitchen window onto the deck did not reach them, making it too easy to continue hiding their expressions from one another.
“Oh, heck,” Lisa said a bit desperately. “You may be right. Perhaps Jon's parents are afraid he's already had enough grief, being married to one Hardaway girl. Amy, all you have to do is prove that you'll do the job better than I ever did. Prove to the Costas that you're the right Hardaway for Jon. And if they still can't accept you, then it's just too bad! You're not marrying his family.”
Again Lisa hadn't said the right words, and she knew it. Amy reached out and gripped the railing in front of her. Now Meg spoke.
“I never had a chance to find out if my in-laws were interfering. After all, Noah never knew his” own parents. It was just the two of us, and…it was just the two of us, trying to make things work.”
Lisa couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Meg utter the name of her husband. Technically, Noah Carson was still Meg's husband, although the two of them had lived apart for years. Their marriage simply hadn't been able to survive the strain of their son's disappearance.
“Anyway,” Meg went on softly to Amy, “I guess I'm just trying to tell you that any marriage is a gamble, whether you have in-laws to worry about or—whatever. I think you're scared because you know it's a risk. But you can't let that stop you. Take the risk, Amy. Be the one Hardaway who proves that love can endure.” Hopeful words, perhaps, but they seemed to carry the weight of all the Hardaways who hadn't endured. They conjured up Lisa's failed marriage, as well as the husband Meg hadn't spoken to in years…and the problems that threatened to tear Helene and Merrick apart.
Amy bent her head once more. “I don't know,” she whispered. “Oh, Meg—Lisa. I just don't know what to do.”
MATT WALKED into the barn, carrying the bulky tool chest that had once belonged to his grandfather. He'd unearthed it at the brassworks, opened it and found all manner of pliers, wrenches, screwdrivers, nuts and bolts, gaskets and grommets. He knew that he'd need a whole lot more tools as he began working on the plane, but his grandfather's tool chest was a good start. He suspected Grandpa Connell would approve of the task Matt was undertaking—restoring something, preserving the past.
Matt set down the chest and surveyed the scattered parts of the plane. It was going to be quite a job. Rebuilding the engine…stripping old paint from the frame…priming and bodywork… He wasn't going to rush any of these endeavors. He'd take his time with each step, while planning the next.
Matt squatted by one of the landing-gear wheels. His knees didn't like that at all, but he ignored them. He scanned the underbelly. No corrosion, and the airframe looked sturdy. You had that beat, and you could pretty much take care of any other problems.
Despite his best efforts, his thoughts drifted back in time. As early as he could remember, the one thing he'd always been able to share with his father was the way they both felt about planes. When it came to anything else, they hadn't seemed to agree. But flying…
Matt hadn't meant to think about his father. He hadn't meant to stir up memories best left forgotten. The way he and his dad didn't need to talk when they flew together. The way his mother would pack a big lunch for them to take on their day-long excursions in the air. The way Matt's young sister clamored to join them—
Matt stood abruptly. As if closing a door, he tried to shut off the memories. It wasn't easy. It was never easy, but this time it seemed worse. The memories were more insistent.
“Hello, Matt.” It was Lisa's voice, cool and controlled. Feeling oddly disoriented, he turned and saw her step into the barn. He hadn't expected to see her again, especially not here. He gazed at her, at the soft gold hair waving back from her face, the deep brown of her eyes, the slim yet sensuous curves of her body in the sleeveless dress she wore. It wouldn't matter what she was wearing—she would look desirable. She would also look like someone Matt wasn't supposed to desire. Not anymore.
He rubbed the back of his neck, attempting to ease the stiffness there. Different parts of him were sore at any given time; he had learned to accept that, using the methods he had been taught by a string of physical therapists. Exercise, massage, more exercise. It had all helped him to stay focused on one moment at a time. Don't look back, don't look forward.
With Lisa, however, he had a tendency to do both. He looked back on the brief time they'd spent together, one summer in Hurricane Beach. And he knew that his future, whatever else it held, would not have Lisa. He didn't like the way that realization disturbed him.
“I took a chance that I'd find you here,” she said.
“It was a pretty safe bet. I'm usually here when I'm not at the brassworks.”
“The Connell Brassworks,” she said. “I suppose I made the connection, but I never really thought about it much. I didn't talk about my family—you didn't talk about yours.”
He understood what she meant. When they were teenagers, they had made an unspoken agreement to live in a world apart from their ordinary concerns. They'd shared only two things. The aviation club…and sex.
Matt swore to himself for remembering one more thing that shouldn't be remembered. “Where's Patrick?” he asked.
“Does it really matter?” she countered.
“I don't suppose so.”
Dissatisfaction flickered across her face. “I made it sound as if I don't care where Patrick is. That's not what I meant.”
“I believe you.”
“Patrick is… shopping.”
Matt nodded. “Shopping,” he repeated. He was sorry he'd ever brought up the subject of Dead-bolt Dannon. He didn't give a damn what the guy did. All he wanted right now was to take Lisa into his arms.
“He's just browsing,” she amended. “It's something he likes to do. Personally, I think he's more interested in watching other shoppers than he is in buying something for himself. He likes to make up stories about people. He tries to figure out what they're thinking.”
Matt definitely didn't want to hear any more about Patrick. He stepped toward Lisa. She stepped back.
“Anyway,” she said, sounding rushed, “I borrowed Amy's car, dropped Patrick off at the store—and then I came here. Just to bring something.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the handkerchief he'd lent her the other day. It was neatly folded, and she handed it to him.
He glanced down at the handkerchief. “You didn't have to bring it. Grandma Bea has plenty more where this came from.”
“Nonetheless,” Lisa said, “it didn't feel right…keeping it.”
“That's why you came?” he asked.
She drew her eyebrows together: She had pretty eyebrows, slightly darker than her hair. “I thought I just explained. I dropped Patrick off, and—”
“Does Patrick know you're here?”
She flushed, a rose color suffusing her skin. “Of course. In case you hadn't noticed, Patrick is trying to throw the two of us together. He has the crazy idea that you and I need to resolve…unfinished business.”
“Do we, Lisa?” he asked quietly, taking another step toward her.
“No.” She sounded almost too emphatic.
“Maybe you're wrong. Maybe Patrick's right.”
She seemed to struggle with her own thoughts, and then she gave a shrug. “I suppose there is one thing.”
His gaze traveled over the delicate curve of her cheek, the gentle fullness of her lips. He was close enough now that he could touch her if he wanted. It was what he wanted, but he stayed himself.
“One thing?” he asked. “What is it?”
She took a deep breath. “There's something I've always wanted to say to you. Ever since I was sixteen, in fact”
He waited. She took another deep breath.
“Go to hell, Matt Connell.” Her voice was still very cool, very controlled.
“You could elaborate,” he remarked.
“No. I think that says it all.”
“Maybe you'd better say it again.”
“Go to hell, Matt.” This time her voice shook, tears shimmering in her eyes all over again. And this time he did take her in his arms, all the time wondering whether she would pull away.
But then, with a shuddering breath, she brought herself close to him. She lifted her face, and Matt covered her lips gently with his. This moment seemed inevitable, a promise fifteen years in the keeping.
Her mouth was soft and warm and yielding. For just a second or two, he remembered kissing Lisa the girl. She had been shy back then, letting him take the lead in their physical relationship. But the Lisa he held now was no girl—she was a woman who seemed to know exactly what she wanted. She was the one who deepened the kiss, who demanded more than gentleness from him. She brought her hands up to his shoulders, then twined her fingers in his hair. He felt the provocative curves of her body against his. With a low groan, he tightened his arms around her. Now they took from each other almost frantically. But this need, this wanting had no logic. Matt had known other girls—other women—since Lisa. It was clear, too, that she had gone on to other men. They hadn't spent the years apart longing for each other…yet it seemed now as if they had been deprived, and only this was the answer.
He moved his hands along the slim, strong line of her back. Her scent pervaded him—fresh, womanly, alluring. For just a second longer her lips remained open, breathless beneath his. But then, all too soon, she did pull away. She stepped back, almost stumbling, but would not allow him to catch hold of her. He saw that her eyes had darkened almost to black, and they held a haunted expression he did not understand.
“No, Matt,” she said, her voice trembling. “Just—no.” She turned and left, and now only an emptiness remained with him.