GRANDMA BEA DECIDED to celebrate her eightysecond birthday in grand style: she had invited both Matt and Joanne to share Sunday dinner with her. No, she didn't want presents. And no, she didn't want them to bring any food—she would do all the cooking. All she required was the pleasure of their company.
Then again, Bea hadn't put it in quite those words to Matt. She'd grumbled something about wanting to keep an eye on Joanne, so she might as well have her to dinner. And Matt could be there, too, as long as he did not make a fuss about her birthday. It had been up to him to do the interpreting: Bea was feeling her years, and she wanted to gather her family around her. What was left of her family.
Carrying an awkward bundle, Mat walked along the brick pathway to his grandmother's door. Of course, he'd resisted all Bea's demands that he stay with her. He needed solitude…needed his space. He'd rented a room on Cypress Street, but it meant he had to keep trekking over to Bea's to check on how she was doing. For one thing, he wondered how she was managing to keep the lawns and gardens so neat and trim. Had she hired a gardener, or did she still insist on doing all the work herself? She wasn't about to let on to him. She insisted that she was ailing, but then refused to explain how she got anything done. He wouldn't put it past the old gal to be up at dawn most days, attacking the shrubs with a pair of clippers.
He rapped twice with the brass knocker that depicted two lovers kissing. It wasn't as though he really needed a reminder of his encounter with Lisa last night.
“Lord,” he said under his breath. He'd never wanted a woman so much. The bad part was that the wanting was still with him.
But he wouldn't be getting that close to Lisa again. She had someone else, and it had been a very long while since any woman had been in Matt's life. A woman would require him to acknowledge the past, and plan the future. He couldn't do that.
Matt opened the door and stepped into his grandmother's house. The overstuffed furniture packed around the rooms only contributed to the sensation of overpowering heat. He was already sweating by the time he hit his grandmother's kitchen. He popped open the refrigerator and leaned his head inside.
“Mathias T. Connell. Don't stick your nose in the tapioca!”
He'd been enjoying the coolness of the fridge, and hadn't even noticed the big bowl of tapioca. He tried not to notice it now. Bea's tapioca pudding did not by any stretch of the imagination qualify as a culinary delight.
Matt extracted himself from the refrigerator and observed his grandmother. She stood in the doorway, trying to scowl at him.
“I told you not to bring me a present,” she said. “What is it?”
“Since you don't want it…”
“Hand it over this instant.” She stepped over to him and grabbed the bundle from him. It had taken some ingenuity to wrap the thing, what with the long spout sticking out. Busy-as-a-bee Connell had the paper torn off in only a second or two.
“Oh, Mathias…a watering can. Just like the one your grandfather gave me when we first got married. How did you know?”
He hadn't known. He'd just noticed that Bea's tin watering can had grown battered and rusty over the years, and that she might like a replacement. He hadn't meant to be sentimental.
“Look inside,” he said.
She rattled the watering can, then reached in her fingers and extracted a bag of butterscotch candy. It took some effort, but she managed to look stern. “Now, Mathias. You know I won't eat them.”
Matt opened the freezer and took out a handful of ice. Bea was right in the middle of unwrapping a butterscotch when Cousin Joanne appeared in the doorway. She took in the scene before her, lean face tightening.
“Bea, I thought you said you didn't want any birthday presents.”
“And so I don't.” Grandma Bea popped the butterscotch into her mouth.
Now Joanne gave Matt an accusing stare. “I didn't bring a present. Foolish me. I paid attention to what I was told.”
Matt rubbed the ice along the back of his neck. This family get-together hadn't even started, and already he wished he was back in that rented room of his. Joanne frowned at him for another minute, then swiveled back to Bea.
“At least let me help with dinner.”
“There's not a thing to help with. I made gumbo, and it's almost ready.”
“For goodness' sake, it's your birthday. You're supposed to sit down while everyone else does the work.”
“I don't need any help, Joanne,” said Bea. Again it struck Matt how alike his cousin and grandmother were—both obstinate and brittle. The similarities, though, did not seem to bring them closer. Joanne merely pressed her lips tightly together, whirled and stalked away.
A short while later the three Connells sat down to Sunday dinner. It was, if possible, the hottest part of the afternoon. Bea's okra-and-seafood gumbo was overspiced with chili pepper. Matt felt his mouth burning, while his shirt stuck to his skin, damp with a steady supply of perspiration. Bea was not affected by the heat. She had a peculiar metabolism, that was all Matt could guess. He studied her across the table. She appeared her usual perky, cantankerous self, but he noted a disturbing glassiness in her eyes now and then. Was she sick, as she threatened? Or was it just a ploy, the reasons known only by Bea herself?
The bombshell came off over tapioca. No birthday cake was allowed, just the tapioca. Matt began eating the lumpy stuff only because it was cold, fresh out of the refrigerator. Bea urged a second helping on him, but not on Joanne. Then she sat back.
“I suppose this is as good a time as any,” Bea said rather importantly. “I have an announcement to make. Due to my…condition, I need to be reassured that my finances will be looked after. I've therefore arranged down at the bank for Mathias to be added to my checking and savings accounts. He will be assigned power of attorney on my behalf, as well.”
Joanne pushed her bowl away in a gesture that clearly expressed outrage. Matt seemed to have lost his appetite, too.
“Bea, we haven't discussed any of this,” he said. “I don't want to be in charge of your finances—”
“Right.” Joanne glared at him. “This is why you came back to town, Matt, isn't it? It's not enough for you to have all your dad's money. Now you're going to take on Bea's, too.” Her words poured out, hot and resentful.
“Jo,” Matt said, “calm down—”
“Oh, I'm very calm,” she answered scathingly. “And I see exactly what's going on. You've weaseled your way into the brassworks. And now you've weaseled your way into Bea's bank accounts.”
No answer seemed possible, or even necessary. Matt looked at his grandmother. Bea almost seemed to be enjoying herself, her eyes bright as she glanced from one grandchild to the other. Obviously she'd orchestrated this scene. Why? To make Joanne even more resentful than before? Why couldn't the two of them get along? And why had Matt come back to Hurricane Beach just to be in the middle of all this turmoil?
He felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. But Joanne gripped the edge of the table with her thin hands.
“I'm just a little curious about something, Matt. Maybe you can enlighten me. Exactly what have you been doing the past five years? I mean, you've never told us how you spent your time. I think Bea's entitled to know, don't you? Particularly since she's about to sign over her entire life's savings to you.”
It occurred to Matt that at the moment Joanne was venting all her anger at him, and not at Bea. That was for the best. He could take the anger, but maybe Bea couldn't—for all her attempts to stir up trouble, her skin was starting to look a little pasty.
“We'll talk about it later, Jo,” he said.
“I think we should talk about it right now, don't you? Before you so conveniently sign any papers.”
At last Bea spoke, “Mathias doesn't have to justify himself. I don't care where he's been—what he's done. I'm just happy he came home again.”
Joanne slowly straightened. “Home again… What a joke. I'm the one who's been here all along, Bea.” Her voice gave an unexpected crack. She stared at her grandmother with an expression that was almost pleading, but Bea didn't say a word in return. She just sat there at the head of the table, presiding over a bowl of tapioca, looking satisfied and, yes, just a little sick.
Happy birthday, Bea. One hell of a happy birthday.
LISA KNEW where to find her father at this hour of the day. She went across the main hallway of Sea Haven, past the great room with its glass walls looking over the shimmering white sands and aqua waters of the gulf. Once again she tried to picture this house being torn down, and condos pressing in on the view. It didn't seem possible. But if Helene and Merrick sold the property, maybe they really would stop arguing. Maybe they would get back together again. A foolish hope? Lisa simply didn't know.
She found her father in his study. The room was lined with shelves of books, but there was nothing haphazard about them. Merrick kept things organized in here. If you asked him for a certain volume, he would be able to find it in an instant, no matter how obscure the title. He always read in the same fashion, too—organized, methodical, never peeking ahead of time at the ending of a book, as Amy tended to do. Tackle something from start to finish, he'd liked to say when his daughters were young. Yet, in many aspects of his life, Merrick Hardaway had not followed his own advice. He'd been a bold man, not always taking one predictable step after another. Despite a promising career as an actor, he'd given it up to pursue the real estate business. He'd been bold there, too, amassing quite an amount of money. Despite some of his unpredictable decisions, to Lisa, he'd always seemed to operate according to some grand master plan. Maybe you didn't always know what he was going to do next, but you could trust that he knew what he was doing, that he could see far into the future and safely guide his family there. She'd felt that way a large part of her childhood, anyway. She'd worshiped her powerful, dynamic father.
Now, as she stood gazing at him from the doorway, he still looked dynamic to her. He'd gone bald on top and his mustache had turned silver, but those details only served to emphasize his vigor. Just as Lisa couldn't picture Sea Haven being torn down, she could not picture her father in decline.
He glanced up from his desk, where he was going over some computer printouts. Although technically retired, Merrick kept a close eye on his investments. He seemed to see the stock market as something of a challenge, a game that kept his wits sharp.
“Hello, Lissie,” he said. His use of Lisa's childhood name stirred conflicting emotions—love and resentment mingled. “Lissie” implied her special place in the family as youngest child. But it seemed to ignore the fact that she'd grown up, become a woman with her own accomplishments. Whenever her father looked at her, she suspected he saw only the gangly, ponytailed little girl she'd once been.
She came into the room and perched on the edge of an armchair upholstered in a thick, nubby fabric. It was starting to get a little worn, but it had been in the house as long as Lisa could remember. If Helene were here, she'd be threatening to reupholster the chair, and Merrick would be arguing that it was perfectly fine the way it was. Such had al ways been the nature of her parents' disagreements… playful, half-teasing. Yet now the two of them were separated, disagreeing for real.
“So, how was your dinner last night?” Lisa asked casually.
Merrick frowned. “News travels fast in this damn town,” he grumbled.
“I didn't hear any rumors. I was right there at the restaurant. You seemed pretty…involved, so I didn't interrupt you.”
Merrick put down his pencil and sat back. “All right, out with it. You're going to tell me I'm a scoundrel for dining with the widow Babcock.”
“Scoundrel?” Lisa remarked.
“There's nothing untoward about me seeing Audrey Babcock. She used to come to town every summer with her husband, Murray. Your mother and I were good friends with the Babcocks, and it's only natural that the friendship continue.”
“Only natural,” Lisa agreed.
Merrick gave her a shrewd glance. “Did your mother send you to talk to me?”
Merrick looked disappointed, as if he'd hoped Helene would show some interest in his doings. But Helene must already know about his “date”— she'd been at the restaurant herself.
Lisa debated how to continue the conversation. Maybe directness was the only approach.
“Dad, what really is the trouble between you and Mom? She says it's not just the dispute over selling the property… What, then?”
Merrick didn't answer the question. Instead, he perused Lisa. “You're fiddling with your earring,” he said. “Your mother does that, too, when she's nervous. What's making you nervous, Lissie?”
She realized that she was twisting her earring. She put both hands in her lap.
“Of course I'm nervous,” she said. “It's not every day I ask my father why he's not living with my mother.”
“She's the one who moved out,” he muttered. “I didn't want her to go.”
“But why did she?” Once started on this, Lisa found she couldn't stop. Maybe she was picking up some habits from Amy, too—poking her nose into her parents' lives, wishing she could fix whatever was wrong. “Dad…why did Mom leave?” she asked again. “Was it because…because of the widow Babcock…”
“No,” Merrick stated flatly. “You should know better than that. I have never been unfaithful to your mother. She left because she believes I've ruined her life.”
This was not enlightening. “But, Dad—”
“Don't ask me to explain, because I can't figure it out myself. Your mother wants to be independent. She wants to make her own decisions without my interference. But I have never interfered. I've only tried to give your mother everything she's ever wanted.”
Now, at last, Lisa did begin to understand. Merrick Hardaway had been the head of his household for almost fifty years. He did have a tendency to orchestrate everything, to sweep the family along. Yes, he wanted the best for all of them, but he expected their compliance. What would he say if he knew how poorly Lisa herself had complied?
The old fear came to life inside her, the one that whispered her father wouldn't love her anymore if he knew the truth. He would be too disappointed in her, even after all these years.
“You know what, Dad?” she said awkwardly. “This isn't any of my business, after all. I'm sorry about you and Mom, but…I just hope you can work it out somehow.”
“It's up to your mother, isn't it? It's her decision to make. That's what she says she wants—her own decisions. I'm not forcing anything on her. Whether or not she comes home…it'll have to be up to her.” He made it sound as if it had become a point of pride with Him. He would bend over backward not to influence Helene. Lisa had never heard her father sound defensive before, as if he had to justify himself. Before this, he had always been so sure, so confident of his ability to make his family happy. But the Hardaway family wasn't happy right now, not by any stretch of definition.
“Oh, Dad…I just wish everything could be different,” Lisa murmured.
“So do I, Lissie,” he answered somberly. “So do I.”
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON as Matt tore off another strip of cloth tape and ran it along the bottom of the plane's windshield. He'd be finished masking in no time, and then it was on to the paint stripper. An hour or so ago, he'd escaped the less-thanconvivial birthday celebration at Bea's, and come straight to the barn for a good spell of work. He was making progress with this old Stinson bush plane. Too bad he wasn't making any progress with his thoughts. They kept returning over and over to last night on the beach with Lisa Hardaway.
Yes, he wanted her. But what did he have to offer? Sometimes it seemed that it took everything he had just to keep going one day at a time, just to go through the motions that other people took for granted. It wasn't only the way his body fought him despite all the time spent in rehab. It was the effort required to keep unbearable memories at bay, an effort that was becoming more and more difficult all the time. Coming back to Hurricane Beach hadn't helped. Neither had seeing Lisa again.
Gradually he became aware that he'd stopped working. He was just standing here in the barn, holding a strip of tape in both hands, thinking about the woman who deserved more than he had to give.
And then, as if he'd conjured her, she appeared in the doorway of the barn. Lisa Hardaway, slim and golden-haired.
“Hello, Matt,” she said, and then she got right to the point “I thought we should have a talk, after…after what happened.”
The problem was that he didn't have talking on his mind. He saw the sensual curve of her mouth, the fire banked deep in her eyes. She pretended to be aloof, but Matt knew better. He knew about the warmth underneath that controlled exterior. As he stepped toward her, he saw the rose color suffusing her cheeks.
“No, Matt,” she said evenly. “We really do have to discuss something. I've finally figured that out. I just came from seeing my father…and it made me realize that people too often don't speak their minds. My parents, for instance. It appears that my mother spent years not speaking up in her marriage, so now she's gone overboard, big time, and moved right out of the house.”
Matt was pretty certain that Lisa hadn't come here to discuss her parents. She paced restlessly just inside the barn, as if working up her courage for something. Or maybe she was getting ready to bolt.
“I'm listening,” Matt said. That was enough to stop her. She turned and faced him, the color still high in her cheeks.
“Here goes, Matt.” She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself. “Fifteen years ago, I made love to a boy for the first time in my life. I didn't stop to consider the consequences. I just made love with him again…and again. I didn't know how to stop— I didn't want to stop. Most of all, I wanted him to stay with me. To love me.”
Each word she spoke seemed like a stone falling into a pond, creating one ripple after another. But she didn't need to tell him what a self-involved ass he'd been back then. He already knew as much.
“Lisa—”
“No. Let me finish.” She took another deep breath. “I got pregnant,” she said. “I couldn't believe it at first, but a clinic in Tallahassee confirmed it. I was carrying a child. Except that the boy I loved—the father of my child—had already moved on to someone new. I was too proud to tell him about it…too scared to tell anybody else. At night I prayed that I'd wake up in the morning and find out it wasn't true.”
Matt felt disoriented. “Lisa—my God—”
“Just let me finish.” He heard the break in her voice, but the words kept coming. She no longer even looked at him, holding her arms tightly against herself as the rest of her recitation tumbled out.
“Then, one morning—something new and frightening started happening to my body. I snuck out of the house, got a friend to drive me to Tallahassee…but even she didn't know where I was headed. She dropped me off on a-corner, and I walked the rest of the way by myself. When I finally got to the clinic, they only confirmed what I already knew. A miscarriage. It seemed my prayers were answered, after all.”
She paused, but this time he knew enough not to say anything. He wanted to take her in his arms, offer some comfort, even though he'd been the one to cause her so much pain. Yet he stayed where he was, knowing instinctively that the worst move he could make right now would be to touch her.
She bent her head. “It's a funny thing about prayers,” she said. “Once you have what you want…you start thinking maybe you want something else entirely. That's what happened to me. I started thinking about the baby I'd lost…my own child…and I found a new kind of fear. What if somehow I'd made it happen? What if all my fear and longing to have it go away were somehow responsible for destroying my child—our child, Matt…”
A silence encased the barn, as heavy and muffling as the heat of the afternoon.
Then Matt could no longer prevent himself from going to her, from putting his arms around her. But she remained still, rigid, as if allowing him to touch only her body, not her soul.
“I'm sorry, Lisa. I know those words can't mean much right now, after what you went through—but, Lord, I'm sorry. If you'd told me back then—”
“What, Matt?” All the emotion seemed to have drained from her voice. “What would you have done?”
It was a question he couldn't answer. He didn't have a whole lot of admiration for the boy he'd been. Would he have had the maturity to stand by Lisa? Or would he still have been arrogant enough to believe he had a right to take what he wanted, without facing any of the consequences?
Useless speculation, perhaps. He was no longer eighteen and, in the years since, he'd learned too well about consequences.
“I'm sorry,” he repeated, knowing yet again how inadequate those words sounded. He continued to hold Lisa, wishing he could somehow erase all the anguish he had caused her. But she was unyielding in his arms, and Matt did not know how to reach her.