“Well?” Ginger, having waited until the very last child had been delivered into his mother’s waiting arms before she ran back on the van, demanded an explanation. “Who is he?”
“Ray Coleman,” Amber supplied with an indulgent smile before pulling back onto the road.
“Oh!” Ginger gasped, as if air had been forced from her lungs like a bursting balloon. “So that’s the famous man I’ve heard about for so long.”
“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce the two of you. I promise I will rectify that. If he’s here past the weekend,” she forced herself to add. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“I’m sure he will be,” Ginger said, aware of Amber’s skepticism.
“With Ray one can never tell.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions. He just got here, for heaven’s sake! Look, honey, I know how much he means to you. I’ve always suspected that he’s the reason you won’t allow yourself to care for any other man. Until today I was secretly convinced that Ray Coleman was an icon. You have to admit he has a romantic image, being such a famous photojournalist and traveling constantly.”
Ginger had been teaching at the nursery school since its inception. Amber, Lynn, and Ginger worked well together and had become fast friends. Lately, Ginger had frequently arranged nice little dinner parties, excuses to introduce Amber to yet another one of her husband’s colleagues. Like Lynn, Ginger wanted Amber to be as happily married as they were.
“I’m as surprised as you are to find him on the doorstep. But then Ray lives by his own rules. I never know when he will call or send me a ticket to meet him in New York or Boston or Houston. Over the years, it has not mattered that he’s a modern-day gypsy. He’s family... brother... uncle, for more years than I care to count. If I need him, he’s only a phone call away. That’s all that has ever really mattered.”
She no longer focused on the bleak years when they had been estranged. Luckily, that unhappy time was far behind them.
Amber was determined to ignore Ginger’s comment on her feelings for Ray. She didn’t dare examine them. She’d learned years ago that the depths of her feelings for him was one area she could not afford to explore too closely.
“For your sake, I’m glad he came. Maybe the two of you can have dinner with us on Saturday. I’m sure Wayne would love to meet Ray,” Ginger suggested as Amber eased to a stop in the drive of the old Tudor house the childless couple had shared for many years.
“Thanks, Ginger, but I can’t speak for Ray. I don’t know his immediate plans. I’ve learned to take him a day at a time.” Amber looked impatiently at her friend. She was in a dreadful rush to get back to Ray, but she did not want to appear so.
“We’ll talk more later. Have a nice visit with Ray.” Ginger squeezed Amber’s hand, holding back her own concerns. She wanted her friend happy and wasn’t sure Ray Coleman was the man for her.
“Good night.”
“Start thinking about finding another driver,” Ginger called.
“And then be stuck with having to drive for another six months or more until I do? No thanks.” Amber waved, shifting gears.
She had chosen the area and the old farmhouse with care. It was a bit isolated, on the country lane beside the lake, and so lovely with wooded lands on two sides and wide meadow on the other. It was perfect for her and the children. Because of the isolation she had bought the bus and had it specially equipped with safety seats for the children. Each year her love for the area and the people grew even more. The hamlet of Shelly felt like home.
Pasta! Amber’s eyes sparkled. Ray loved the stuff. She decided to stop at the small market in the center of town for the ingredients necessary to make a special home-cooked meal. She felt such an inner excitement at the prospect of finally being able to cook for him. She’d never gotten the chance to show off her culinary skills.
When she and Ray were together, they usually stayed in a hotel and took their meals in various restaurants in the area. There was always the security of a crowd to provide a buffer against the attraction that prevailed between them. They’d made a pact long ago: to love yet never become lovers ever again.
It had been more than a year since she’d seen him. Oh, he called from time to time. Yet it was not the same as gazing into his coppery brown rugged face or his dark eyes. Only then, when she saw him, could she assure herself that he was really safe and well.
“Looks like the makings for a romantic dinner, eh?” Mildred Moore said, with a broad wink at Amber as she totaled her purchases. The sometimes overly friendly middle-aged black woman, along with her husband, owned and operated the small store. There wasn’t much that got by her.
“Very special,” Amber confessed as she wrote out a check. She’d grown comfortable with the small-town charm of the area.
“Wouldn’t be Danny Echols, would it? Big-time lawyer working in the capitol? Make a great husband for nice single gal like yourself,” she quizzed.
“For someone else. Yes, I’m planning a nice dinner for an old friend of the family, visiting from out of town,” Amber said, picking up her purchases.
“How’s Marie? Still crying every day? I tell my daughter- in-law she needs to give up that dress shop and take care of the little ones. She has been blessed with beautiful twin girls. Can’t figure that gal out. Those babies need their mama! But no, my George had to marry a modern woman. Needs to fulfill herself! Ha! I didn’t leave him with strangers. I stayed home until all my children started school.”
Amber bit her cheek to hold back her humor. “Marie is doing wonderfully. I know how proud you are of both of the twins. Margie drew a beautiful watercolor only yesterday. I know I shouldn’t tell you this because I think Margie plans to surprise you with it but—”
A broad smile spread across the woman’s face.
“Promise, you won’t tell on me?”
“I promise. Those girls are smart like their daddy.”
“Bye!” Amber called. She chuckled all the way out to the bus. Turning on her headlights, she reversed out of the parking space.
Young working mothers like Christina Moore were only one of the reasons Amber had decided to open her school in the sleepy New England town. Many of the women would have been forced to abandon promising careers without an available nursery school. Several were divorced, others were single parents raising their children alone. Most of the children’s parents worked for the college or owned many of the small shops in town.
Ginger was right—Amber didn’t discuss Ray’s work with her friends mainly because she didn’t know all the horrible details herself. He routinely risked his life for the story. She had learned long ago not to burden him with questions that would serve no purpose other than leaving her frightened and worried.
Amber’s shiver had nothing to do with the sharp March winds vibrating against the bus. She had spent more nights than she cared to remember, lying awake, wondering where he was and if he were safe. She hated to think of him alone in some foreign country with no one to care if he lived or died. Over the years she had gotten quite good at keeping her fears hidden. Ray had enough to contend with, without worrying about her.
Tonight was special. Ray was waiting at home for her, and that was all that really mattered. She would not let herself think about the fact that he had not really kissed her. They both knew why he did not... why he could not.
Ray quietly appreciated the beauty and comfort she had created by using her natural flair for color and texture. Amber had converted the upper level into a spacious three-bedroom apartment, complete with a fully equipped kitchen and laundry room.
The stucco walls and velvet drapes were honey beige. A stone fireplace dominated the large living room, and twin terracotta-colored velvet sofas were placed before it. Two sand-colored easy chairs were in front of wide curved bay windows.
Everywhere he looked, he saw a reflection of the sparkle and warmth that was so much a part of Amber. Despite the nagging pain in his midsection, he crossed to the fireplace to study the Spencer family portrait above the mantel. Brad had been about seventeen, Amber seven, when the portrait had been painted.
Ray recalled how nervous he had been that first time he had met the Spencers. Ray had been a loner, while his college roommate, Brad Spencer, had been outgoing and well liked. Even though they were both enrolled in Columbia’s School of Journalism, those first few months of rooming together had been a major adjustment for both of them. Brad’s high spirits and open warmth had gradually penetrated the wall of reserve Ray had erected around himself. He found that he not only liked the other man but trusted him. Brad’s friendship had come to mean more to Ray than he had ever been able to express.
In spite of their closeness, it had taken Brad a while to convince Ray to come home with him. Ray was uncomfortable with the idea of spending the Christmas holidays with one of Boston’s most influential African-American families. The Spencer name was long on tradition and money. In spite of Ray’s misgivings, the visit had been successful and the beginning of many to follow.
The portrait had once hung in the Spencers’ plush home and was one of the few items Amber had not sold five years earlier, after her folks died in a plane crash. She had disposed of the huge estate, with its lovely antiques and priceless paintings—too painful a reminder of the past. Her mantel was crowded with antique framed family pictures. Every last one of them was gone now, except for Amber.
Ray saw his own image in several frames. There was one of the three of them: Brad’s arms were draped over Ray and Amber’s shoulders. They’d spent that day sailing. The picture was a tender reminder of a carefree summer day that had been fated never to be repeated. It had been their last day home before Ray and Brad were off to cover the civil war in Ethiopia.
Brad and Ray shared more than friendship. After graduation they became partners. Brad focused on writing the story, Ray concentrated on the photographs. They traveled the globe together, fearless in their efforts to get that all-important story. They not only were successful but made a name for themselves in the industry.
Less than six months after that ideal summer day when the picture was taken, Brad returned home in a pine box. Ray’s hand was trembling as he carefully replaced the frame. The years since had served to help him accept the loss, but nothing could have cushioned the horror of seeing his best friend killed and being unable to stop it.
Ray had no trouble finding the guest bedroom. He set his bags down on the beige carpet. Although the room was attractive, done in shades of burnt orange and cinnamon, it held no fascination for him. He continued down the hallway to the single door at the end of the corridor.
Ignoring the fierce pounding of his heart he entered Amber’s bedroom. He had no right to be in here. But damn it for years he had denied himself even the simple pleasure of being in her home or having her visit his. At long last he was where he yearned to be, surrounded by her things. He indulged himself by drinking in the sight of where she slept and performed the most personal tasks.
Perhaps he had come too close to death this time. Maybe that explained why he felt so compelled to come. His dark eyes slowly moved over the brass queen-sized bed covered with an apricot comforter and lace-edged pillow shams. He walked over and studied the white wrought-iron vanity— littered with her creams and perfumes—in much the same manner in which he would have paid close attention to each detail of an assignment. He inhaled deeply, submerging his male senses in her feminine domain.
“You’ve got it bad, Coleman,” he spoke his thoughts aloud. He’d been in love with Amber since she was a teenager. Only once in all the years they’d been close had he lost control. That stupid mistake had nearly cost him what he treasured most, his place in her life.
Lacy pink satin scuffs had been left at the base of the chaise lounge, the oak bookcase on the far side of the bed was filled with volumes on art, music, and knitting. Every object held a significance for him because it belonged to Amber. An ethnic historical romance novel lay face down on the nightstand. The oak rocker directly in front of the window was cushioned in a cream and apricot floral pattern as were the drapes and chaise lounge. On the side table beside the rocker was a basket of yarn and knitting needles.
He bent to retrieve the pink lace-edged nightgown that lay at the foot of the bed. He lifted the tiny bit of fluff to his face, rubbing the satin cloth over his stubbled cheek and across his lips.
“Amber ...”he groaned her name aloud. It held the scent of her softly rounded body. His own body hardened in spite of his weakened condition.
“Hell, what am I doin’?” Ray unconsciously crushed the garment in one large long-fingered hand. “Why torment myself this way?”
There was no logical answer, just an overwhelming hunger to lose himself within her and know the sweet warmth that was such an intricate part of her personality. His heart was racing as he placed the gown back on the bed and almost ran from the room.
In the guest room he stood in front of the window, staring out at the lake. A stupid mistake! Why hadn’t he made that one stop after he’d left the hospital, before going to the airport? An hour with a woman would have eased the ache in his groin, although he found the thought of coming to Amber with the smell and feel of another woman on his body distasteful.
He laughed with self-mockery. His body was making demands that were impossible to fulfill. No doubt about it, he definitely was not dead yet. The plain truth of the matter was, he had not desired another woman in an extremely long time.
He fortified himself with small doses of Amber. He had not quite managed to convince himself it was enough. It had to be, for it was the only option open to him. With his mouth turned down in a grim countenance, he accepted the truth. That was why he was here. He needed another fix... of her smile... her laughter... her sweetness.
It was not much, but it would keep him sane. Nothing could be as bad as the seven years they’d been apart. He learned long ago not to ask for more than she could comfortably give. He knew how lucky he was that she’d forgiven him for that one painful mistake.
Enough! Self-indulgence was a weakness he could ill afford. If he had been using his head instead of his emotions, he would never have come here in the first place. It was a stupid move on his part, especially in his present condition. The time in the hospital had left him feeling alone and empty inside. This was not his first brush with death, but it was the most alarming.
After Brad’s death, he’d focused on developing the journalistic aspects of the work. He was determined to work alone. He did not want to care that deeply ever again. In his view closeness brought pain. While the photography had come naturally to him, the writing did not. Yet as he worked at it he discovered a talent. His writing over the years had grown in intensity and depth. His articles were right on target and his photographs illustrated the human sufferings in war-torn areas that words could not possibly convey. He had a rare gift that continued to send him all over the globe. His first book on South Africa had created a sensation and had been the basis of an award-winning documentary.
His long-awaited book on the Middle East would, he hoped, make a difference—help shed some light on the complexities that were being ignored.
But he was tired... so tired. Ray finally gave in and dropped wearily onto the bed. The pain he had refused to give in to could no longer be ignored. He sneered at his weakness, resting his head against the sweet-smelling pillow.
He needed a few weeks to recover, then he would complete the job he’d left unfinished. The political situation was changing every day. Although he’d spent a fortune on his town house, he never felt at home there. It was a place to hang his hat when he was not on the road, which had been more often than not in the last half dozen years. It was as if he had to keep moving, keep working—never allowing himself time to dwell on those bittersweet longings and poignant needs that could never be met
Amber had made a new world for herself here in Vermont God knows she had suffered enough in her short life, having lost everyone she held dear. Now this! He must have been out of his mind to come to her like this. What had he been thinking? That was the trouble—he had not been using his head.
He could not let her know that he had been badly hurt— he couldn’t Ray shook two pills from the bottle of pain medication he had been carrying around in his pocket all day and popped them into his mouth. As his heavy lids slid to a close, he acknowledged that Amber would be disappointed when she learned he was not staying after all.
All was quiet when Amber let herself inside. She left the groceries on the kitchen counter. The guest bedroom door was open.
“Ray?”
He was sprawled across the center of the bed. His broad shoulders and deep chest were covered by a cream cape- knit sweater. She smiled, recalling each loving stitch she had painstakingly knit into it. Black cords hugged the long lines of his muscular legs, trim middle, and lean hips.
Amber smiled indulgently when she noticed his long narrow feet were still inside low-heeled black leather boots. Crossing quietly to the bed, she carefully tugged first one and then the other boot free, all without waking him.
He looked older and so tired, she decided with a frown. She covered him with the large wool throw from the armchair. Only for a brief few seconds did she allow herself the pleasure of really touching him. Very gently she smoothed a tender finger over his thick mustache. She blushed, recalling how often she had wondered how it would feel against her bare flesh, before she chased the thought away. She caught her breath when his lashes fluttered, but he did not awaken. She tiptoed out easing the door closed behind her.
“Dinner or me?” She had to laugh at her own vanity as she headed for her bedroom. She intended to be more appealing than a plate of pasta. She shed the gray wool slacks and red sweater she had hastily pulled on that morning.
Money had never been a problem for Amber, nor had it been important to her. She had been born into it. What mattered was family and goals. Ray was her only family. And after years of hard work, she had reached her crowning achievement. She was an early childhood educator, and she owned her own school. The Three Bears was one of the best child care centers in New England, and it served the community well.
She did not even glance at the large tub in the center of the L-shaped room. She went straight to the shower stall and turned on the water full force. At the end of a long day, she loved to indulge herself by soaking in the sunken tub. She would lie back and enjoy the jetting action of the whirlpool while gazing up at the star-studded sky, which could be seen through the skylight overhead. The tiles were a rich peach and cream marble, and the features were cream, situated between the two bedrooms. But tonight Amber did not linger.
Amber caught sight of herself in the full-length bedroom mirror. Although she was tired, her eyes sparkled and her mouth turned upward at the corners. Her spirit seemed to soar. She felt as if she were on top of the world. There was only one explanation for her mood... Ray Coleman.
She hummed to herself as she creamed her skin with scented body lotion and pulled on a cream lace-edged teddy. The bronze-colored velvet caftan she had chosen was shot with gold thread that shimmered when she moved. Gold combs held thick waves of sable hair away from her face. A spray of perfume, a swipe of mascara, and a touch of deep coral lipstick and she was ready.
Was it last April or June when they’d last seen each other? They had met in New York. He had missed the holidays and their birthdays: his in January, hers in February. They ended up exchanging gifts and toasting the new year. The actual date on the calendar held little meaning to either one of them. Forgotten was the lonely Christmas past or the empty holidays ahead. She and Ray were together, and that was what they celebrated.
Now after so many years, Ray had come to Vermont. It was an unexpected treat to have him here in her home, asleep just down the hall. She wiped impatiently at a tear. No, she must not spoil it by crying. He was here. Soon they would sit down to a meal that she had prepared for them.
As she rinsed fresh vegetables, she accepted that regardless of the questions that raced through her mind, she would never ask any of them. She didn’t need to know the exact danger he faced. For now he wasn’t in Bosnia or Iraq. She laughed at herself when she thought of how weepy she had been feeling. She was thrilled to have him here. It was so like him to show up unannounced, with no advance warning. So like him.
“Mmmm, something smells good,” Ray said, one shoulder resting against the door jamb.