CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (33 page)

we’ve always held back,

has a hard time getting

free of my blindfolded clutches.

“We’re not going far tonight are we?”

“Hush.” He pulls out onto the highway.

Turns right. I think.

I slide over next to him—

gotta love that old bench seat—

chew on his ear while he drives.

He pushes me away.

“Get over there and buckle

your seatbelt, or we’ll end up

in the back seat of this old clunker

after all.”

That sounds like a great idea, but

I obey—don’t want to ruin

all he’s crafted for our first time.

Where ever we’re going,
whatever it looks like,
whenever we get there,
whether he’s chartered a boat
or rented an island, whether
it’s his condo in the Keys,
Cayman, or Thailand or
somewhere brand new,
it’ll be the perfect
consummation
of the forever
we pledged
to our Lord
and each other
in His holy house
this day.

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME 14

Dive Buddy:
Leesie
Date:
three years from Cayman
Dive #:
1
Location:
secret
Dive Site:
secret
Weather Condition:
nice night
Water Condition:
a little bumpy
Depth:
not saying
Visibility:
forever and ever
Water Temp:
no comment
Bottom Time:
no comment
Comments:

As we drive away from the reception, man and wife, alone for the first time since we vowed to love each other eternally, I try to stay calm, cool, but my heart—that I used to be able to slow at will free diving—beats so hard it pulses in my fingertips. My palms sweat. I grip the steering wheel way too hard. Good thing Leesie’s blindfolded. If she saw what a wreck I am, she might want to trade me back in.

She’s sniffing the air like a bloodhound, trying to figure out where we’re going. I cut through a subdivision to disorient her.

“Can I let my hair down?” She wore it up all day. It’s long again. She grew it out the whole time I was serving in Brazil learning to be the man of God she deserves. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be there, but serving the Lord taught me so much. I’ve got my own cylinder of consecrated olive oil swinging from my key chain and know how to use it. I felt like I’d stepped through a time warp when Leesie met me at the plane with her hair long and gorgeous, catching the sun like the first time I surprised her staring at me in physics.

I pat her knee. “If you promise not to peak.”

“That’s big of you. The hairpins kill.” She holds the blindfold to her eyes with one hand, slips the elastic loose with the other—pulls pins out and throws them at me.

“Ow! Are you peaking?”

She shakes her freed hair, combs her fingers through it, finding more pins, and shakes her head again. The car fills with the smell of hairspray and a tiny hint of her sweet banana mango shampoo.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

“Who me?” She slips the blindfold elastic back around her head and folds her hands in her lap.

We stop at a red light. “Get over here, then.”

She’s in my lap in a second. We make out until the car behind us blares its horn. I keep her close, drive the rest of the way with one hand and my arm around her, worrying she’ll recognize the highway we’re on, but she chews on my fingers instead of playing bloodhound.

I turn off the highway onto a gravel road, relieved we’re almost there. When I slow way down and turn right onto a bumpy dirt road, she sits up straight. “This isn’t the airport.” She elbows my ribs. “Roll down your window.”

I obey. Pines lining each side of the road invade the car with their sharp, clean scent.

She sniffs. Sniffs again. “This is our lake road—at Windy Bay.”

I hold my breath.

“It’s washed out. Dad said—” She hits my thigh. “You got my dad to lie?”

I move my hand from her shoulders to the steering wheel.

Even in good condition this road is dicey. I’ve got my hands full managing it.

“We’re going to our lake?”

Yeah, babe. Don’t you remember our first date here?

“We’re camping”—her voice rises in pitch—“
tonight
?”

I wish for a video camera and bite my cheeks to keep from losing it.

“Did you rent a swank RV?” She fiddles with her blindfold. “Buy a cool sail boat?”

I keep silent.

“Not a tent, Michael. Please.”

As soon as the car stops, she rips off the blindfold and climbs out over me. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees the lights. She spins around. “You did this?”

My eyes move from her to the cabin and back to her astonished face. “I wanted to do something for your family—to make up for—you know.” A pre-fab log cabin on their empty water front lake lot won’t bring back their son, but it makes me feel less guilty for stealing their daughter.

Leesie bows her head and wipes her eyes.

I close the distance between us in a stride and scoop her up like I did when she was hurt. I haven’t picked her up like this since then. I sense she’s awash in the same memories that course through me.

“I love you.” She snuggles her face against my neck.

I inhale her hair and carry her towards the lit cabin.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I need my shoulder bag from the back seat.”

“Why?”

“I have a surprise, too.”

I carry her back to the car, get the bag, slide the strap on my shoulder—all without putting her down.

I carry her into the cabin. “Do you want a tour now?”

“No.” She chews on my neck.

I head upstairs.

“Was that Gram’s couch in the living room?”

“I couldn’t pitch her stuff. Your dad stored it at the farm when we rented out Gram’s house.”

Her lips press against my cheek. “I like that.”

I open the door to the master, our honeymoon suite. The big window and king-size four-poster bed are draped with white gauzy stuff. The bed’s made up with a six-inch thick down comforter and piled with cushy pillows.

“This is beautiful.” Leesie squirms out of my arms, takes her bag, and disappears into the bathroom. Shuts the door. A high-pitched, muffled, “Look at that tub,” comes from inside.

I sit down on an armchair by the window, take off my tie, slip off my polished black dress shoes, stare at the closed bathroom door, grip the arms of the chair to keep myself from breaking it down. The sound of my heartbeat echoes in my ears. I’m sweating. I close my eyes, inhale deep. Hold it. Exhale. My eyes fly open at the sound of a turning door knob.

Leesie hesitates in the doorway. She wears the long silk skirt I bought for her in a Thailand market and a bra-top made of turquoise shells and beads that I’ve never seen. The Caymancolored shell necklace I gave her hangs around her neck. My diamond on her finger flashes in the bright light coming from the bathroom.

Her cheeks flush rosy. “I packed for our island.”

“I love it.” I cross the room—take her hands—kiss her fingertips, her fingers, each palm—turn her left hand over and find those faint scars that fit my fingernails, kiss them one by one.

We sink to our knees. She bows her head onto my shoulder. I bury my hands in her thick, fragrant hair and offer our first married prayer, whispered thanks that she’s mine.

I gather her into my arms and carry her to the bed. “Are you scared?”

Her eyes are big, but she whispers, “No.” She reaches for my lips. “Are you?”

My eyebrows rise. “Terrified.”

Her lips find mine, and our embrace yields to the passion we’ve held back for years. “Don’t worry”—she’s breathless as I lay her on the bed—“I’ll let you up for good behavior.”

She pulls me down beside her, and I’m enveloped in silk, beads, long hair, and Leesie.

The End

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CAYMAN SUMMER is the third novel in Michael and Leesie’s romance that began with TAKEN BY STORM. When my editor left Razorbill and her boss rejected UNBROKEN CONNECTION (Book #2), my readers rallied around me—giving me the guts to release it independently. I decided I had to have all those readers with me every step as I wrote CAYMAN SUMMER.

I launched
http://caymansummer.blogspot.com
and shared my messy rough drafts, half-baked poems, revised scenes, and finally a polished revision. My fantastic followers input and encouragement proved invaluable. They kept me going, kept me writing, kept my chin up. Michael and Leesie’s final journey became a joyful collaboration. All my readers didn’t always agree with all of my choices. We had some lively debates that gave me renewed creative energy. I loved the experience. This book is not mine alone. It’s ours!

All my love,

Angela

THANK YOU …

All of my blog readers and followers who loved Michael and Leesie enough to read and comment every day—first and foremost this book is for you.

The YA bloggers all over the world who’ve embraced me and my novels. Thank you for your energy and support.

Andy for beautifying my blog,
http://caymansummer.blogspot.com
. Rob for designing the striking cover and the book’s interior. Rachel for letting me share her gorgeous Cayman Island photos. Shante for feeding me and reading each post along the way. Will for turning out so well despite my neglect. Jack for letting me squish him on occasion. And my wonderful, patient husband, Allen, for continuing to subsidize my alter ego.

Kathi Baron (
Shattered
), one of Michael and Leesie’s original champions, who critiqued the last draft for me in record time. Plus all of my classmates, friends, and advisors at Vermont College of Fine Arts where Michael and Leesie were born.

To my agent, Erzsi, at Hen and Ink Literary, who signed me in the midst of this project and waits patiently for me to write something she can sell. Stay tuned at
www.angela-morrison.com
or
http://caymansummer.blogspot.com
for updates on new books. If you want to see what I’m working on, click on WIP in the website’s top, right-hand corner.

Again, I’m in your debt. I don’t think I can ever get out. Love and thanks to you all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angela Morrison is the author of
Taken by Storm
(Books 1-3) and
Sing me to Sleep,
a 2010 Goodreads Choice Nominee for YA Fiction. She graduated from Brigham Young University and holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She grew up in Eastern Washington on the wheat farm where
Taken By Storm
is set. After over a decade abroad in Canada, Switzerland and Singapore, she and her family are happily settled in Mesa, Arizona. Angela enjoys speaking to writers and readers of all ages about her craft. She has four children—mostly grown up—and the most remarkable grandson in the universe.

Find out more at
www.angela-morrison.com
and follow her blog,
http://caymansummer.blogspot.com
.