Coming Home (58 page)

“Don’t
worry,” he said, selecting a package of fig bars and tossing it into the
shopping cart.  “I might just hide out here for the next six months.”

“You
hide out here,” she said, “for as long as you need to.”

“I
have to reschedule the tour sooner or later, or they’ll sue me.”

“After
the tongue lashing I gave them,” she said, debating whether to buy onion or
cheese crackers, “your cash flow could be a little funky for a while.”

“What’d
you do to me, woman?”

“I
saved your scrawny ass, that’s what.”

“Yeah,”
he said.  “I guess you did.”  He tossed another package of cookies into the
cart.  “Hey, Fiore?  Thanks.”

He
bounced back quickly.  Each day, he grew stronger and more robust, and the
house seemed so much less empty than it had before.  They puttered around the
house and the yard, comfortable with each other’s presence but neither of them
craving constant companionship.  He lounged on the porch swing with his guitar
while she dug up tulip bulbs to be stored in the cellar until spring.  He
washed windows while she made applesauce, the scent of cinnamon mingling with
that of ammonia.  He went through her dusty album collection and played records
she hadn’t listened to in years. 

Just
past six on Saturday morning, she crawled out of bed and into her running
clothes, and tiptoed down the creaky stairs so she wouldn’t wake him.  But he
was already up, dressed in his gray sweats, one foot propped on a kitchen chair
as he tied the lace to his sneaker.  “What do you think you’re doing?” she
said.

“What’s
it look like, Fiore?  I’m running with you.”

“You’re
just getting over pneumonia.  You’re not up to running.”

With
a flourish, he finished tying the knot.  “Shut up and put on a sweatshirt. 
It’s cold this morning.”

She
purposely kept her pace slower than usual.  He was too obstinate to admit it,
but she could tell he was having trouble keeping up with her after the first
couple of miles.  When they reached the bridge over the inlet between the river
and Spencer’s Pond, he veered off the road.  “I need a break,” he gasped, and
sank onto the guardrail, elbows braced on his knees, hands tangled in his hair,
chest heaving as though he’d just finished the Boston Marathon in record time. 

Casey
knelt in the gravel between his knees and checked his forehead for fever.  “Did
I not tell you,” she said, “that you weren’t up to this?”

“When
I want your opinion,” he wheezed, “I’ll ask for it.”

Green
eyes gazed boldly into green eyes.  A car passed, so close its sweep blew dust
around her ankles and tore at her hair.  “Get out of the road,” he growled,
yanking her in close until she was wedged between his thighs.  He was warm and
damp, and he smelled of Ivory soap and clean sweat.  Deep inside the pit of her
stomach, something awakened, something hot and yearning that had lain too long
dormant.  He had pale freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, and his
eyes were a deep green, warm and vibrant, and she was trembling like a willow
in a high wind.

His
hands took a leisurely stroll beneath her sweatshirt and his fingers played up
and down her bare back.  She closed her eyes as he rubbed his cheek against
hers, morning whiskers stiff against her skin.  He nibbled at her neck, his
teeth just touching her skin as he took gentle love bites that turned her
insides to molten lava.  She slid her hands beneath his sweatshirt and buried
her fingers in the triangle of silky hair that covered his chest.  Breast to
breast and pelvis to pelvis, they touched each other, his hands exploring the
soft hollow of her belly, hers skimming hard ribs and sleek muscled biceps.  He
ran his fingers up her ribcage to just beneath her breasts and back down,
teasing her, until she was half crazy with desire.  Then he stilled against
her.  “Babe,” he murmured.  “We have company.”

She
came back from a great distance to realize she’d been hearing the soft metallic
tinkling for some time.  She sprang to her feet, mortified, as Greg Weisman,
her new neighbor from down the road, jogged past with his beagle on a leash. 
“Morning,” he said.

Rob
saluted.  “Morning.”

She
glared at him, furious with him, more furious with herself.  What on earth had
she been thinking of, necking with him by the side of the road like a pair of
hormone-driven teenagers?  She called herself a few choice names, maddened by
the realization that, had they not been interrupted, in another minute she
would have been rolling with him on the grass, right there by the side of the
road.  In broad daylight, less than a mile from her father’s front door.  That
would certainly have given Greg Weisman and the rest of Jackson Falls something
to talk about.

The
thought should have shamed her.  The fact that it excited her increased her
fury.  “I think we’d better go home now,” she said.

He
leaned back on the guardrail, lanky legs sprawled out before him, wearing that
ingenuous, lost puppy dog look that had stolen the hearts of women from Tijuana
to Tokyo.  “I was hoping,” he said, “that we might take up where we left off.”

He
was the most infuriating man she’d ever known.  He had bony shoulders and
knobby knees, and when she touched him, she’d been able to count every one of
his ribs.  He ran around most of the time looking like a sheep dog in need of a
trim, he had trouble picking out socks and a shirt that matched, and he was
addicted to junk food.  He always left his wet towel on the floor after a
shower, and he’d been a charter member of the girl-of-the-month club for
years.  No woman in her right mind would want him.  No woman in her right mind
would fall in love with a man like that.

The
truth struck her like a blow to the stomach, and all the air left her lungs. 
Stunned, she opened her mouth.  Snapped it abruptly shut.  And in sheer terror,
she wheeled around blindly to flee.

His
voice followed her.  “Go ahead, Fiore!  Run away!  But it won’t go away with
you!”

She
turned to look at him.  The puppy dog was gone, replaced by six feet of
quivering, furious testosterone.  His legs were braced apart, his jaw set at
that familiar angle that meant trouble was brewing.  His blond curls were in
their usual glorious disarray, his clothes wrinkled.  And in those green eyes
was something she’d never seen there before.  “What?” she said.  “What won’t go
away with me?”

He
took a single step toward her.  “The way we feel,” he said, “when we’re
together.”

This
couldn’t be happening.  She was thirty-three years old.  Too old to feel like a
giddy teenager in the throes of adolescent passion.  Too old to feel as though
she would burst if he didn’t touch her soon.  Too old for the erotic fantasies
that played in her head like home movies.  She’d already been in love once, the
kind of love that addled her brain and tore out her heart and turned the world
upside-down.  It wasn’t supposed to happen again.  Not like this.  Not at
thirty-three.  Not with Rob.

“Ever
since Nassau,” he said, “we’ve been dancing around each other in circles.  We
could keep it up for another ten years, but to tell you the truth, I’m not
getting any younger and neither are you.  Don’t you think it’s time we stopped
running away from this and did something about it instead?”

“What
if we’re wrong?” she demanded.  “What if we’re making some monumental mistake?”

He
stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat from his body.  When he took
her hand, he was trembling as hard as she was.  “We’re not making a mistake,”
he said.

Green
eyes probed green eyes and searched deep, both of them thinking about fifteen
years of friendship, both of them pondering the uncharted territory that lay
between them.  Hoarsely, she said, “What the hell are we doing, MacKenzie?”

With
his free hand, he tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear.  “We’re going
home, Fiore, and we’re making breakfast.  After that—well, we’ll take it from
there.”

In
her upstairs bathroom, Casey stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes and threw
them down the laundry chute, then stepped beneath a stinging hot spray.  She
soaped and scrubbed until she was nearly raw, but it didn’t help.  The water
felt like warm fingers on her skin, deepening the yearning she couldn’t seem to
squelch.  In desperation, she turned off the hot water and stood there
stoically as it turned frigid, so cold it hurt, like hard little cubes slamming
into her body.

The
result was immediate and effective.  The icy water cooled her ardor with a
vengeance, briefly rendering her incapable of movement or thought.  She emerged
from the shower covered in goose bumps, teeth chattering, her limbs stiff from
the brutal cold.

And
smelled breakfast.

She
followed her nose to the coffee pot.  Poured a cup and stood there watching
him.  He was making some kind of omelet that he’d thrown together from the
contents of her refrigerator.  He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a crisp
hunter green shirt, and he smelled of shampoo and bacon.  It was a heady
combination.  “Want to check the toast?” he said, as if nothing remotely
extraordinary had transpired between them only minutes earlier.

Casey
popped the toast and buttered it.  “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, still busy
at the stove.  “I thought we might go for a ride.”

She
turned to look at him.  “A ride?”

“Yeah,
Fiore, a ride.  Bask in the sunshine, gawk at the scenery, travel to distant
and exotic places.”  He turned off the burner and shot her a glance.  “Maybe
spend the night somewhere along the coast.”

Her
heart began to thud.  The significance of his suggestion was clear.  If she
accepted his offer, tonight they would be sharing a bed.  And whatever
transpired between them, it would happen in a neutral location, instead of
here, in the house where she’d lived with Danny.  There would be no old
memories to overcome, only new ones to create.  Nothing to remind her of anyone
else, only the heady, terrifying experience of being with this man for the first
time. 

It
was a sunny autumn day, near seventy degrees as they cut across country toward
the coast and Acadia National Park.  They stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s
drive-thru.  When Casey offered to pay her share of the bill, he just stared at
her through dark glasses, and she put her money away.  “I give up,” she said. 
“You win.”

He
handed a twenty to the cashier.  “When I take a woman out on a date, Fiore, I
pay her way.”

“Oh,”
she said.  “Are we on a date?”

He
took his change from the cashier and pocketed it.  “Yeah,” he said, handing her
their drinks.  “Try to act like it.”

“It’s
been so long,” she said, “I’m not sure I remember proper dating etiquette. 
Should I sit on your lap or something?”

“Tacky,
Fiore.  Real tacky.”  He handed her the bag of food.  “You don’t sit on my lap
until
after
we eat.”

He
parked in the shade of a maple tree that was turning a brilliant orange, and
they ate at the picnic table beneath it, tossing scraps to the seagulls who
hovered just out of reach.  When he finished his Big Mac, he slid across the
bench and wrapped an ankle around hers.  “Now,” he said, “it’s time for you to
sit on my lap.”

She
bit into a French fry.  “I thought you knew,” she said.  “I’m not that kind of
girl.”

“You
mean I spent all this money on you, babycakes, and I don’t get anything in
return?”

“That’s
how it lays out, MacKenzie.”

“Doesn’t
seem quite fair.”

She
crumpled up her sandwich wrapper.  “You get what you pay for,” she said.  “If
you’d sprung for a nice little sirloin instead of a fish filet, I might have
been able to demonstrate a little more gratitude.”

When
he smiled, she felt as though she were emerging from darkness into the light of
a thousand suns.  “The day is young, sweetheart,” he said.  “Anything could
happen.”

The
view from the Cadillac summit was worth the trip.  Inland, splashes of blue
alternated with patches of glorious reds and yellows and oranges for as far as
the eye could see.  In the opposite direction, the spiky backs of the Porcupine
Islands dotted the iridescent blue of Frenchmen’s Bay.  Hand in hand, they
climbed over rocks and wandered among the scrub pines and juniper that lived
here at the top of the highest peak on the Eastern seaboard. 

When
they tired of exploring the mountain top, they drove back down and followed
Ocean Drive around the perimeter of the park.  At Thunder Hole, they parked
next to a Buick with New Jersey plates, and together with a retired couple from
East Orange, they listened to the ocean’s roar.  The surf slammed in against
the rocks and shot skyward, and Rob wrapped an arm loosely around her and
pulled her back out of the path of the churning water.  Casey leaned into him,
and together they stood mesmerized by the relentless power of the surf that had
pummeled these rocks for a billion years.

Farther
down the road, they discovered a rocky beach where they sifted through the
seaweed, gathered unusual rocks, explored the tidal pools.  “Look,” she said,
lifting something from crystal-clear water.  “A starfish!”