It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (34 page)

He had John there. John held out his hands. “Okay, don’t overthrow
 
—”

She swung it toward him, stronger than he’d expected, and he caught it with both hands, just above his shoulder.

“Sorry!”

So maybe she had the arm strength to get them to round two.

Eli had also caught his fish, along with the string of other locals. Only a couple tourists at the end had dropped their catch. The entire line backed up.

“Ready?”

She nodded and crouched as if she might be ready to field a grounder, and he had to grin at the determination on her face. He flung the fish, and she bit her bottom lip as she held out her hands, catching it like a pro.

Her face lit up, bright and sweet. “Got it!”

Two more contestants went down, and they backed up.

“Northern pike comin’ your way!” She flung it hard, and he took a step back catching it away from his body. The fish had begun to dry; it made it easier to hold.

Which was probably why she caught the next pass, twirling in a circle with the momentum. She held the fish above her head to the roar of the crowd.

He looked down the row, saw that only Eli, himself, and two others remained.

Ingrid grinned at him, bent low, warmed up with a swing, and then let the fish fly.

He caught it, but it slipped and he bobbled it. Finally he wrapped his arms around it and hugged it to his body, the head near his own.

“Getting friendly with the marine life, Johnny boy?” Nate called. John made a face at him but grinned when two more contestants went down.

He and Eli remained. John blew out a breath.

Eli went first, and John watched the fish soar through the air toward Clay Nelson. He held his breath as Clay bobbled it, and then the pike dropped with a smack onto the pavement.

A groan released from the crowd. John glanced at Ingrid, and she had him in her gaze, something solid and calm in her expression. She smiled, and strangely, he felt it slide over him, through him, and touch his bones.

He nodded, took a step, and flung the fish.

He tossed it poorly. Short and high, like a pop fly, and he groaned.

But she moved like a softball player, getting under it, her eyes following it down as she held out her arms, angling for the right catch.

It smacked into her embrace, and she curled it into her body.

The crowd roared as she turned to John. Then she held the fish high like a trophy, slime covering her tank top, grinning as if she’d won the World Series.

He came toward her as she dropped the fish. Without thinking, he swept her up in a hug. More instinct than intent, it just felt right to pull her to himself, swing her around. Her arms went around his neck, and her body molded to his, small, strong, as if they fit.

It jolted him, this sudden closeness, and heat zapped through him, a surprising rush of warmth.

Appreciation. Respect
 
—that’s what he’d call it. He put her down, and she looked up at him, drinking him in with those way-too-pretty eyes.

And he realized if he didn’t watch himself, he’d be in big trouble. Because no, Ingrid was nothing at all like her sister.

1978

This summer, Ingrid would end it in John Christiansen’s arms. Not just because she’d been dreaming of this night for more than three years, and not just because it just might be their last opportunity, but because she’d seen it in his eyes.

Last summer, as the band played the Bee Gees’s “How Deep Is Your Love,” he’d started across the street toward her, the interest in his gaze telling her that maybe, in the course of one evening, he’d stopped seeing her as Kari’s kid sister and instead considered her something more. Or different.

If it weren’t for some pretty local girl intercepting him, it would have been Ingrid with her arms laced around his neck, breathing in the smell of sawdust and woods on his skin.

And then, to make curfew, she’d had to leave the dance, the stars still sprinkling romance on the evening. She’d waited up on the deck of the cabin, though, relieved when his truck lights skimmed across the trees before midnight.

As her father said, nothing good ever happened after midnight. Not that John was that type of guy. One reason her family kept returning to Evergreen Resort was Sunday church service by the lake. Her dad liked the way John’s father, Chester, preached in his moccasins. John was one of the good ones, and this year, she just knew he’d give her his heart.

She hoped he liked her hair. Bangs, and she’d spent an hour curling the ends. Kari would be proud of her, although who knew when she’d ever see it
 
—her sister hadn’t returned home from her trip to California after she graduated
from high school. One year and only sporadic calls. John should be grateful Kari hadn’t broken his heart, too.

Ingrid pulled on an orange sundress, then slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops. She didn’t know when she’d felt so pretty.

“Midnight?” she asked her father, who sat on the deck reading a newspaper in the lamplight.

He swatted away a mosquito. “Eleven.”

“Daddy, I’m not Kari.”

He looked up at her, his lips pursed.

“Please?”

“Midnight, not a second later.”

She popped a kiss on his check and grabbed the keys to the new Ford Country Squire wagon.

Air Supply’s new album played on the 8-track, and she hummed along as she drove to Deep Haven. She’d hardly seen John this week
 
—he’d taken a group out to the Boundary Waters for a canoe trip and returned only last night. She’d watched him this morning as he dove off the pier, swam out to the floating dock and back. Then he’d taken his canoe out onto the lake and spent the rest of the morning fishing.

Probably working on his summer tan. He’d filled out over the year; she’d read in an old copy of the Deep Haven newspaper that John made all-conference in football, had accepted a scholarship to the University of Minnesota.

Which meant that he’d forget about her unless she made an impression.

If she could find him, that was. As the band played on the stage, she wandered through the crowds, teenagers smoking in groups on the sidewalks, youngsters throwing rocks into the lake, couples dancing in the street. A thumbnail moon hung over the dark water as if smiling. Approving.

She leaned against a park bench, rubbing her arms as the wind came up, prickling her skin. Certainly he wouldn’t miss the Saturday night dance.

“Ingrid? Did you come alone?” She turned and smiled at Nathan, John’s friend. He wore a pair of dark-red polyester pants, a wide-collared print shirt, looking every inch the future college boy.

“No . . . well, yes. I was looking for John.”

“He’s here somewhere.” He held out his hand. “But you look so pretty, you should be dancing.”

She smiled again and took his hand. It was smooth and warm. He led her to the street, wound his arms around her waist.

She kept herself apart, her arms loose across his shoulders. “So where are you going to college next year?”

He shook his head. “I’m not. I had a scholarship at Winona State, but . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “I’m just going to stick around here for a while.” His eyes had gone dark, hooded, but she didn’t press.

She propped her chin on his shoulder, and as he turned her, she saw him. John, wearing a plaid shirt, jeans, and a canvas jacket, leaning against a streetlamp.

He stared at her without a smile, his gaze fixed. She stilled for a moment, and Nathan released her. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, forced a smile. Glanced past his shoulder. John hadn’t moved from his perch under the glow.

Nathan followed her gaze. “Oh,” he said, then gave her a wry smile. “Thanks for the dance.”

She knew she should finish the dance, but John had the power to make her forget anyone else. She walked toward him as he pushed away from the lamp. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

Football had sculpted him, his muscles chiseled, his shoulders broad. He’d cut his dark hair, but it still hung over his face. The wind combed it back, revealing his too-blue eyes. “You look nice,” he said quietly. “Real pretty.”

She bit her lip, hiding a smile.

He looked her up and down. “Let’s get out of here.”

She didn’t resist when he took her hand, pulling her down the street. He motioned to a motorcycle.

“This is yours?”

“Yep. Traded in the truck.” He strapped a helmet below her chin, his hands brushing her skin. He met her eyes then, and his expression softened. “I was hoping I’d see you tonight.”

Oh. Any lingering worry left her and she climbed onto the back of his bike, wrapped her arms around his body. He was solid and warm despite the wind teasing her dress. He drove her through town, then down to the rec park. He slowed and took the bike off-road, onto the trail back to Honeymoon Bluff.

She’d heard of the place, the bald hill that overlooked the lake. Kari’s stories tripped through her head.

A shiver threaded through her, but she hung on as he gunned it up the hill. They stopped at the apex, and he put his foot down, moved the bike back onto the kickstand.

“Wow,” she said as she stared out over the inky lake. The moon teased a finger of light across the surface, and in the distance out on the water, a freighter’s lights winked in the darkness.

“Yeah,” he said, but when she turned, his gaze wasn’t on the water. He helped her off the bike, held her hand, and found a place in the grass for them to sit.

She sat next to him, smoothing her skirt. The wind raked up gooseflesh and she shivered again. John shucked off his jacket and settled it over her shoulders. A gentleman, John was, despite his quiet mood. Maybe he was nervous, too.

“You were gone all week,” she said and then realized it sounded as if she might be desperate, might have been pining for him.

“I know.” He picked up a long blade of grass and slipped his fingernail into it, splitting it down the middle. “I saw you, though. This morning. I was going to say hi but . . .” He put the grass to his lips, blew, and whistled into the night.

“But?”

He blew out a breath, tossed the grass away. “But I’m going away in a couple weeks, and . . . I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to the university to play football.”

“I know,” she said softly.

He turned to her then, something she couldn’t read in his eyes. He reached out and touched her hair, twirling his finger through her curls. “I like your hair tonight. It reminds me of Kari’s.”

Oh. She tried not to let that bother her.

He let her hair slip from his touch. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Why would I get hurt?”

He met her eyes then. Touched her face, drawing his fingertips down her cheekbone. “I probably won’t be back. So I was thinking that tonight is our last night together.”

Maybe. Or not. She leaned into his hand, kept her eyes on his.

He moved his hand behind her neck, leaned forward, and kissed her.

She’d never been kissed before, wasn’t sure exactly how to react. Should she stay still or maybe move her lips like he did? She opted to leave them pliable and soft, to drink in the taste of him and let him nudge her mouth open, to deepen his kiss. It sent a thrill through her, sparks that touched her stomach, and she didn’t stop him when he moved closer, winding his hand around her waist and leaning her back onto the grass.

He kissed her neck, leaving a trail of heat prickling her skin, and she trembled.

“John?”

He held her in the crook of his arm and raised his head. “Yeah?”

“Do you love me?”

He stilled, frowned. Then shrugged. “Yeah. I love you.” He bent to kiss her again.

But with his words, something shifted, a darkness pooling in her gut, an acid climbing up her throat. He kissed her neck, then her lips. His hand moved northward, off her waist.

She shook her head, wriggling away from him. “No.”

He looked up, frowning. “What? I thought this is what you wanted.”

She turned away from him, her eyes burning, horrified when a cold tear dropped on her lips, still on fire with his touch. “I thought so, too. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she hadn’t left his jacket in the grass.

He scooted closer to her. “I thought . . . I mean . . . You agreed that this was our last night together.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “But I didn’t mean . . . Well, I’m not Kari.”

“Obviously.” His mouth formed a tight line.

She turned away. Hated the pleading in her voice. “Maybe we could . . . we could write to each other.”

“Yeah, sure.” He got up, held out his hand. “C’mon, I’ll take you back to the dance.”

She stared at his outstretched hand, more tears forming. “But . . . couldn’t we just sit here for a while?”

“It’s called Honeymoon Bluff for a reason, honey.”

She stood then, meeting his eyes. “You’re going to do just fine at the university.” Then she brushed past him, nearly running back down the hill toward town.

Maybe it was a good thing she’d never see John Christiansen again.

He wasn’t sure what had happened, but this night hadn’t turned out remotely like he’d planned. Or hoped.

He’d spent the better part of a year plotting this evening, how he’d wipe any lingering doubt from Ingrid’s mind that he might not be as exciting as a city guy
 
—cool, aloof, the kind of guy a girl might find irresistible.

“Ingrid, c’mon, get on.” He revved the bike near her, not wanting to scare her, wishing he could roll back the night and restart it. He’d tell her how he’d
raced to town tonight, hoping she’d be around and how his heart felt a little black when he’d spied her dancing with Nate. How that orange dress, her hair long and curled, had made him forget last year’s smell of fish, the way she used to drive him crazy, and how all that changed somehow until he just wanted to take her into his arms.

And then his brain stopped working. The feel of her in his arms, soft and smelling so good
 
—flowers, maybe
 
—and the sense of anticipation on her lips.

He’d lost himself a little.

No, a lot.

When she’d pushed him away, he’d been embarrassed. Now it seemed he couldn’t fix it.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, John. You’re not the boy I thought you were.”

He winced at that, trying not to let her words sear his chest. But she was right
 
—for a moment there he hadn’t recognized himself, either.

He could still feel her in his arms, feel her hair between his fingers, taste her on his lips.

He’d kissed a few girls before, but no one like Ingrid. No one with such innocence, such wonder in her touch.

Yeah, he didn’t deserve her. But she had no right to treat him like he’d . . . like he’d attacked her.

“I know I screwed up. Just
 
—please, let me explain!”

She stopped so abruptly, the motorcycle whizzed past her. He had to stop, pull it up on its kickstand, then climb off and race back to her.

She stood under a tall oak, the shadows pooling around her. The music from the street reached out as if to reel them in. The lights of the town sparkled, fireworks against the murky water.

She folded her arms across her chest, her face tight. “I’m listening.”