One Last Weekend (3 page)

Teague propped his chin on top of her head. “Somehow,” he said, “I don't think that's a comment on my manly virtues.”

Joanna giggled moistly.

“Of course, I
did
bring you to three or four screaming orgasms—Grandma.”

Joanna laughed and swatted at him.

But he caught her face between his hands and suddenly his expression was serious. “Joanna, about the sports car—”

She stiffened. Teague had said he didn't have a trophy wife waiting to plant a firm derriere in the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive ride, and she believed him. But once the divorce was final and he was on the market, it wouldn't be long. He was smart, good-looking, successful, and great in bed—or out of it.

No, it wouldn't be long.

“Just for tonight,” she said, making herself relax, “let's pretend we're not getting divorced, okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” Teague replied, sliding a hand up under her sweatshirt to caress her breast.

Joanna was instantly hot. She swallowed a groan as Teague leaned forward to nibble at her neck, her earlobe, the base of her throat.

An image of Teague's next wife invaded her mind.

Pretend,
Joanna told herself silently,
pretend.

He began, very slowly, to undress her, and soon she was straddling him in the chair, her body already moving to the age-old rhythm, straining to take him inside her.

But Teague would not be rushed.

He took his time, fondling her breasts.

He tongued her nipples, but only sucked them when she begged.

He cupped her buttocks, squeezing them firmly.

And then she felt his right hand sweep around, find the core of her, and part her to ply her clitoris between his fingers. Joanna was instantly transported back to college days; they'd made love like this then, in the backseat of Teague's rattletrap car, in her dorm-room closet during a wild party, once on his parents' bed, while they were downstairs, playing bridge with neighbors.

In their first apartment, after they were married.

Teague slid a finger inside Joanna and worked her G-spot until she was half frantic with the need to come. But he always withdrew, just at the crucial moment; he loved to make her wait.

Once, he'd loved
her.

“Teague,” she murmured, throwing her head back, abandoning herself to his hands, his mouth, his damnably infinite patience. “Teague, oh, please—”

“Not yet,” he told her.

She began to buck against his hand, desperate for release.

“
Please—
”

“Too soon,” he said, taking most of her right breast into his mouth, then pulling back to tease her with his tongue.

“
Teague
—”

“Shh.” He worked his fingers faster inside her, then slowed.

She rode his hand, felt his palm making slow circles against her clitoris even as his fingers worked her G-spot.

And she shattered, broke apart into a million flaming pieces.

It was over, then, she thought. Over so soon.

But it wasn't over.

Teague shifted, opened his jeans, and she felt him, hard and hot, ready to take her.

She sagged against him, her body still convulsing with soft climaxes.

He eased into her, but the size of him made her draw in a sharp breath and push back from his chest, beginning another ascent even as she trembled with the last sweet, sharp climax.

There was a difference, though. Joanna was in control now, even as she climbed inexorably toward another orgasm, one she knew would be brutal in its sheer force.

Gripping Teague's bare shoulders, she straightened so she could watch his face change in the dying light of the fire. Slowly, he raised and lowered his powerful hips in long, deep strokes, determined to set the pace.

Joanna took over.

She moved faster along his length, took him deeper, twisted her torso slightly every time his shaft was sheathed inside her.

He groaned, tried to slow her pace with his hands, but Joanna would not be turned from her purpose. She pumped harder, faster, deeper, with a primitive grace that soon had
Teague
pleading, just as she had earlier.

“Joanna,” he rasped, the muscles of his neck cording as he threw back his head, beginning to lose control. “
Joanna
—”

She rode him ruthlessly.

He came with a low shout and a stiffening of his whole body, nearly throwing her off with the upward thrust of his hips. She felt his warmth spilling into her and savored his unqualified surrender.

I love you,
she almost said.

He settled slowly back into himself, his breathing still quick and shallow, his chest and thighs damp with sweat against her own slick skin. He pulled her close, held her against him.

And they slept.

* * *

When Joanna awakened, she was still straddling Teague. The sun was up and the furnace was running, chugging dusty heat through the vents.

The power was back on.

Joanna sat back, blinking, and was chagrined to find Teague wide-awake, watching her with a tender, puzzled little smile.

In the night, she'd been reckless, passionate, even wanton.

In the daylight, she was forty-one.

A grandmother-to-be.

And the dog was whining at the front door, needing to go outside.

She shifted to get to her feet, but Teague stopped her. Tightened his strong hands on her bare buttocks.

“Joanna,” Teague said.

“Don't,” she whispered.

He let her up and propelled her in the direction of the bathroom.

By the time she'd finished her shower, squirmed into a pair of jeans that reminded her of the five pounds she'd gained, and added a bra and a T-shirt, Teague and Sammy were back from their walk.

Teague was in the kitchen, whistling.

Coffee was brewing.

“Let's have breakfast out,” he said as she entered. “Unless you want kibble or leftover salad.”

“I'm not hungry,” Joanna lied. Didn't he know she was fat?

“Well, I am,” Teague said.

Sammy munched happily on his kibble.

And the telephone rang.

“Mom?”

“Hello, Caitlin,” Joanna said, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“I guess the storm must be over, huh?” Caitlin asked.

Joanna glanced at Teague and found him watching her. The expression in his eyes was not grandfatherly in the least. “Yes,” she said. “The storm is over.”

“I was pretty hysterical last night,” Caitlin said softly.

“You're allowed,” Joanna replied.

Teague made a face.

Joanna made one back.

“But you and Dad are at the cottage. Together.”

“Caitlin—”

“There's hope, then.” A frown entered Caitlin's voice. “Isn't there?”

“We're here to—talk.”

Teague waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“To decide things,” Joanna said, blushing. She turned her back to him.

“What things?”

“Caitlin.”

“Okay, okay, I'll let you off the hook. For now. But I still think it's intriguing that you and Dad are—”

“We got stuck here,” Joanna answered.

“Poor choice of words,” Teague whispered, suddenly behind her, his breath warm against her nape, causing her skin to tingle.

“Maybe if you just—talked. You know, communicated?”

“I've heard of it, yes,” Joanna replied dryly. “Are you feeling better today, Cait?”

“Lots better,” Caitlin said. “It was probably just hormones.”

“Yes,” Joanna agreed, turning to glare at Teague because he was trying to turn her on and she was talking to
their daughter.
“It was probably just hormones.”

Teague pulled an invisible dart from his chest. “Sammy and I are going to the store for breakfast-type food,” he said. “Tell Caitlin I love her and congratulations.”

With that, he took the keys to his sports car from the countertop and whistled for Sammy, and the two of them left the kitchen, headed for the front door.

Joanna relayed the message, adding that Sammy and Teague had gone to the supermarket.

“Good,” Caitlin said. “Then you can talk.”

“Caitlin, we
are
talking.”

“About you and Dad, and your marriage. You know, the sex part.” A silent
eew
shrilled beneath Caitlin's words.

“Caitlin Marie, do not go there. You are my daughter and I adore you. But your father's and my marriage is off-limits.
Especially
the ‘sex part.' ”

“So you're admitting you do have sex?”

“I'm not admitting anything of the sort. Your father and I are getting a divorce, Caitlin. I know that's hard for you to accept, but it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. We made it very deliberately and gave it a lot of thought first. We're both going to be a lot happier in the long run.”

Maybe the
very
long run, Joanna reflected.

“Is there another man in your life, Mom?”

Joanna nearly choked. “
No!
”

“Does Dad have a girl on the side?”

“He says he doesn't, and I have no reason not to believe him.”
Except for the sports car.
“Caitlin, why are we having this conversation when I made it perfectly clear about five seconds ago that what goes on in your father's and my private lives is patently none of your business?”

“I don't understand why you're doing this,” Caitlin said, sounding hurt. “That's all. You don't have another man. Dad doesn't have another woman. What is so terribly wrong that you can't work it out?”

“We've grown apart,” Joanna said. “Your father wants to build a sailboat. I want to write a novel.”

“And those things are mutually exclusive?”

For a moment, Joanna was stumped for an answer. She could say they'd tried to save their marriage, she and Teague, but it wouldn't be true. They
hadn't
really tried. One day, one of them—she couldn't remember which—had said, “Maybe we should just call it quits.” And the other had replied, “Maybe so.”

Things had escalated from there.

A tear slipped down Joanna's right cheek, but she managed to keep her tone normal. Bright, perky, everything's-fine ordinary.

“Okay,” Caitlin said, “just tell me one thing, and I'll leave you alone. I promise.”

“Okay,” Joanna agreed, a split second before she realized she'd just taken the bait.

“Do you love Dad or not?”

An enormous, painful lump formed in Joanna's throat. She tried to swallow, but it wouldn't go down.

“Mom? Are you still there?”

“I'm—here,” Joanna managed.

“That's what I thought. You still love Dad, don't you?”

Joanna realized she loved the man Teague used to be, but he'd become someone else over the past few years. As for last night, well, that had been—what? A time warp? Some kind of primitive reaction to being stranded together in a storm?

“Mom?”

“Caitlin, not now. Please.”

“I'm coming up there,” Caitlin said decisively. “Someone has to talk sense into the two of you.”

Joanna drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, silently reminding herself that she loved her daughter. Caitlin was only trying to help. “You're expecting a baby, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You have a husband and a nice apartment and a very demanding job. You can't just pick up and leave.”

“Peter and I talked it over last night,” Caitlin said. “We want to take Sammy.”

“Take Sammy?”

“You know, give him a home.”

“He
has
a home.”

“A
broken
one.” Caitlin gave a small, stifled sob.

Again, Joanna's eyes stung. “Yes,” she admitted, suddenly imagining all of them—herself, Teague, Caitlin and Sammy—picking their way around the storm-tossed wreckage of some once-great ship, unable to reach each other. “A broken one.”

“I guess Sammy wouldn't be happy in this little apartment,” Caitlin admitted.

Suddenly needing to move, Joanna wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room to stand with one bent knee resting on the window seat cushion. Sunlight danced, dazzling on the water—it was as if there'd been no storm in the night, as if she'd dreamed it.

While Caitlin talked on, Joanna, only half listening, stared out at the sandy, stony beach in front of the cottage and remembered Teague and Sammy playing there. Teague throwing sticks, Sammy chasing them, bringing them back.

“Sammy needs your father,” Joanna said.

And deep in her heart, a silent voice added,
And so do I.

Chapter Three

By the time Sammy and Teague returned from their supermarket mission, Joanna had brought the bumpy conversation with Caitlin in for a safe landing, gathered up the quilts from the living-room floor, and opened several windows to the warmth of the day.

“He's jonesing for a walk,” Teague said with a nod toward Sammy as Joanna stepped outside to help carry in the bags of groceries stuffed into the tiny trunk of the sports car. “Think breakfast could wait?”

Joanna smiled even as her heart splintered inside her. Why couldn't life always be like this—simple, easy, glazed in sunlight? “Sure,” she said.

So they left the groceries, and Teague caught hold of her hand, and they went across the dirt road and down the bank to the beach, Sammy gamboling joyfully ahead of them.

Joanna bit her lower lip, watching him, trying to stay another spate of tears. They would have this one last glorious weekend together, she and Teague and Sammy. She envied the dog because he couldn't know just how short the time would be.

“What?” Teague asked, noticing what she was trying so hard to hide.

“I was just wondering—do you think we tried hard enough?”

Teague looked puzzled.

“To save our marriage, Teague,” Joanna prompted.

“No,” Teague said. He bent, still holding Joanna's hand firmly, and picked up a stick. He tossed it a little ways for Sammy, who shot after it, a streak of happy, golden dog catapulting down the beach.

“What could we have done differently?”

“Talked, maybe. Instead of always assuming we already knew what the other was thinking or feeling and proceeding from there.”

“Talked,” Joanna mused. “Tell me about your boat, Teague. The one you want to build.”

“You hate boats. They make you claustrophobic and seasick,” Teague reminded her.

She smiled. “True,” she said. “But talking about them is not the same thing as spending weeks at sea.”

“Weeks at sea?” Teague echoed, confused.

“Aren't you planning to sail around the Horn or something?”

He chuckled, though whether it was because her question had amused him or because Sammy was nudging him in the knees with the stick, wanting him to toss it again, Joanna had no way of knowing.

So she waited, strangely breathless.

“No,” Teague finally said after throwing the stick, a little farther this time, and watching as Sammy raced after it. “I just want to go fishing.”

“Then why not simply
buy
a boat?” Joanna asked. “Why go to all the trouble of building one?”

“For the experience, Joanna,” Teague answered. “I'm used to building things. Caitlin's backyard playhouse. The dog steps in there by the window seat. The company.”

“Oh,” Joanna said. “I guess I pictured you sailing the high seas.”

Sammy came back with the stick, but he was tiring. He wasn't used to running along beaches anymore.

Teague spotted a fallen log a little way down the beach and led Joanna there to sit. Sammy lay down gratefully in the sand, panting but still holding on to his treasured stick.

“You pictured me sailing the high seas,” Teague said, gazing out over the waters of the sound, so tranquil now, so dangerously stormy the night before. He looked sadly amused. “No doubt with a long-legged blonde for a first mate?”

Joanna hesitated, then let her head rest against the side of Teague's shoulder for a long moment. “And the whole time, you were imagining a dinghy a hundred yards from shore?”

“Pretty much,” Teague said.

“I should have asked you.”

“I should have told you, whether you asked or not.” Teague slipped an arm around Joanna and held her close for a moment. “Are we still pretending right now, Joanna,” he asked, “or is this real?”

“I'm not sure,” Joanna said softly.

“Me, either,” Teague admitted. He leaned to stroke Sammy's mist-dampened back. “I'm not sure of much of anything right now.”

“Neither am I.”

“Tell me about the novel.”

“It would be about a marriage. A young couple falling in love, having a child, building a wonderful life together—and growing apart in ordinary ways. Becoming strangers to each other.”

“You forgot about the golden retriever they adopted at the pound,” Teague said, with an attempt at a grin that pierced Joanna's heart again.

“Oh, I didn't forget that,” Joanna answered.

“Will they break up, these people in your book? Or will they work things out?” He was looking deep into her eyes now, peeling back the layers of her very soul. “Stay together for the sake of the dog, maybe?”

Joanna chuckled, but it came out sounding more like a sob. “I don't know,” she said. “Maybe it's too late for them. Maybe it would be better—kinder—to just cut their losses and run.”

Sammy had recovered after his brief rest and got to his feet, eager to chase the stick again.

Teague let his arm fall slowly from around Joanna's shoulders and stood, Sammy's stick in his hand. “Time to head back,” he told the dog. “You don't want to overdo it, boy.”

Joanna rose, too, reluctantly. She'd wanted so much to hold on to the moment she and Teague had shared, but it was already gone.

So the three of them walked back to the cottage, one buoyant with faith in a good world, two doing their best to pretend things weren't falling apart.

* * *

Joanna needed to be busy, so she constructed an elaborate omelet from the contents of Teague's grocery bags. While she cooked, he plugged his cell phone in to charge, in case of another power outage, and carried in more wood from the shed out back. The transistor radio burbled news from the kitchen counter.

Some of the ferry docks had been damaged in the storm, so only a few routes were still being run, and while the weather was good now, there was another system brewing off the coast, one that might get ugly. She switched off the radio, set the table, poured juice, and waited while Teague washed up at the kitchen sink.

“I guess we couldn't get back to Seattle today even if we wanted to,” she said lightly, wondering all the time she was speaking why she was practically holding her breath for Teague's reaction.

“Oh?” Teague asked without turning around.

“Maybe not tomorrow, either. According to the news, we're likely to have another storm.”

“That's terrible,” Teague said, but when he faced Joanna at last, he was grinning. “Absolutely the worst thing that could possibly happen.”

Confused, Joanna blinked, momentarily speechless.

“No wonder everybody was buying up all the bottled water and propane when Sammy and I were at the market,” Teague said.

Sammy, lying on a nearby rug, lifted his head at the sound of his name, then rested it on his forelegs again when he realized no stick was going to be thrown.

“You're being awfully casual about this,” Joanna said.

Teague rounded the table, stood behind Joanna, placed his hands on her shoulders, and gently but firmly pressed her into her chair. “Have you got a better idea?”

“Well, maybe
we
should stock up on bottled water and propane.”

“Eat, Joanna,” Teague said, sitting down across from her and helping himself to half the omelet. “I bought some already. Madge Potter will drop it off later, in her truck.”

Madge, who had lived on Firefly Island all her life, was a local institution. She published the small weekly newspaper, dug clams when the tides were right and sold them door to door—and delivered groceries.

“You're
enjoying
this,” Joanna accused, but she was smiling.

“The omelet? Definitely. This is first-rate, Joanna. No wonder your cookbooks sell like—”

“Hotcakes?” Joanna teased.

He grinned. “Does the woman in your book write cookbooks?”

“No,” Joanna said. She hadn't written a word of the novel yet, but Teague spoke as though she were halfway through. “She's a chef and owns an elegant restaurant.”

Teague paused, swallowed, and frowned thoughtfully. “Oh,” he said. When he met Joanna's gaze, his blue eyes were solemn, even grave. “Do you wish you'd become a chef? Started that restaurant you used to talk about?”

Joanna considered. “No,” she said. “It would have taken too much time. Raising Caitlin and being your wife pretty much filled my dance card.”

“ ‘Pretty much'?”

“I was happy, Teague.”

“Emphasis on the ‘was'?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Joanna, if you were happy, we wouldn't be dividing everything we own—including the dog.”

“If
you
were happy, you wouldn't have worked eighteen-hour days long after the company was up and running,” Joanna said. “You wouldn't have bought a sports car.”

“That again? It's a
car,
Joanna. Not an effort to recapture my youth.”

Joanna lowered her fork to the table and stared down at her portion of the omelet, as yet untouched.

“Look,” Teague said, making an obvious effort to hold on to his temper, “if the car bothers you so much, I'll sell it.”

She looked up. “You'd do that?”

Before he could answer, a vehicle rattled into the driveway alongside the house, backfired a couple of times, and clunked its way to a reverberating silence.

“Madge is here,” Teague said. And he smiled.

In the next moment, a knock sounded at the back door.

Sammy gave an uncertain woof and slowly raised himself to all four feet.

Teague went to the door.

“Got your water and propane and all that camping stuff,” Madge boomed out. “It's an extra ten bucks over and above what you already paid me if I gotta unload it.”

Teague chuckled. “Come in and have coffee with Joanna,” he told Madge. “I'll unload the truck.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Madge thundered as Teague stepped back to let her pass. She was a tall, burly-looking woman, well into her sixties and clad in her usual bib overalls, flannel shirt, and rubber fishing boots. Her broad face was weathered by years of wind and salt-water spray, her gray hair stood out around her head, thick and unruly, and her smile was warm and full of genuine interest. She leaned to pat Sammy on the head once before he followed Teague outside.

“Hello, Madge,” Joanna said, already filling a mug from the coffeemaker. “Have you eaten?”

“Hours ago,” Madge proclaimed. “Not a bit hungry. That was some storm we had last night, wasn't it? Nils and me, we thought it would take the roof right off our cabin.”

Nils was Madge's live-in boyfriend. He worked on the fishing boats in Alaska in season and ran the printing press when he was home. He was a good twenty years younger than Madge and was known to write her long, poetic letters when he was away.

“Sit down,” Joanna invited, handing Madge the steaming mug.

“Best stand,” Madge said. “Sit down too much, and these old bones might just rust enough so's I can't get up again.”

Joanna chuckled. As colloquial and homey as Madge's speech was, she wrote like the seasoned journalist she was. Joanna particularly enjoyed her column, which contained everything from political diatribes to recipes to local gossip. “Not likely,” she said.

“Good to see you and Teague out here together,” Madge went on, narrowing her eyes speculatively. “The way I heard it, you two were on the outs. On the verge of divorce.”

“Madge Potter,” Joanna said, as a disturbing possibility dawned, “don't you
dare
write about us in that column of yours!”

“Well, I wouldn't name names or anything like that,” Madge promised before taking a noisy slurp of her coffee. “'Course, if I said anything about that sports car, everybody'd figure it out. Stirred up a lot of interest around here, I can tell you, when Teague showed up driving that flashy rig with that redhead—”

Madge gulped back the remainder of the sentence, but it was too late.

“Redhead?” Joanna asked, mortified, furious, and totally blindsided, all at once.

“Oops,” Madge said.

Teague appeared in the open doorway at just that moment, a propane jug under each arm. He looked from Madge to Joanna, connecting the dots, and the color drained out of his face.

“I guess I'd best be going,” Madge announced and hastened out. Seconds later, her old truck roared to life and rumbled away.

“You were here—on the island—with a redhead?” Joanna asked, her voice deceptively mild.

Slowly, Teague set the propane tanks down. Sammy slithered between Teague and the door frame and headed for the living room, ears lowered and tail tucked, like a canine soldier hearing the whistle of approaching mortar fire.

“It wasn't what you think,” Teague said.

“Wasn't it?” Joanna retorted, folding her arms. “Teague, you and Caitlin and Sammy and I came here as a family for years. Everybody knows us. And
you brought a redhead to this cottage?
”

“Joanna—”

“Shut the door.”

Teague reached behind him and closed the door with a soft click.

“You
rotten liar!
” Joanna accused.

Teague reddened, and his jaw took on a familiar hardness. He was shutting down, backing away. In another moment, he'd turn his back on her and refuse to—refuse to what? Explain? Tell more lies?

To Joanna's surprise, relief, and outrage, Teague stood his ground. “You're not going to like the truth a whole lot better than what you
think
happened,” he said. “Ava isn't my lover. She's a real estate agent, specializing in vacation properties. I should have talked to you about it first, I admit that, but you were so busy doing interviews to promote your cookbook—”