Patricia Potter (43 page)

Meara smiled gratefully, watching as they left and climbed in a Ford as nondescript as they themselves were. “I’d better go,” she said. “I…was cleaning out some things.”

“Don’t go,” he said, and he disliked the plea in his voice, but it stopped her.

“I can’t stay here.” Her voice trembled slightly.

“The beach then. Will you go for a walk with me?”

She turned and stared at him. “Why?”

“There’s a lot to talk about.”

“Is there?” Her voice was cold in self-defense. She knew what happened to her every time he was near. The magic she remembered was even stronger, the pull even greater. It was as if she naturally gravitated to him, as earth to the sun. No matter what she told herself, how often she reminded herself of how he used and manipulated people, the attraction between them was as real and irresistible as it had been on the cruiser that March morning.

She hated herself for it.

She hated him for it.

But she couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t say no. She tried, but she couldn’t. Dear God, she didn’t want to leave him. She nodded.

He opened the back door for her, careful not to touch, not to do anything to break the very fragile truce. The beach in front was nearly deserted as was most of the stretch where the houses were located. There was the occasional bicycle rider or shell hunter or couple holding hands.

The sun was hot and the sky clear. A very slight breeze swept off the ocean, ruffling hair and cooling hot skin. The afternoon was lazy, and even the birds had disappeared for rest as the waves lapped softly at the smooth sand.

As they walked north toward the heavily wooded park, Chris saw some children playing in the sand, and he was reminded of the sand castle they’d built that fine spring day, and how carefree Meara had been with bare legs tucked under her and the comical consternation on her face as she had surveyed her ruined castle.

Time seemed to stop, to never have gone beyond that day, that image, the unique pleasure he had felt at being included in the small charmed circle. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away, the sudden pain unbearable.

For lack of anything else to say, he asked about Tara and Peter Connor. It was a mistake.

But then everything was.

He was walking in an emotional minefield, each step triggering another memory, reviving another horror for her. Chris looked at her frozen face, and wanted to kick himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She didn’t look at him, but her face gradually relaxed. He suspected it took an effort. “They’re fine. Peter’s running his father’s company and Tara’s happily married to a state senator.”

“No lasting effects?” He had to ask it.

“Not lasting. There were nightmares for a while,” she said quietly. “They kept asking about you. Elizabeth finally told them you had gone to heaven trying to help them.”

“How…?”

“Sanders put out the story that he sent you for help since the telephone wires were down, that apparently the boat hit something in the darkness. The FBI wanted no leaks of the…Nazi plan. Even the members believed it to be an ordinary kidnapping attempt.” She was silent a moment. “The house was a legacy from the Connors, who thought I had saved the children.”

“You did,” Chris said.

“They wouldn’t even have been in danger were it not for you,” she said, “and my foolish infatuation.” The guilt was heavy in her voice, and he inwardly cringed at it. Did the damage never end?

“That’s not true,” he said. “I didn’t know until that night, but they planned to take the children all along.”

“Why didn’t you know?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think they entirely trusted me. It was one reason Hans was sent. I had been an officer, not…one of their hired killers.”

“You seemed ready enough to go along with it.”

“No,” Chris said simply. “But I don’t expect you to believe me.”

“Good,” she retorted, not quite looking at him. She knew she should stop the barbs; it was totally unlike her. But she was afraid if she let go of her anger, if she stopped striking at him, that something else might happen, something she knew she had to prevent at all costs. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, lose her heart to him again. He was altogether too dangerous, too unpredictable.

“Why did you keep coming back here?” he asked softly. The question had been pounding at him, not only for the past days but for years. He knew there was one answer he wanted to hear, but he doubted it would come.

“I don’t know,” she said tiredly. “I suppose I could tell you that it was inexpensive. Or that there’s a fine peace here. But this island’s always been like the serpent’s apple. A compulsion I can’t resist.”

The words hung in the air. She started to stumble as a mist formed in back of her eyes, and she felt his strong hand reach out and steady her, then hesitate before leaving. She didn’t want it to leave.

Nothing had changed in twenty-one years, she thought with amazement. Her heart still raced when she was around him, her senses still spun wildly. She had told herself so many times that it had been her youth and inexperience that had responded to him that summer. That and the island and the magic and the war. Not love. Never love. How could she be capable of loving a spy, an enemy, a liar, a user?

But she could not blame anything on youth now. She was forty-three, a widow and a mother, and she still responded in the same tempestuous, all-consuming way. The barest touch of his hand sent rivers of warmth rushing through her body. What was wrong with her?

She knew she kept sniping at him for her own sake, to remind herself of the danger, rather than any attempt to wound him. The fierce desire to hurt ended the first day. The lines in his face, the slowness of the old easy smile, the stark agony in his voice when he’d said he had paid and paid, all had told her he had suffered too. She believed that, anyway. She didn’t know what else she believed. Or whether she could ever trust him again.

Meara glanced down at her watch, the watch Sanders had given her. She swallowed and looked away, toward the sea, toward the endless, churning sea that always changed, yet never changed. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to it. A constant in her life. A wellspring, a source, that always reminded her that there were elements and forces that miniatured human problems and usually put them in perspective. Usually.

“I have to get back,” she finally said, wondering at the silence that wasn’t awkward, that was even comforting. “Lisa will be home soon.”

Chris nodded.

“I’ll go back alone,” Meara added. “I don’t think it wise for her to see us together.”

“No,” he agreed, but she saw grief flicker across his face, and for the first time she hurt for him too. It couldn’t be easy for him, knowing….

“How long have you known about Lisa?” she said abruptly.

It was his turn to look toward the ocean. He couldn’t face her now. “Since right after the war. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, whether you were all right, what had happened to you. I had read the story about the kidnapping in the newspaper, and I knew that at least that part of it was all right, but…I heard you call my name that night. I’ve heard it nearly every night for twenty years.”

His voice was raw with emotion, raw and splintered as if each word was torn from his throat. “I tried to work myself into oblivion during the war—lumberjacking is a demanding and exhausting business—but I still heard it. Dear God, Meara, I never meant to hurt you. If you don’t believe anything else, believe that. I just couldn’t stay away from you. I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stay away.”

He turned to her, and Meara saw wetness in his eyes, and she didn’t know whether she could bear his hurt. She could bear her own; she had discovered that, but she didn’t think she could bear his. It was so stark, so stark and bleak and lonely, and he’d had no one while she had been lucky to have Sanders and Lisa.

But while she ached to reach out to him, she couldn’t. An old adage kept echoing in her mind, one that Lisa had picked up at school. “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

He continued slowly. “I saved every penny I earned, and after the war I hired a private detective firm to make sure you were…all right. It was then I found out about Lisa, and that you’d married Evans.” He couldn’t tell her how gut-wrenching it had been, how he had taken up wandering half the nights, how he tortured himself with guilt, how he had collected photos of Lisa taken by his detectives and stared at them for hours at a time. He couldn’t tell her any of it.

“He saved me, you know,” Meara said. “That night and again when I found out about the baby. He was a very good man.”

“I know,” Chris replied gently. He wanted to ask more, much more, but this was a tenuous start at best, the first step, he hoped, on the road to trust. He wanted that as much as he’d ever wanted anything in his life, that and the safety of his daughter.

“I have to go,” she said again, her hand knotting at her side. Go, she screamed to herself. Go. But she didn’t move. Her legs were rooted in the sand.

It was as if he recognized her need and understood it, just as Sanders had understood so much. His face unfathomable, Chris turned back, in the opposite direction, and moved away. Meara stood there watching, surprised, as he continued walking down the beach. He still limped slightly, but his body was straight and his shoulders squared, the gold hair blowing slightly in the breeze. She felt her stomach turn to lead, her heart beat frantically. He was giving her time, giving her space, as her daughter would say.

She was grateful. Or was she?

Meara watched him until he disappeared around a slight bend, and then she turned. And walked slowly home.

Walking away had been damned difficult. But staying would have been worse.

Chris had known the instant he could have touched her again, could have taken her in his arms. But it wasn’t time yet. Later, she would have hated herself. And him.

He had pierced part of the armor around her. But only part, and he was bitterly afraid that once away from him she would rebuild. As she had the sand castle once.

But he had learned patience in the past years, had learned to live with the fact that another man lived with the woman he loved, would always love, and had raised the child that should have been his.

Perhaps there was a chance now. Only a chance. But a chance was enough.

Lisa didn’t eat much at dinner. “Kelly’s taking me to the movies tonight.”

Meara tried not to show her sudden delight. “What are you going to see?”

“The Great Escape,”
Lisa said.

Meara felt a twinge of apprehension. She had read about the film, a War World II prison camp escape with Steve McQueen. The ironies never stopped. The reminders never stopped.

“Mother?”

When Meara looked up, Lisa was looking at her curiously. Meara forced a smile. “It’s supposed to be a good movie. I’m glad you’re going.”

Lisa nodded and slipped Andy a piece of meatloaf. A tail thumped gratefully.

Meara pretended not to see. Feeding Andy at the table had always been frowned upon, but Andy was the ultimate optimist. Meara asked about Lisa’s day.

“It was a waste, I’m afraid. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

Because of Sanders. Or was it because of the German economist?

“I know,” Meara answered. “I’ve been trying to work on an article, but nothing wants to come.”

Lisa lowered her gaze. Her mother’s eyes had been red-rimmed for days, and she regretted everything she had said several days ago. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she said. “I’m really sorry about the other day.”

Meara realized it had been a long time since Lisa had called her “Mom.” When had it stopped? How long ago? And why? Meara rose from her chair and went over to where Lisa sat, placing her hand on her shoulder. “I love you, Lisa. I haven’t said it enough. I know. And I didn’t tell your father enough. But it’s always been there. Always.”

Lisa’s fork, which had been merely moving food from place to place, stilled. “I know,” she said in a low voice. “He loved you so much.” Her voice choked.

“I’m always here for you.”

“I know. I’ve always known that.”

Andy whined under the table, sensing the emotion which filled the room.

“If you ever need to talk…”

Lisa looked up at her mother, at the evident love in her face, and she wondered if she had been wrong in more ways than one. Why had she never noticed it before? But habits were hard to break, confidences difficult to share. She had only done so with her father.

“I have to get ready,” she finally said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say at the moment.

“Okay,” Meara said. She took the dishes out, helped by Lisa, then brushed Lisa away. “You go get ready. I’ll finish.”

Lisa hesitated. There was something different about her mother, something very vulnerable. “Are you sure I should go tonight?”

“Yes,” Meara said strongly. God knew she wanted nothing more than to cement the relationship between Kelly and Lisa. “I’m going to work tonight.”

“One of these days, you’ll write that novel.”

“Maybe,” Meara replied noncommittally.