Spirit Lake (35 page)

A big hand stole in and its long fingers began packing down the dirt for her over the bulb. The gutteral voice said, “No apologies. I understand."

The hand grabbed another bulb from the basket, and the teardrop-shaped bud of life looked particularly delicate against his thick fingers. Her heart tripped.

She looked up. She barely recognized him.

The moonlight glinted off Cole's freshly-shaven jawline. He'd trimmed his dark hair to short and sleek and wore a sweatshirt with a snarling animal sports team logo on it. His scent was brisk, pure man and muscle, like someone who'd cleaned up after chores and was now ready for the evening. His black eyes soaked up the blue moonlight, but his gaze flickered, nervous-like, and he escaped to helping her plant another tulip bulb.

Trembling with heat in her middle, she pushed the trowel in, pulled it back in the earth.

He dropped in the bulb. “Lovely night. Cold though."

She knew he disliked the cold weather. “Want my coat?” It was automatic.

“No thanks. You need it."

“Nice sweatshirt. Lions?"

“Wildcats. Tyler's soccer team."

Why was he back? Had she made a mistake in razing the mansion so quickly? Had they missed an important treasure? Her hands perspired. Could he see? Why had she forgotten garden gloves tonight? “Is something wrong?"

“Wrong?” He patted the earth down expertly with the trowel, then flipped it in his hand, delivering the handle end toward her.

She accepted it in shaky hands. She remembered he was good with tools. He'd fixed her boat in a breath, tore apart a mansion with saws and crowbars despite his injury. But he hadn't fixed her heart completely. She wouldn't feel so breathless and expectant now if he had. When had she finally succombed to wanting to risk adventure with him?

“I mean,” she said, realizing she'd questioned him again, “that I wonder why you've come back without phoning ahead. You know I'm busy."

Glancing at her, he grinned. “I read Buzz's articles. I like his new Website. Pretty good for a small town guy to be putting Dresden on the map like that. All at his own cost."

“He's been helpful to me as well."

“Buzz and you?” The next tulip bulb slithered from his fingers and into the cavity in the ground. “You'll have all the guys jealous if the word gets out."

She had to smile. She even punched lightly at his upper arm. “He's helping me find an agent for my book."

“So you are writing that book. That's great. I'm glad."

He flashed her a toothy smile that caught the moonlight and tickled her tummy. How dare he do this to her. “So why did you come back?"

“Wanted to say thanks properly, for one thing."

A fissure of heat wended up her spine. “Thanks?"

Grabbing the trowel from her, he dug several new holes in an arc next to the gravestone. “You could have chosen never to tell me about our son. But you did, you explained it all. And I'm richer knowing about Jonathon and for knowing what you went through. It broke an old pattern inside me, maybe my damn ego, and released something else, maybe my compassion. I never had much of it or much time for it before coming back to you. So, that's why I have to thank you for telling me about him, and letting me inside your heart. That took all your courage. But I think you saved my life by it. Just wanted you to know."

If there was a fence still between them, a thread as thin as gossamer lace from a spider's web just wafted over the fence and between them, niggling for them each to take an end of the thread. But dare she believe it? Could they overcome the elemental conflict between them—the regrets, the blame, the guilt even?

In the dark of night, she watched him, waiting.

Scooping several bulbs out of the basket, he dropped them in the holes, then with his palms smoothed the soil gently over the several spots that now cradled tulips. The bulbs would rest and nurture themselves for new life in spring.

But the way he patted the soil firmly held a finality that unnerved her.

She couldn't take it anymore and stayed his hand. Electricity skipped up her arm under the flannel shirt and jacket. “Why are you here?"

They were crouched on their knees, face to face. The bare tree limbs of the woodlands rattled behind them.

With his broad shoulders pinned against the sky by the stars, he said, “I discovered a loose end I had to take care of. Some business."

“Ah.” Her heartbeat dulled. “What kind of business?"

His eyes darkened to match the night's shadows. “Depends."

Frowning with impatience, she began wiping off the trowel and packing the basket next to the owl's cage. “Wiley didn't find out anything else about the deed if that's troubling you? I still can't believe he was the ‘W’ file in David's office. Wiley, of all people, researching that mansion and your great-aunt."

“But his search did take him to a ledger kept at a local church. He found a notation about a donation Flora Tilden made. It seems my great-aunt had a sense of humor. She donated those sequined gowns she used to entertain her male friends to nuns living in St. Paul. It seems she only wanted to entertain a certain Naval officer."

“Wiley and your great-aunt? An item? Lovers?” Her stomach flip-flopped toward a laugh.

Getting up, Cole reached for the basket. “Let's just say Wiley thinks about those ballgowns and he smiles about getting under skirts. Lots of treasure under skirts."

Her heart racheted into a faster beat.

When he reached out a hand to help her up, she took it, a bittersweet twinge encircling her heart. “What might you remember here? What will make you smile like Wiley?"

“I've been thinking about how much I'll miss helping you with those baby rabbits."

“You could come back next summer."

“Or look you up at a book signing for your first Radical Rabbit book? Buzz tells me they might rush the first printing for next spring."

Pleasure ebbed through her at the notion he'd been asking around about her. “You'll have to stand in line behind all the kids in school. They pester me to death about when my first book will be out."

“They show good taste.” He let go of her hand and moved stiffly around the headstone, putting it between them. Like that fence.

“Something is wrong.” She knew the furrow in that brow.

“We never finished our conversation."

“Which one?"

“About fragile china dolls on shelves."

A chill galloped along her bones. Rubbing her hands up and down the arms of her jacket, she said, “I'm sorry about that conversation. It was unfair to try pity on you again. And that's what it was. I apologize. Old habits is all. No more."

“That's not my point.” He shook his head, and began meandering toward the church, carrying the basket. “I had to come back and talk about fragile things, and fences."

“Fences?"

“Keeping fences up around me hurt my son. And I have to do everything in my power to make it up to him."

Flashing surprise at him, she couldn't hold up against the lightning bolts in his eyes. Did he expect her to congratulate him on making a decision he should have made the minute his son was born?

Groping for the cage on the ground, she picked up Owlsy. The bird fluttered, mimicking her confused heart. “It's getting late."

She took off with long strides, skirting by the church and its bare bridal wreath bushes scratching against the siding.

Pounding the path behind her, Cole blurted out, “Not only did I put up fences, but I put my son on the other side of a fence, thinking I was protecting him. From me. But it's lonely when you're at a distance, detached."

Her heartbeat pressed against her breastbone. She slowed to a normal walking pace to catch her breath. When he eased up beside her, she thought she heard the hum of vibrations undulating through the air toward her. Scooting ahead of the confusing sensation, she said, “Don't blame yourself anymore for anything that's wrong between you and your son. You're there now. He'll come around."

Crowding next to her on the path, he said, “My son is why I'm here."

He'd already made that point. What was wrong with the damn man? “That's your business?"

His response was to lead the way down a steep section of the path. They were quiet for a time while he helped her through the dark, a firm hand at her elbow. He carried the tulip basket.

Tilting his head at her, he said, “No lantern tonight."

She hadn't carried her lantern, she realized, for the first time ever. “It was one of those old habits. And the moonlight's enough."

“I like a night like this."

A wind kicked up with the beat of her heart. The pines moaned, perfuming the air.

“Your son's in some kind of trouble, isn't he? That's why you're here. I said he could visit but if he's—"

“No,” he said, setting down the basket. “It's me."

“You? You made all the decisions you had to make. You should feel good about everything and the way it came out when you left here."

He found a log nearby, and sitting down, kneaded his fists in front of him. “I left here for a good reason. And it wasn't because of my boss or Mike. It was because of something you said."

A leaden bolt slammed through her. She set Owlsy down, but remained standing a couple of yards from Cole. “I said a lot of foolish things. But that's past.” Didn't he see that?

Staring into the night, he continued, “Remember when you told me how important it was to shut your eyes and remember your loved ones?"

“Yes.” She shuddered under her jacket.

“Well I closed my eyes in the mansion one day, and I couldn't visualize Tyler. Oh, he was there, but I wasn't sure of the image. How long was his hair, really? What clothes did he wear, really? And did he go ahead and get the braces or had we only talked about it? I couldn't remember anything. It scared the hell out of me. I knew then, that no matter what, I had to go home. And that you were right. I belonged with my son. I owed him a father. A real father."

“And what is your definition of a real father?"

Looking right at her in a way that stilled the blood in her veins, he said, “He takes action. Words are one thing, but it's what you do. It's what you show your kid that counts."

Like staying with him. Looking at the sweatshirt again with his son's team logo on it, she felt the wind gusting through her. At least he had the sensitivity to come back here and tell her his decision in person. There was no hope to bring down the fence between them. Too much had transpired between them.

Staring at the strong set of his jaw, she said, “Tyler's lucky to have you. So is your nephew, Tim. And Karen."

His gaze zeroed in on her then, powerful. “Owlsy's probably eager to be set free. Come on."

On the pathway again, he said, “Your father would have been proud to see what you've become."

Heat splashed her cheeks. “My father didn't understand."

“He understood completely. A father is afraid of losing his kid's love."

“But to be so obsessed?"

“He was probably jealous of me, the punk kid who seemed more important to you than he did."

“My father only wanted to own everything around Spirit Lake. Including me. To him, it was all about ownership of the land, the lake, the place."

He held a branch out of the way for her to move ahead on the narrow path. “My son's studying the environment at school, saving jungles and such. He told me the other day that even Walden Pond is not about a place. It's about consciousness."

Stopping in front of her, he blocked the path, peering down at her with eyes that reflected the moon. “My son would say that Spirit Lake is all about being conscious of what's important."

“And what would you say?"

“It's about learning how to tear down fences."

With her nerves ravaging her, she shivered. “What exactly are you saying, Cole?"

His answer was his action. He held out his hand and led her onward, the moonlight unfolding the path like a silver runner of silk. Only the reality of Owlsy fluttering in his cage kept her stumbling forward without crumbling under the confusion.

When they reached the cliff overlooking the dark valley below, Cole put down the basket and forced the cage from her hand, taking her quaking hands in his. His hawkish gaze pinned her against the skein of the night.

The hum grew heavy between them.

And then he turned, tucking her beside him and under his arm to look out over the cliff. The moonlight outlined a barn's roofline in the distance, the ragged tops of trees, and a windmill. Laurel smelled the last of freshly harvested cornfields.

“So quiet,” he said on a sigh.

When he tipped his head back, she did the same, listening to the hush, floating at the sight of blinking stars on a navy, satin sky.

She glanced at his face, and she was startled by his calmness. What did he want from her?

Then reaching up to the sky, he pointed with an index finger. “Remember how we used to make magic happen?"

Trembling, her hands grew clammy. “Yes. We'd touch our fingers to the same star. We did a lot of silly stuff."

“Let's do it again. Be silly. Make a wish."

She reached up, the pad of her index finger feeling a spark when she touched him and the bright star.

“There,” he said, drawing his hand away, “what'd you wish?"

“If I told, it wouldn't come true."

“I can make you tell."

“How?"

“Close your eyes."

“Here? On this cliff?” The darkness lured her, dizzying.

“Close your eyes. I'm here. This won't take long."

Sheepish, she gave in, closing her eyelids against the moonlight.

“Shut them tight, real tight, okay?"

“Cole, for heaven's sake."

A moment later, something smooth and cool slipped into her hand. She opened her eyes. “The locket?"

“I found it stuck in the afghan at your house, and took it with me. But I want you to have it."

Then reality lurched in. “You came back just to give me this? This is the loose end? The business?"

His brow furrowed into deep lines. “Would you open it? Please?"

He looked so earnest that she had to. Her fingernail pricked the hinge, and it sprung open under the moonlight.