Sunburst (8 page)

“We aren’t going to have to strip the finish off this, you know,” she said with satisfaction. “We’ll just use a good, strong cover-up polish…”

The table was nearly done, the water spots barely perceptible, the scratches hidden. Kyle, a perfectionist, would never have allowed it to leave his shop without refinishing it, but Martha claimed it looked a lot better now than it did when she first got it, which was more than the monstrosity deserved.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a recipe for polish, too,” Erica pleaded teasingly.

“A third of a cup each of boiled linseed oil, turpentine and vinegar. Preferably cider vinegar. For the curves, you use a soft old toothbrush and brush it on real lightly.” She waved Erica back as she started to leap down from the truck. “Hold on! I’ll get it. I told you, it’s the least I can do after you’ve dropped everything to take care of me.”

“I’ve enjoyed it,” Erica admitted truthfully, but in the back of her mind was her gratitude for these few hours of no heartache.

“You’re coming for dinner tonight,” Martha insisted. “The only thing I
can
do with my left hand is cook. Don’t bother saying no. Leonard will
never
believe I’ve found someone who likes Lurch!” She was back in ten minutes, her makeshift polish in a well-shaken jar. “Kyle must have changed since he was a boy,” she said absently.

“Pardon?” Erica whirled so quickly that she almost upset the jar. Martha’s words had penetrated the numbness she’d shrouded herself in all morning.

“Your husband,” Martha said wryly. “Now,
mine
wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if any man as good-looking as that brown-eyed blond kissed me, he’d have been in traction before he got out the door.”

“Morgan?”
Erica said incredulously, and chuckled. “Martha, that’s just his way. He’s been Kyle’s friend for years.”

“That’s funny. I could see right off
we
were going to be friends, and I haven’t had urge one to kiss you,” Martha pointed out blandly.

Erica shook her head with a grin. “Morgan’s just like that,” she repeated, and then hesitated, polishing the wood with long, careful strokes. “Kyle and I hit a little rough spot,” she confided after moment’s thought. “Morgan was the first one to offer help. There really aren’t many friends like him.” Martha was silent, and Erica glanced at her.
“Really!”
she insisted. “He really is!”

“Evidently, he is—to you,” Martha agreed smoothly. “As I said, Kyle must have changed.”

Martha had ten years on Kyle. At eighteen, she had been Martha O’Flaherty when Joel McCrery was an occasional visitor to the O’Flaherty household, and she’d served on occasion as Kyle’s babysitter.

“Oh, I regretted it,” Martha said ruefully. “Kyle accepted no one’s rule, denied that he ever needed anyone to take care of him. So he’d take off and disappear until his father came back, worrying everyone sick. And if anyone dared criticize anything Joel McCrery did…” Martha shook her head expressively. “Nine years old and one time he took on a grown man who said Joel could have spent a penny’s more time on work and a penny less on Irish whisky. This was a smaller community then, and we all rather thought Joel was digging a hole for himself and dragging his son in with him, but for the most part we kept quiet. Maybe we were wrong. Everyone liked Joel; he just wasn’t a simple man… His wife died when Kyle was real young, and Joel was never the same after that. We all tried, but Kyle was the only one he cared for… And Kyle, he turned out fine once he stopped being a perfect little hellion. You’re trying to rub the finish off?” she questioned Erica curiously.

Erica looked at her hands, white-knuckled from the thorough polishing she was giving the wood. Martha was talking about loyalty in the way Kyle had related to his father, and
loyalty
was a word Kyle had treated with contempt and disparagement the night before. Digging a hole and dragging his son in struck another painful spot; if Kyle was in a hole, it was Erica’s nature to dig in with him, as if she couldn’t help herself.

She felt as if Martha had inadvertently provided the missing puzzle pieces with her casual comments. Troubled, she felt she finally had caught a glimpse of something that really mattered, that would really help her understand Kyle…but she could not put all the pieces together. She ached when she thought of Kyle as a child. Joel sounded irresponsible, Kyle as if he had far too much to handle for one little boy. Fiercely loyal…independent, needing no one… Those traits were all echoed in the mature Kyle. She thought fleetingly of an earlier conversation she’d had with him, when he’d seemed to feel guilty for not loving his father as he felt he should have…yet how could he? How much could anyone put on one little boy before he started feeling resentful? Before love changed to a sense of duty? But what did any of it have to do with their marriage?

“…class president,” Martha continued irrepressibly. “But he
did
have a reputation with the girls. Hell on wheels, I believe, is the polite phrase. Always knew he would never settle for a small-town girl like the ones he took out, though. In fact, I would have guessed you for Kyle’s wife just by the look of you.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” Erica asked, surprised. The table was completely finished, shining under the midday sun. There were a half dozen bowls and various other items to put away, but…

“Oh, I can picture pretty well how you’d look if you were all dressed up. High class right down to the toenails, an aristocratic nose, silks and emeralds…”

Erica chuckled, with a pointed glance at her shorts and halter, well splashed by this time, her knees red from kneeling. “I see what you mean,” she said, deadpan.

“Oh, it’s there,” Martha insisted. “Believe it or not, it’s there, even dressed as you are. Thank God the personality doesn’t fit. From the time I was a teenager, I had a picture in my mind of the sort of girl Kyle would marry. She certainly wasn’t the kind to let a mutt jump all over her or get down on her hands and knees the way you have all morning. I figured her for a real beauty but a sheltered type; he was always so protective. Anyway…” Martha pivoted around, her hand screening the sun from her eyes, searching for the dog. She turned with a smile for Erica, who had both arms full of supplies to take back to the house. “I’ll see you—say, about six tonight? Bring Kyle, of course, if you can tear him away from the work.” She chuckled, adding, “Watch this.”

The hammering and sawing had stopped as the lunch hour approached. Lurch was lying on a pile of boards, surrounded by tools and half covered in sawdust, his head drooping in sleep. Martha called to him, but the dog didn’t even raise an eyelid. She marched to the truck, got in and started the engine, with another grin for Erica. Lurch sprang up instantly at the sound of the truck engine, and galloped past Erica in a blur of parti-colored fur. When the truck pulled out of the yard, the dog was settled in the back with his head angled out to catch the wind.

Erica’s smile slowly faded as Martha’s pickup pulled out of sight. Balancing the assorted pails and buckets, she glanced toward the house. She knew Kyle was inside; it was lunchtime. She was going to have to face him and talk to him for the first time since last night, and she hadn’t the least notion of what she was going to say.

Her feet obligingly picked up and moved, but she was conscious of her disheveled hair, the skimpy halter top and shorts. Hardly the window-dressing sort of wife Martha had her figured for. The kind Kyle wanted? Her step faltered again at the door, weighted down by a frightening feeling of hopelessness. She’d learned a great deal about Kyle from Martha, but not enough to erase the feelings of frustration and hurt left by their argument, the memory of Kyle’s face when he had shouted at her… The bowls clattered in her arms and she raised her chin, her bleak eyes turning tawny in resolve.

As an entrance, it lacked something. Pushing the back door open with her hip, she hurried to the counter before half the clutter in her arms gave way entirely. The tiny iodine bottle managed to slip to the floor and roll around, barely noticed as she dropped the rest helter-skelter on the counter.

Kyle was sitting at the table; from the corner of her eye she saw an empty plate in front of him, and another plate with a sandwich obviously intended for her. She saw as well that he wore jeans and boots, that his bare chest and back were burnished from yet another morning in the sun… His light blue eyes silently caught hers.

She bent down to snatch up the iodine bottle, averting her eyes, thoroughly irritated. He was smiling, obviously amused at the chaotic mess of toothpaste and vinegar, iodine and ash…among other things. She had laughed at the same thing all morning…but she felt too tense now to smile, and she resented his mirth. At that moment, she resented everything about Kyle. The smooth slope of his shoulders was pure gold, as if his skin still held the warmth of the sun. She felt an annoying urge to touch him, to change the quiet, watchful blue in his eyes to the fire of turquoise she saw when she was in his embrace; she felt an overpowering urge to hold on and be held in a way that would erase the memory of his hurtful words. It wouldn’t do. To reach out after he had wounded her so badly would show a lack of pride, and Erica’s expression remained distant, radiating the aristocratic cool Martha had talked about.

Kyle cleared his throat. “Erica. Last night…”

“Let’s leave it,” she said swiftly. The put-away jobs were all done, and she seemed to have little choice but to sit across from him and pick up the sandwich.

“I was angry,” he said quietly. “But not at you, Erica. I never meant to take it out on you—”

“I met someone this morning,” she remarked. “A woman named Martha Calhoun. You used to know her, I understand? She asked us for dinner tonight.”

“Erica—”

“You don’t
have
to go; I can fix something for you and Morgan ahead of time. But I think
I
will. I liked her very much…”

There was a short silence, while Kyle studied her averted face and nervous movements. The thing was, she was terribly afraid she was going to cry if he pressed the subject of last night’s argument. She didn’t want to hear again what he thought of her love or her loyalty. It was hard enough trying to assimilate that she was sitting across from Kyle and yet their marriage was disintegrating, that for some impossible reason the sandwich was even going down and she had actually laughed that morning, that nothing seemed to alter the physical awareness of him she had always had. When his hand reached over to cover hers, she could no more have pulled away from him than she could have stopped breathing.

“We’ll go to dinner at Martha’s,” he said softly. “Maybe later you’ll feel like talking.”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

He ignored that. “Erica, I think we’ve both had more stress than we can handle lately. The roof’s going up tomorrow; that should take three days, more or less. After that, there’s electricity and all the trimmings, but we should be able to steal a few days… Erica, I want a few days alone with you.”

He went on, his tone strangely soothing. She had the ridiculous sensation that he was trying to calm her, and she resented that, too. He had always known her too well, had always been the only person in her life who knew exactly how to gentle her out of her resentment. She listened vaguely. Perhaps they would go to the Door Peninsula, he was saying, drive along the shore of Lake Michigan…see some treasures, lost ships, the lighthouse at Vermilion, perhaps do some diving…

Shortly after that he got up, bent over to place a kiss on the sun-streaked crown of her head and went back out to work.

“A dairy farm?” Morgan said incredulously, and then
laughed, hooking an arm around Erica’s shoulder as he walked her outside. Kyle was still upstairs, taking a quick shower. “Are you going to have to churn your own butter for dinner?” Morgan asked blandly.

“I think they might be a wee bit more automated than that in this day and age,” Erica said dryly. “And before you even ask, no, I won’t be required to put on a big white apron and sit down with a pail to get milk for the meal.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. “I was never going to ask that.”

“No?”

“I was just going to remind you again that I’ve got chops and a grill and an unopened bottle of Chivas. Just because Kyle’s hung up on the country scene doesn’t mean you couldn’t stay here with me. Or is Kyle so possessive he doesn’t let you off the leash?”

“Woof.”

Morgan looked appropriately disgusted, and Erica whirled when she heard the screen door slam behind her. Kyle strode toward her, dressed as casually as she was; both had opted for off-white pants and dark brown tops. The blend of colors accented Kyle’s bronzed skin as much as it showed off her own red-blond coloring.

“Trying to beat my time again, Shane?” Before she’d had a chance to say word one, Kyle had handed her into the car.

“A losing battle,” Morgan complained.

“But then, I’ve told you that before. Don’t drink all the Chivas.”

Erica sat back in the seat as he started the car, feeling as vulnerable as violets, her emotions short-circuiting all rational thought as she brooded over their unresolved quarrel. An afternoon of work seemed to have solved nothing, and the hurt simply didn’t want to fade. She had never before in her life been so distraught as to strike anyone. And to do that to Kyle, whom she loved more than anyone…

“I’m trading buckets of roses for frowns this evening,” he murmured next to her.

“Pardon?”

Those blue eyes seared into hers for just a few seconds as he put the car in gear. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to coax you into a happier mood, sweet, but you look somewhere between delectable and delicious.”

“I’m wearing tennis shoes,” she said flatly. “Martha’s suggested attire.”

“I can’t help that.”

“Kyle—”

“We’re not going to argue now. We’ll talk when we get home. And in the meantime, whether you like hearing it or not, you look very special; you smell very special; and Martha’s a crazy enough lady that you just might even have a special time.” He held up a hand. “Truce?”

She took his hand, touching fingertips to fingertips. His hand folded around hers, and she averted her eyes, staring out the window. She knew he hadn’t forgotten the quarrel, either; his light humor was tentative, as gentle as the touch of his hand, and just as grave as the hidden light behind his eyes.

“What are you thinking of now?”

Dammit. Did he have to catch every frown? “Morgan can be extremely exasperating on occasion,” she said lightly.

His hand shifted to the steering wheel. “Such as?”

“He doesn’t understand the difference between being protective and being possessive. He’s always teasing…” She shrugged lightly. “Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes I think he deliberately misunderstands.”

“What exactly, Erica?”

She propped her feet against the dash and leaned back. “Nothing. Really. He just made this joke about your being possessive and my being on a leash. It didn’t strike me as funny. But then you’re not that way, thank God. You never have been. You’re protective, but you’ve never had a macho attitude of you
can
do this, you
can’t
do that. Possessive. Overpossessive. Chauvinistic. Domineering—”

“I get your drift,” Kyle said dryly. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Love doesn’t work on a leash. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Trust, honey. It’s like a silken thread that sometimes has to be as strong as steel. Why,” he suggested lightly, “don’t you tell Morgan to go straight to hell?”

She shook her head, grinning. “He needs saving too badly. I’ve got to turn his attitude around before he takes on another redhead.”

“And breaks her heart.”

“And breaks her heart,” Erica agreed.

Kyle pulled into the Calhouns’ drive. “He’s damned good at that, Erica.” He wasn’t smiling.

She puzzled over the look on his face for an instant, and then gave up trying to interpret it. Martha came flying from the house like a miniature bombshell, all bright colors and waving hands and huge smile.

“Darn it! Do you believe I invited you at milking time? And I haven’t even started dinner! Unforgivable. Leonard told me I was a disgrace.”

Kyle denied that. When they emerged from the car, Erica got a hug first, and then Kyle, who kept his hand affectionately on Martha’s shoulder, assuring her that she was not a disgrace but the same scatterbrained, appealing nitwit he’d always known. Erica started smiling in spite of herself and didn’t stop. Martha told him he was probably the same bullheaded, stubborn idiot he’d always been, but at least he had a minor claim to good looks. Kyle told her she didn’t have that problem, but she was undoubtedly as bossy as ever.

The talk went on as they passed through the house to get Kyle a beer. The house was just like Martha, bright and cluttered and busy. Erica could hear the sound of drums coming from a nearby barn, to which their son had obviously defected. Leonard appeared, as soft-eyed and gentle a man as Erica had expected. He ignored Martha and Kyle and took Erica’s hand. Would she like to see the dairy equipment?

She would. Having no concept at all of a contemporary dairy farm, she was curious as she followed him from place to place. The cows were kept in stalls so clean they gleamed like a Cadillac’s chrome. Nothing so unsterile as a human hand intervened in the process of getting milk from the cow to the consumer. From the animal, the milk was pumped through long, gleaming tubes to another room that held storage tanks. Trucks came three times a week to make pickups. The cows were huge, big-eyed and gentle. Waddling around their feet were ducklings, which had free run of the yard. There were also pecking chickens, a pair of dogs and a variety of cats, all colors.

“You mean my milk is actually three weeks old by the time I get it from the grocery store?” Erica demanded unhappily.

“At least. With almost all of the vitamins pumped out of it by that time. When you taste the milk at dinner…”

Dinner was the problem, Kyle told her. Martha was willing to make an effort at it, but in the interim the Calhouns’ seven-year-old was discovered to be missing. The McCrerys were invited to solve the tougher of the two problems.

It was crazy. The entire evening was crazy. All Erica could think of was the thousand dinner parties remembered from a childhood when it was considered a mortal sin to pick up the wrong fork.

In contrast, tonight Kyle spent ten minutes arguing about the international implications of a drop in the Dow Jones average as he and Leonard drank beer. Erica fed a baby rabbit with a bottle. Martha chattered as she strewed out feed to the chickens, then fixed fresh water bottles for the rest of the animals, all of which made an incredible racket at feeding time. The Calhoun boy kept playing his drums. At first he seemed to favor contemporary rock, then went back to the Beatles, then to old-time jazz.

Martha whisked the rabbit out of Erica’s hands, then ordered her to go with Kyle and stop worrying about helping with dinner. No one thought her capable of organizing anything, Martha complained, when in fact she was quite brilliant at it. Leonard begged to differ. She’d broken her arm tripping over even ground. Martha could remember a time he’d thrown out his back picking up a nickel off the floor.

Erica felt a large palm nudging at the small of her back, and she walked with Kyle back outside, past the barns. “Are they always like that?” she asked with a grin.

“I haven’t any idea. Leonard was probably sane before he married her.” His smile matched her own. “This was originally Martha’s family’s farm. When I was a kid, I thought it was the richest place on earth.”

“It is,” she agreed. In love and laughter. She was only beginning to understand that Kyle had been short-changed on these things as a child. The way Martha had whipped her arms around him and hugged… Erica had the unaccountable impression that Martha was still seeing a lonely, sensitive, stubborn little boy with too much pride, totally overwhelmed by the effusive O’Flaherty clan. Erica saw, too, that Martha loved to bully him with love, that she was delighted Kyle had turned out strong and handsome, and not quite so difficult to bully. The thought made her smile, even as she felt a lingering sadness, thinking of Kyle as a child, then of their quarrel the night before.

“Where exactly are we going?” she asked idly. They had crossed out of the farmyard and were striding along a farmer’s path bordering a field of wheat.

“There’s only one place that kid could be, if she loves climbing trees as much as Martha says she does.” The trail forked; they left the wheat field in favor of a wooded path. The sloping woods had the pungent, rich smell of black earth, the special stillness that was part of woods on an early evening. Kyle found his way unerringly to a huge old oak standing massive and proud, its thick limbs reaching toward the sky, “Joanie?” he called.

The voice that answered was so high up that Erica gasped in surprise. “Is it dinnertime? I haven’t missed it, have I? Mom’ll kill me.” The little voice hesitated. “You Mr. McCrery? How’d you find me?”