Sweet Mercy (15 page)

“That’s good to hear. But, I tell you, it didn’t seem much like getting through to them. It seemed like dealing with over-sized preschoolers.”

The food and conversation combined to ease what anxiety lingered after her recent adventures. Fluke’s company had something to do with that. He seemed content to enjoy the moment with her, to enjoy the time together. No pressure for anything more. If some small part of her might welcome his desire for more, well, she’d deal with that when she’d had a chance to figure out what more she could handle.

After they finished their meal and proceeded to Fluke’s cabin the conversation stayed casual. By apparent mutual consent they steered away from any discussion of the future or what had happened between them.

~ * ~

When the last half-mile of thickly wooded dirt road opened onto a clearing of green lawns, Rachel gasped. She stared at what seemed a cross between a log cabin and a Swiss chalet overlooking a broad sweep of lake reflecting the morning sun in the cloud-flocked sky above.

“Wow.
This
is a ‘cabin?’“

Fluke pulled the car into a discreet port not far from the main building. “It gives a nod to the rustic,” he allowed. “See the logs?” He tilted his chin toward the artfully crafted exterior and its broad wrap-around porch. “Wait until you see the views from inside.”

As they exited the car, she realized she not only had no handbag, but no luggage at all. What had she been thinking, agreeing to this trip on the spur of the moment? No plans, no resources. Calm down, she told herself. I’ve got my specs now. If I really need help I can call for it.

She helped Fluke carry the groceries from the car to the cabin and stood by as he unlocked the door and led the way into an interior with high ceilings, a wide fieldstone fireplace, plenty of inviting seating and a floor-to-ceiling bank of windows with a breath-taking view of the lake and deep wooded hills beyond it.

She had to pause to take it all in, but the bag of groceries in her arms soon weighed heavily on her and she followed Fluke into a well-appointed kitchen where she set the bag on a black marble countertop.

“Do you come out here often?” she asked, pulling fresh fruit and vegetables from her bag, handing them to Fluke to stow in the giant fridge.

“I host fishing and hunting parties a few times a year, hire locals to keep the place up the rest of the time.”

“Looks like they do a good job of it.”

She liked the way he moved, with a fluidity and economy of motion, taking a bag of lettuce, turning to stow it in a vegetable drawer. She could see him as a hunter or a fisherman, whatever he wanted to be.

“This is crazy,” she said, handing him a bag of mixed apples and 
oranges. “What am I thinking? I can’t just move in here with a pack of dogs. What about my life at the ashram?”

He took the bag, tossed it into another drawer. “What is it you do at the ashram, exactly?”

“I cook. I help out around the place—”

“So that’s your dream job for the rest of your life?” He quirked up a corner of his lips in a wry smile, teasing, but his eyes, a cool, almost gray blue, seemed astute.

“It’s not a job, exactly… it’s home. Tamara is family.”

“So haven’t you ever wanted to leave home, learn a trade, seek your fortune in the world?”

She handed him more things, bread, meat, cheese.

“Kind of had enough of all that before we found Tamara. But… sometimes I wish I’d gone on to college. There are things I’d like to learn more about.” She glanced up at him, grinning, “When you told me about all the things you’ve learned and studied I was kind of jealous.”

“Like I could’ve missed that.” He returned her grin, fielded a couple tubes of frozen dinner roll dough she tossed him.

“But seriously,” he stowed them in the freezer compartment, keeping one out on the counter where it would thaw. “What would you study first if you went back to school?”

“It seems like I’ve only scratched the surface when it comes to understanding emotions,” she confessed. “They’re like the barometer of our beings—they tell us about our wishes and fears, the things that matter most to us. They tell us what’s right and wrong and important. If we could understand them properly we’d know better how to deal with people like Johnson before he became a menace.”

“You should definitely go back to school—study psychology. Hell, study everything you wonder about.”

She leaned back against the counter, folding up the emptied brown paper bags. “I suppose I could… I could apply for grants, scholarship money…”

He let the refrigerator door fall shut and moved in close beside her at the counter.

“You could live here, take classes in Saint Cloud—money’s no problem.”

She thrust her chin at him. “For you.”

“For us.” He took her chin between his fingers, leaning closer.

“I don’t need someone to take care of me.” She’d worked too hard learning to take care of herself. His touch on her chin seemed to reach every inch of her.

“Maybe I need someone to take care of me.”

The look in his eyes shifted. She saw a little boy hidden there, peeking briefly through, someone who needed her, needed her love, the

comfort and assurance she knew how to give.

He took her hands, his lips close enough to brush hers, the length of him close enough to alert every nerve facing him. His eyes showed her more than she’d have thought herself capable of reading in their blue gray depths.

“What are you saying?”

“You made those dogs love you—well, you made me love you too. I need to know if you feel the same, if you feel you could love me, live with me, and be my love?”

She melted to her core. She could feel it, feel his connection to her, his desire, his soul’s embrace of hers.

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s just my talent doing this to us. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

“That makes two of us.” He moved in, kissing her, melding their mouths into one warm inner world where they both belonged. After a long, delicious time, he pulled back only far enough to speak. “As far as I can tell, your talent only projects your feelings. It doesn’t create them. If you feel the way I feel you’re feeling… well, you love me too.”

His lips moved along her throat, her neck, up to her ear.

“You’re making me crazy.”

“I know,” he whispered into her ear, sending shivers along her nerves. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” she groaned, giving in, letting herself fill with the heat and the light, with the swelling tides of pleasure. “No, never.”

“That settles it,” he murmured against her throat. “I
am
the luckiest man in the world.”

The End

(No fictional dogs were harmed in the telling of this story.)

About Naomi

Naomi Stone lives and writes in Minneapolis, Minnesota. She's been accused of having too much imagination, but is glad to share.

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