Kisses in the Rain

by Pamela Browning

  "Sorry," he said afterward. "I had to hear that."

  "Was it important?"

  Nick's eyes were hard, his expression grim. "Weather is always important here. For pilots and for fishermen." His attitude as he turned the radio's volume knob did not invite further questions or comment.

  Suddenly one of the trolling lines began to shake. Nick set his mug down with a clatter and ran outside. As the line was reeled up out of the water, the leaders attached to it appeared, and he slid them out of the way.

  "It's a salmon!" he hollered, knowing from the jump of the line, but when the hook appeared above the surface of the water, the bait was gone and the hook was empty.

  Martha had run out behind him. The wind whipped her hair in her eyes, and she brushed it away.

  "What happened?" she asked at the sight of the empty line.

  "Somehow he got away," Nick said.

  Despite the disappointment, they kept their spirits up. Nick rebaited the hook and dropped the line into the water again.

  Martha volunteered to cook breakfast. She fried potatoes and heated up moose liver that Hallie had cooked last night. She wasn't accustomed to cooking in a frying pan that rocked back and forth, and she wasn't quite used to Nick's hearty notion of breakfast yet. Right now she longed for a bagel, preferably one sopping with lots of butter and honey. Or even a chocolate-chip cookie. But Nick gulped his breakfast down rapidly. So did she. Something about the sea air whetted her already hearty appetite.

  After breakfast they relaxed and listened to other people talking on the shortwave radio. Today the catch wasn't good. No one was catching anything much on this fishing ground, and Martha sensed the painful uncertainty in the fishermen's voices.

  "I can't imagine what it would be like to earn a living in so haphazard a fashion—waiting for fish to bite, never knowing what kind of fish are out there, dependent on the radio for company and weather information," she said.

  "Sometimes it's really a good life, especially when we're hauling fish in one after the other. No one knows what makes the fish bite one day and not bite the next. If we don't get fish one day, we simply go back and try again the next day. It's not as lonely as it seems. There are all those long winter months when fishermen have to stay in port. A lot of socializing gets done then."

  "What a business," Martha said, calculating in her head like the good businesswoman she was. "You must never know if the number of fish you catch is going to pay for your fuel or your time."

  Nick shrugged. "There are a lot of intangible things to make up for that. A fisherman is entirely his own person. He doesn't depend on a boss or the whims of a big company. He's independent. That's why fishermen do it, in spite of the cold and the storms and the dangers."

  Later Nick hauled in some of the lines because he suspected some activity, but they had caught only three cod—unwelcome, since they were trolling for salmon. Nick iced the fish down in the hold anyway; Hallie could put them to good use.

  When Nick put the Tabor on automatic pilot, there were lots of quiet moments in the galley, waiting. They sat at the tiny table that served for dining, facing each other, occasionally glancing out the window to watch seabirds searching the waves for their supper. Sitting across from Nick, his attention focused on her, Martha felt like the center of his universe. Out here there was no Davey, no Faye, no rumors and no unexplained photos in the family album. Here it was only the two of them on the Tabor, suspended between the endless sea and sky.

  Had she been a fool ever to have doubted that Nick loved her? Was she a fool for loving him when she knew she'd eventually leave him? Or maybe she was only a fool for telling him that she loved him. Without that particular knowledge, Nick Novak wouldn't know where he stood with her. He'd work harder to please her. He wouldn't disappear from her life for days at a time if he wasn't sure that he'd won her heart.

  Now, with Nick sitting across from her and studying her, she didn't doubt that he loved her. The picture of Davey's mother in his photo album didn't matter. Or was she lying to herself, telling herself what she wanted to hear?

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Nick misread her restlessness.

  "Bored?" he asked.

  Martha forced a smile. She wanted to talk about what was bothering her, about the gossip and rumors and innuendos and about her own suspicions about Davey's origins. But she was afraid of what she might learn. She didn't want to ruin these few days alone with him. She reminded herself to continue to heed Faye's counsel. Only if she knew him better would Nick open up to her; only then would she learn what she wanted to know.

  So she hid her feelings and answered his question. "I could never be bored on the ocean. It changes all the time. There's always something to watch."

  She had apparently smoothed things over well, because Nick only grinned approvingly, and Martha resolved to let things go at that.

  It wasn't hard to do with the ship's radio chattering, muted by the engine noise. The radio ran continuously, a fisherman's link to the rest of the world. In this case, it was also a valuable ally. They didn't have to talk so much if the radio did most of the talking.

  Martha found the overheard topics of conversation on the radio fascinating. Art's wife reminded him via radio to take his pills. Everett's friend Bud communicated in code, telling Everett how many fish he'd caught and where. A message was relayed to Karl Vandergrift that he was the father of a baby girl. The Vanguard II reported a man overboard, almost setting in motion a complicated search-and-rescue operation, but only a few minutes later the relieved captain reported the man rescued.

  The danger of a man overboard alarmed Martha, but Nick reassured her. "He wasn't in the water long enough to be in danger. What's bad is when a man's overboard in cold water without a survival suit. He can't survive long then. I've fallen into the water on days like this many times. Sometimes I was baiting the lines and the boat rocked so much that I fell. Other times I was just careless."

  "Careless!"

  Nick shrugged. "It happens. You get to thinking you're invincible, and no man is invincible where the sea is concerned. The worst tragedies arise from situations that could have been prevented."

  He stood up abruptly, his expression dark. She couldn't see his face as he began to wipe the cups he had washed earlier. This was one of those times when Nick retreated into himself and became prickly and aloof.

  Nick didn't stay that way for long, but then he never did. In a moment he seemed to gain control of his emotions, turning to her and saying, "Come on, let's check the lines. Maybe we've caught something."

  There was nothing to do but to follow him outside and watch as he hauled in the lines. The port side yielded several cod and a halibut.

  "That's our dinner," declared Nick, tossing the halibut to one side.

  When Nick pulled up the starboard lines, there were two big king salmon, one a twenty-five pounder, the other weighing at least thirty. Nick let out a cry of triumph.

  "At least these two salmon are a positive sign. There are salmon down there, all right. All we have to do now is get them to bite."

  Cleaning the fish was messy work, but Martha didn't mind. Nick cleaned them in a trough with his trusty old knife as a bevy of gulls gathered for the free meal. Martha tossed the unusable parts of the fish overboard and watched as the gulls dived headlong into the water after them.

  "I've never known a woman who could stand to watch me clean fish," commented Nick as he sluiced down the trough afterward.

  "It's part of fishing," said Martha. "I have many happy memories of going fishing with my father when I was a kid. I guess it's because I'd always try things that my sisters wouldn't, and my father was desperate for a fishing companion. Anyway, I learned to clean fish then. I could still do it if I had to."

  "Is there anything you can't do?" Nick teased, his arm around her shoulders.

  I can't get you to tell me your secrets, she thought, but she didn't say it. She only pulled him close and felt for a moment the stead
y thrum of his heartbeat beneath his clothes, and then she pulled away.

  Nick cut the halibut into cubes, and Martha fried them in batter. They ate dinner at dusk while the Tabor proceeded under automatic pilot to a sheltered cove near a small, rocky island. Martha cleaned up the small galley while Nick lowered the anchor and made things fast on deck. Then Nick went below to ice down the fish they'd caught.

  Here in the cove, where they were protected by arms of land, a sense of calm settled over the Tabor. Little wavelets slapped against the hull, rolling the boat gently up and down.

  Martha was waiting for Nick on the foredeck when he emerged from the hold. Her eyes were a sea gray now, glimmering in the moonlight. Nick went to her and slid his arm around her narrow waist.

  "Look," she whispered, pointing toward the shore.

  A moose picked its way across the sandy, rock-strewn beach. It lifted its head and appeared to sniff the air. Perhaps it had caught their scent. The big antlers seemed tipped with silver in the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds. They watched for a few minutes more until the moose disappeared into the forest.

  Nick's hand tightened around her waist. "Are you ready to go inside now?" he asked gently. It had begun to mist lightly, softening the outlines of the island.

  Martha lifted her eyes to his. She had known all along that this moment was coming, and she'd prepared for it. When Nick had asked her to go for a trip of several days' duration on the Tabor, she had known that he expected them to sleep together. She had already decided that it was okay, that she was ready. She hadn't known that, faced with the fact of it, she would suddenly feel so shy with him.

  He took her by the hand and led her across the deck into the wheelhouse and aft to the galley, where he pulled down a bed that fit neatly over the dinette. Somewhere outside she heard the muted clang of a warning buoy, but it seemed far away and of another world. Nick turned to look at her, and the love and expectation shining from his eyes was unmistakable.

  Slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she began to unsnap her windbreaker, but then he took over and did it for her. Her knees went slack, but not from the rolling of the boat. She sensed her heart thumping wildly underneath the jersey she wore; surely he heard it, too? From the look of him, though, he was listening to his own heart and what it told him.

  He threw their outerwear in a corner and touched her cheek. A wisp of her hair fell forward against his fingers. He bent forward and kissed it.

  As his parted lips moved away from her hair, she stared at them, willing them to meet hers. Was it possible to tell from the set of a man's lips whether he was a good lover? She thought it was. The curve of Nick's lips as he brought his mouth to hers was sensual, even erotic.

  Her mouth opened beneath the pressure of his lips as his hands slid through her hair. She clung to him, tasting salt, hard put to keep her balance now. A low moan escaped him, and she wondered distractedly how she'd managed to avoid this when it was what she had wanted ever since she'd first seen Nick Novak.

  He shrugged out of his shirt, which fell to the floor, and began to unbutton his jeans. Though they were still kissing, Martha brushed his hand away. His jeans were the kind with a button fly—a nuisance.

  "Now I know why they invented zippers," he whispered as he let her fingers do the work, and her mouth curved upward in a smile.

  She eased him out of his jeans, delighting in the warm length of his unclothed body pressing against hers. She touched him and said, "Now I know why they invented these," and he laughed before stifling her with a kiss.

  He tugged her shirt out of her jeans and, releasing her lips, shimmied it over her head. It felt so good to move naturally into intimacy with him, it felt so right. His hands momentarily cupped her rounded breasts before he found the front clasp of her bra and released it. The wisp of nylon fell away, and her breath caught in the back of her throat as his fingers slowly explored her nipples.

  Without his help, since he was busy elsewhere, Martha unzipped her jeans and slithered out of them. By this time he was nibbling at her shoulder.

  He swept her into his arms, held her close for a single perfect moment when their heartbeats rose and merged, and gently lowered her backward onto the bed.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around him and gloried in the sensation of her face against the taut muscles of his chest. The weight of his body pressed upon her. They lay like that for a long time, drinking in the exquisite sensation of being held in each other's arms. The stubble of his beard bit into her cheek, and his arms beneath her were strong and warm. His hair was sweet with the scent of the sea.

  Gradually their burgeoning awareness grew into an insatiable physical hunger. She arched upward so that he could slide his arms out from under her; he propped himself on his elbows so that his hands could cup her face while his eyes searched hers for one memorable moment.

  "Martha, my dear Cheechako, I love you so much," he said, his voice firm and strong. His eyes were bright with sincerity, and she didn't think he was holding anything back. Everything that he was to her seemed revealed in the gold-flecked depths of those eyes—friend, confidant, admirer and now her lover. Her lover. And she did love him so much.

  "I love you too," she said, her voice a mere whisper.

  His fingers enclosed her breast, and he bent his head to savor the nipple. Her legs slid instinctively around his as he murmured love words against her lips; she was staggered by her body's powerful response to him. She was talking, answering his whispers with little cries of her own, incoherent cries of joy. Her excitement incited his, and with the suddenness of a storm at sea they were caught up in the swift fulfillment of their passion. At its peak he cried out, and she cried tears of joy, and he held her close and kissed them away.

  Afterward, after they had lain quietly together, their legs intertwined, their cheeks touching, their breaths mingling, Nick said, "That was a little too fast for my taste. But I wanted you so much that—"

  Martha silenced him with a kiss. "We both wanted each other so much," she amended, her voice breaking with emotion.

  He smiled and curved his body over hers, marveling at her velvety warmth, at her fragrant, soft skin, at her silvery eyes telling him so much more than words. Her hands delicately caressed the contour of his back, soothing him in her own rhythm, a rhythm that rose and fell with the stirring of the sea. The creaking boat rocked gently beneath them, secure in its mooring; Martha rocked gently beneath Nick, equally secure.

  For the moment they could both forget that this wasn't forever, that it was only for now. For the moment, it was enough.

  Chapter 11

  Nick stirred drowsily and batted at the weight on his chest. Davey... Davey must have climbed in his bed during the night and was lying across him. He struggled up out of the fuzzy depths of sleep and mumbled something about going away. He woke up completely when a surprised female voice said, "That's the most unflattering wake-up call I've ever heard!" The weight shifted and arranged itself on his shoulder; its hair tickled his ear.

  He opened his eyes to see Martha smiling up at him.

  "Martha," he murmured, remembering now. They were on the Tabor, anchored off a secluded island. Last night they had made love. Over and over, it seemed to him. Or had that been a dream?

  "Four times?" he inquired hesitantly.

  "Five," she said, nestling into him and making it perfectly clear that she had no intention of moving.

  "Five times," he agreed. They had been awake half the night. No, not awake all that time; they had alternately fallen asleep and fallen upon each other for hours. He had been insatiable. She had been insatiable. Like all her enthusiasms, this one had been strong. Lucky for him, he thought.

  He finally noticed the sunbeams because they sparkled so prettily on Martha's dark hair. He half sat, removing his fingers from where they stroked Martha's rose-tipped breast to shove aside the flimsy drapery at the window over the bed. The world seemed bathed in sunlight, a rare commodity in these parts. The su
n seemed like an omen of a bright future.

  He returned his hand to Martha's breast. She snuggled closer in encouragement and he drifted his hand lower. He could feel the outline of each of Martha's ribs, which was surprising because Martha ate so many cookies. Not to mention all the bagels she consumed at the Bagel Barn. Thinking of food, his stomach commented on its empty state. Martha giggled against his neck.

  "Time for breakfast," he announced, swinging his feet over the edge of the narrow bed. Martha reached for him, unwilling for him to leave. She looked rumpled and contented, replete with love.

  This morning Martha wore no makeup at all, and her hair curled endearingly in ringlets all over her head. He kissed the tip of her breast, tweaked her big toe and got up.

  She lifted herself on one elbow, holding the sheet up in misplaced modesty as she watched him. "How can we eat breakfast? What used to be the table is now the bed."

  "I'll take care of it," he promised, tugging on his jeans. He left the top button unbuttoned.

  "Sexy," murmured Martha, touching the button.

  "Comfortable," he said, although if Martha thought leaving the top button of his jeans unbuttoned was sexy, he'd gladly leave it unbuttoned all the time.

  He heated oil in a pan and fried cold sliced oatmeal. Martha wrinkled her nose at the sight of it, but she roused herself enough to peel a couple of oranges as she sat in bed.

  He brought plates of the oatmeal and little sausages, and they wrapped themselves up in the bedclothes and balanced their plates on their knees.

  Their activity the night before had left them hungry enough to down enough fried oatmeal for four people. Considering his bias against anything sweet for a morning meal, Martha was pleased that Nick suggested that she put maple syrup on hers.

  "Fried oatmeal," she said over and over, not believing that anyone would actually eat fried oatmeal for any reason.