Herons Landing

by JoAnn Ross

  She was a little embarrassed about that, but then again, his brother would’ve known exactly what they’d probably be up to when he bought those groceries. And she was grateful he’d thought of protecting her.

  “You were that confident?”

  “Let’s just say I was hopeful.”

  When he ran his hands over her shoulders, his left thumb pausing a moment at the base of her throat, Sarah wondered if he could feel her heart leap, and knew from the flare in his blue eyes that he had.

  He trailed his fingers down her arms, linked them with hers. His hands were warm and thickly calloused from the hard physical work he must’ve been doing in Nepal. There was a long, suspended beat of stillness as he looked down at her and she looked up at him. Watching. Waiting.

  Finally, he bent his head and brushed his mouth against hers. It was a light kiss, a feathering as soft as down, but enough to cause her eyes to drift closed as that familiar, shimmering warmth she’d never thought she’d ever feel again began to flow in her veins.

  His thumb touched the corner of her mouth, not in that outwardly casual way he had in the ferry line, but with obvious sensual intent. She parted her lips, inviting, needing more, then moaned as his tongue touched hers. His mouth was firm and warm as the mulled wine she’d drunk at Christmas in England. His evening razor stubble stimulated her skin as he took his time, the exquisite kiss going on. And on. And on.

  Without his mouth leaving hers, he lifted her hand and pressed her palm against the front of the blue chambray shirt he’d changed into. His heart, thudding hard against her touch, matched her own. Only then did he pull back. Just a whisper of a bit.

  “That’s what you do to me,” he said, his voice low and so rough that, needing to kiss him again, she gripped his shirt, went up on her toes and lifted her open mouth to his.

  With a deep groan, he pulled her tight against his body, which had always been fit, but was now as hard as stone. And not just his torso—which, she discovered as she unbuttoned the shirt—had amazing washboard abs—but everywhere. She slid her hands beneath the blue chambray to run them over his back, which felt as if it had muscles on top of muscles. Not the kind built in a gym, but by hard physical work.

  If she were an artist, she’d want to paint him in the nude. As a woman, struck by a surge of purely primal lust, she’d settle for just having him naked. Now.

  When she would have rushed, John insisted on taking his time, touching, tasting, loving her everywhere, causing her bones to soften in that oh-so-familiar way. In turn, she touched his beautiful, strong male body in places she’d dreamed about too many times over the years. While at the same time his clever hands brought all those erogenous zones only he had discovered back to life again, causing every atom in her body to sing a joyous hallelujah.

  Outside, the storm rolled in from the sea, creating flashes of lightning across the bed as they created a magnificent storm of their own.

  * * *

  AFTERWARD, EATING THAT rich Boston cream pie in bed, Sarah realized that he’d been right about her being more like Anne Elliot. Like Anne, she loved deeply. And constantly.

  She’d loved John Mannion all her life. And would continue to love him until she took her last breath. And then, if they were so blessed, even beyond.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SARAH WOKE SPOONED against him, John’s belly pressed against her back, his arms around her. Amazingly, as many years as they’d loved each other, this was only the third morning they’d awakened in each other’s arms.

  When she felt him looking at her, she turned toward him.

  “Good morning.”

  “The best morning,” he agreed, brushing her cheek with his roughened fingertips.

  As his gentle touch brought back that morning in Boston, she concentrated on the happy part. Not what had come later.

  “You know what you said about Nepal helping you to develop mindfulness and assisting you in finding the truth within you?”

  “A truth that can be different for each of us,” he said, running a hand down her bare thigh. “As for mindfulness, I could stay in this moment for the rest of my life. And be perfectly happy.”

  “Wouldn’t we starve?”

  “My darling, precious Sarah,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. “Hasn’t such a well-rounded person such as yourself heard of the concept of living on love?”

  She laughed. “That sounds like a country song.”

  “If it isn’t it should be.” John drew her closer, enjoying the pleasure of just lying together, body to body, talking about life. And love. Their secret romance hadn’t allowed for what so many couples probably considered a simple pleasure.

  “Well, anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my inner truth. To be honest, I was before I went off to England.”

  “Which is what that year in Japan was about?”

  “I needed to get away from academia. Not that being a visiting professor in Tokyo wasn’t still academia, but it was out of my literary world, if that makes sense.”

  “Not that different from going to Nepal,” John suggested. Where he’d found his own truth, which Mike had warned him would anger his father. But that was a risk he was prepared to take, knowing that his family was close enough that he’d be forgiven. Eventually.

  “Exactly. You know that saying about politics not being beanbag?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, academia makes politics look like beanbag. The higher you get, the less it gets about opening minds and more about gaining tenure and climbing over colleagues to reach the top.”

  “Which isn’t you.”

  “No. But I couldn’t escape my parents’ expectations.”

  John ran a hand down her side, from her breast to her thigh, and as he felt renewed desire stir, he reminded himself that this may be the second-most-serious conversation he’d ever have with her. The first still yet to come. Depending on what she was about to say next.

  “They put a lot of pressure on those beautiful shoulders.” He touched his lips to the one nearest him.

  “They didn’t mean to. They’d never wanted me to succeed for them, but for myself. Professors, even heads of liberal arts departments, don’t make that much money, and Mom and Dad’s pride would never let them take any from me, even if I were richly paid. They simply wanted me to be secure. Settled. And happy.”

  “Which I imagine is what every parent wants for their child.” John hoped.

  “What you said about Anne. About her putting her own needs aside?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve always done that. I have one more week to notify Oxford if I’m going to take that PhD slot. I’ve decided that I’m going to turn it down.”

  “Not because of anything I said?”

  “No...yes...well, sort of. You merely clarified that last little piece of the puzzle. What I love about teaching is opening minds. While I was in Tokyo, I wrote to Honeymoon Harbor High School. They have a position opening up this fall. Teaching junior and senior AP English.”

  “They’d be lucky to have you.”

  She smiled. “That’s what Josh Corbett, the principal, said. I also contacted the community college to see about a possible position as an adjunct professor. Teaching a night class during the semester.”

  “And they snapped you up.”

  “The position’s mine if I want it,” she agreed.

  “And do you?”

  “I do.” The smile faded, and that little line furrowed between her bright brows again. “I hope Mom and Dad won’t be too disappointed with me.”

  “Let’s see...” John rubbed at the spot, smoothing the soft skin. “You living all the way across the country, and over the Atlantic Ocean in England. Or being back home, near your family, doing what you love. What could they possibly be disappointed about?”

&nbs
p; “When you put it that way.” She rolled over so she was lying on top of him. “I wish I’d been able to talk to you about this earlier.”

  “It’s better this way,” he said. “We each had to find our own truth.”

  She slipped a hand between them and wrapped her fingers around him. “I think I’ve just found yours.”

  That was the last thing either one of them would say for a very long time.

  * * *

  TWO HOURS LATER, reluctantly leaving the house to arrive back for the Harbor Days play, John took a detour, turning onto the road leading through the grove of Christmas trees.

  “Want to take a walk?” he asked.

  Although curious, Sarah was feeling too mellow to question anything he might do. The sun had risen, bathing the trees in a warm yellow glow. Overhead, birds whirled in a spring-blue sky the color of a robin’s egg. The air, scented with the various firs, smelled like Christmas.

  “I’d love to,” she agreed. It was cool enough that she slipped into the fleece jacket, and soon they were strolling hand in hand between the rows of trees.

  “I planted trees in Nepal,” he said.

  “Not Christmas trees.”

  “No. Fruit trees. The area I was in used to have healthy mandarin orchards, which provided nutrition and income from selling the fruit. But it had gone into citrus decline with most of the trees suffering from pests, diseases and poor cultivation. All they were left with was a few trees with yellow leaves and sour fruit they couldn’t eat or sell.”

  “So you planted new ones?”

  “Yes. But not just mandarins. I had meetings with all the farmers and taught them how planting a mixed orchard with a wide variety of trees would lessen the risk that one specific pest or disease could wipe out the entire orchard.”

  “It would also have the fruit ripening at different times,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. Giving them a more consistent benefit to their diet. We ended up planting mangoes, lychees, pomegranates, mandarins and macadamia nuts. Each of the farmers I worked with planted twenty seedlings. When I left, most had between seventeen and twenty flourishing. We also sowed dhaincha, a crop grown as a green manure in the orchard, and used it to mulch the trees and fertilize an intercrop of vegetables between the trees.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s going to be a few years until the trees bear fruit, but I’m happy with how it was going when I left. And farmers from various districts had started to take notice and applied for seedlings of their own. So I’m hopeful.”

  “You really did change lives. For generations.”

  “I like to think I made a difference. But I got back far more than I gave. While I was there, I realized that I can never be a banker. I’ve always been drawn to growing things. Maybe it’s from eating fresh vegetables from Mom’s gardens and spending so much time weeding and turning over our glacial loam and till soil, but it’s why I took ag as a minor, even though Dad thought it was a waste of time. I went to Nepal, where I wanted to use my knowledge for good. But also to find out if it was just one of those impossible dreams—”

  “Like me being a ballerina,” she murmured with a soft smile.

  “Like that. But now you’ve found your truth. And I found mine. Another thing I did while in Nepal was study up on British farming.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seemed the best way for us to be together.”

  “You were willing to do that?” She placed her free hand against her wildly racing heart. “Move to England? For me?”

  “I enjoy farming. But you’re my truth,” he said simply. “I was willing to do whatever it took to be with you. However, since your plans have changed, the reason I brought you here is because this farm’s for sale. I know growing Christmas trees isn’t an important goal like solving the world’s food insecurity—”

  “There was one year, instead of cutting our own tree, we came here,” Sarah cut him off. “That day filled my heart with happiness and made it the best Christmas ever. Even Dad sang old carols that had been passed down through our Scottish ancestors. Surely that’s important, too.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Coming here every December was the only time my dad would chill out and we’d feel like a real Leave It to Beaver family. I spent a lot of time, when I wasn’t thinking about you,” he said, “coming up with ideas to make the experience even better. Mom used to bring thermoses of cocoa. I thought giving away cups of it and maybe mulled cider could be part of the experience.”

  “And cookies,” she said. “And sleigh rides. Not that we get snow that often but—”

  “I could fix up a horse-drawn wagon to look like a sleigh,” he said. “And cut greenery to trim houses and wreaths people could buy with the trees.”

  “And carolers. You could get them from the churches and the schools.”

  “Good plan.”

  “It’s a wonderful plan.” She looked around as if imagining a Mannion family Christmasland. “I’m all in.”

  The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  “Are you saying what I think you are?”

  “I want to teach, but that’ll leave time to make this special dream come true,” she said.

  “How about this?”

  He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the black velvet box he’d carried with him around the world.

  “Oh!” She drew in a breath as she opened it and saw the simple diamond solitaire.

  “I may be two years late.” Surrounded by the trees, all wearing their bright spring needles, he knelt, not giving a damn that he was getting his jeans muddy. “This is my grandmother Mannion’s ring. I thought it would symbolize a bond between our families, but if you want I can buy something new—”

  “No. It’s perfect.” And how like him to have thought of it.

  “Okay...good...so... Will you marry me, Sarah Louise Harper? And build a life with me here on the Mannion Family Christmas Tree Farm?”

  She slipped the antique ring on her finger, held it up to the sunlight, where it shone like the sunny warmth brightening her once-wounded heart.

  “It sure took you long enough,” she said as she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him with all the joy and love that had been missing from her life.

  Because now, not only was she back in John Mannion’s arms, where she belonged, they’d both finally come home.

  * * * * *

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