by Nora Roberts
But a month had passed, and she hadn’t come. He wondered how long a man could live when he was starving.
Call her. Go after her. You were a fool to ever let her go. Drag her back if necessary. You need her. You need…
His thoughts ran this way like clockwork. Every day at dusk. Every day at dusk, Hunter fought the urge to follow through on them. He needed; God, he needed. But if she didn’t come to him willingly, he’d never have what he needed, only the shell of it. He looked down at his naked finger. She hadn’t left everything behind. It was more, much more, than a piece of metal that she’d taken with her.
He’d given her a talisman, and she’d kept it. As long as she had it, she didn’t sever the bond. Hunter was a man who believed in fate, omens and magic.
“Dinner’s ready.” Sarah stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her narrow face streaked with a bit of flour.
He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to go on writing. As long as the story moved through him, he had a part of Lenore with him. Just as, whenever he stopped, the need to have all of her tore him apart. But Sarah smiled at him.
“Nearly ready,” she amended. She came into the room, barefoot. “I made this meat loaf, but it looks more like a pancake. And the biscuits.” She grinned, shrugging. “They’re pretty hard, but we can put some jam or something on them.” Sensing his mood, she wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her cheek against his. “I like it better when you cook.”
“Who turned her nose up at the broccoli last night?”
“It looks like little trees that got sick.” She wrinkled her nose, but she drew back from him, her face was serious. “You really miss her a lot, huh?”
He could’ve evaded with anyone else. But this was Sarah. She was ten. She knew him inside out. “Yeah, I miss her a lot.”
Thinking, Sarah fiddled with the hair that fell over his forehead. “I guess maybe you wanted her to marry you.”
“She turned me down.”
Her brows lowered, not so much from annoyance that anyone could say no to her father, but in concentration. Donna’s father hardly had any hair at all, she thought, touching Hunter’s again, and Kelly’s dad’s stomach bounced over his belt. Shelley’s mother never got jokes. She didn’t know anybody who was as neat to look at or as neat to be with as her dad. Anybody would want to marry him. When she’d been little, she’d wanted to marry him herself. But of course, she knew now that was just silly stuff.
Her brows were still drawn together when she brought her gaze to his. “I guess she didn’t like me.” He heard everything just as clearly as if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. He was greatly touched, and not a little impressed. “Couldn’t stand you.”
Her eyes widened, then brightened with laughter. “Because I’m such a brat.”
“Right. I can barely stand you myself.”
“Well.” Sarah huffed a moment. “She didn’t look stupid, but I guess she is if she wouldn’t marry you.” She cuddled against him, and knowing it was to comfort, Hunter warmed with love. “I liked her,” Sarah murmured. “She was nice, kinda quiet, but really nice when she smiled. I guess you love her.”
“Yes, I do.” He didn’t offer her any words of reassurance—it’s different from the way I love you, you’ll always be my little girl. Hunter simply held her and it was enough. “She loves me, too, but she has to make her own life.”
Sarah didn’t understand that, and personally thought it was foolish, but decided not to say so. “I guess I wouldn’t mind if she decided to marry you after all. It might be nice to have somebody who’d be like a mother.”
He lifted a brow. She never asked about her own mother, knowing with a child’s intuition, he supposed, that there was nothing to ask about. “Aren’t I?”
“You’re pretty good,” she told him graciously. “But you don’t know a whole lot about lady stuff.” Sarah sniffed the air, then grinned. “Meat loafs done.”
“Overdone, from the smell of it.”
“Picky, picky.” She jumped off his lap before he could retaliate. “I hear a car coming. You can ask them to dinner so we can get rid of all the biscuits.”
He didn’t want company, Hunter thought as he watched his daughter dash out of the room. An evening with Sarah was enough, then he’d go back to work. After switching off his machine, he rose to go to the door. It was probably one of her friends, who’d talked her parents into dropping by on their way home from town. He’d brush them off, as politely as he could manage, then see if anything could be done about Sarah’s meat loaf.
When he opened the door, she was standing there, her hair caught in the light of a late summer’s evening. He was, quite literally, knocked breathless.
“Hello, Hunter.” How calm a voice could sound, Lee thought, even when a heart’s hammering against ribs. “I’d’ve called, but your number’s unlisted.” When he said nothing, Lee felt her heart move from her ribs to her throat. Somehow, she managed to speak over it. “May I come in?”
Silently, he stepped back. Perhaps he was dreaming, like the character in “The Raven.” All he needed was a bust of Pallas and a dying fire.
She’d used up nearly all of her courage just coming back. If he didn’t speak soon, they’d end up simply staring at each other. Like a nervous speaker about to lecture on a subject she hadn’t researched, Lee cleared her throat. “Hunter…”
“Hey, I think we’d better just give the biscuits to Santanas because—” Sarah stopped her headlong flight into the room. “Well, gee.”
“Sarah, hello.” Lee was able to smile now. The child looked so comically surprised, not cool and distant like her father.
“Hi.” Sarah glanced uncertainly from one adult to the other. She supposed they were going to make a mess of things. Aunt Bonnie said that people who loved each other usually made a mess of things, for at least a little while. “Dinner’s ready. I made meat loaf. It’s probably not too bad.”
Understanding the invitation, Lee grasped at it. At least it would give her more time before Hunter tossed her out again. “It smells wonderful.”
“Okay, come on.” Imperiously, Sarah held out her hand, waiting until Lee took it. “It doesn’t look very good,” she went on, as she led Lee into the kitchen. “But I did everything I was supposed to.”
Lee looked at the flattened meat loaf and smiled. “Better than I could do.”
“Really?” Sarah digested this with a nod. “Well, Dad and I take turns.” And if they got married, Sarah figured she’d only have to cook every third day. “You’d better set another place,” she said lightly to her father. “The biscuits didn’t work, but we’ve got potatoes.”
The three of them sat down, very much as if it were the natural thing to do. Sarah served, carrying on a babbling conversation which alleviated the need for either adult to speak to the other. They each answered her, smiled, ate, while their thoughts were in a frenzy.
He doesn’t want me anymore.
Why did she come?
He hasn’t even spoken to me.
What does she want? She looks lovely. So lovely.
What can I do? He looks wonderful. So wonderful.
Sarah lifted the casserole containing the rest of the meat loaf. “I’ll give this to Santanas.” Like most children, she detested leftovers—unless it was spaghetti. “Dad has to do the dishes,” she explained to Lee. “You can help him if you like.” After she’d dumped Santanas’s dinner in his bowl, she danced out of the room. “See you later.”
Then they were alone, and Lee found she was gripping her hands together so tightly they were numb. Deliberately, she unlaced her fingers. He saw the ring, still on her finger, and felt something twist, loosen, then tighten again in his chest.
“You’re angry,” she said in that same calm, even voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come this way.”
Hunter rose and began to stack dishes. “No, I’m not angry.” Anger was possibly the only emotion he hadn’t experienced in the last hour. “Wh
y did you?”
“I…” Lee looked down helplessly at her hands. She should help him with the dishes, keep busy, stay natural. She didn’t think her legs would hold her just yet “I finished the book,” she blurted out.
He stopped and turned. For the first time since she’d opened the door, she saw that hint of a smile around his mouth. “Congratulations.”
“I wanted you to read it. I know I could’ve mailed it—I sent a copy on to your editor—but…” She lifted her eyes to his again. “I didn’t want to mail it. I wanted to give it to you. Needed to.”
Hunter put the dishes in the sink and came back to the table, but he didn’t sit. He had to stand. If this was what she’d come for, all she’d come for, he wasn’t certain he could face it. “You know I want to read it. I expect you to autograph the first copy for me.”
She managed a smile. “I’m not as optimistic as that, but you were right. I had to finish it. I wanted to thank you for showing me.” Her lips remained curved, but the smile left her eyes. “I quit my job.”
He hadn’t moved, but it seemed that he suddenly became very still. “Why?”
“I had to try to finish the book. For me.” If only he’d touch her, just her hand, she wouldn’t feel so cold. “I knew if I could do that, I could do anything. I needed to prove that to myself before I…” Lee trailed off, not able to say it all. “I’ve been reading your work, your earlier work as Laura Miles.”
If he could just touch her… but once he did, he’d never let her go again. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes.” There was enough lingering surprise in her voice to make him smile. “I’d never have believed there could be a similarity of styles between a romance novel and a horror story, but there was. Atmosphere, tension, emotion.” Taking a deep breath, she stood so that she could face him. It was perhaps the most difficult step she’d taken so far. “You understand how a woman feels. It shows in your work.”
“Writer’s a word without gender.”
“Still, it’s a rare gift, I think, for a man to be able to understand and appreciate the kinds of emotions and insecurities that go on inside a woman.” Her eyes met his again, and this time held. “I’m hoping you can do the same with me.”
He was looking into her again. She could feel it.
“It’s more difficult when your own emotions are involved.”
She gripped her fingers together, tightly. “Are they?”
He didn’t touch her, not yet, but she thought she could almost feel his hand against her cheek. “Do you need me to tell you I love you?”
“Yes, I—”
“You’ve finished your book, quit your job. You’ve taken a lot of risks, Lenore.” He waited. “But you’ve yet to put it all on the line.”
Her breath trembled out. No, he’d never make things easy for her. There’d always be demands, expectations. He’d never pamper. “You terrified me when you asked me to marry you. I thought about it a great deal, like the small child thinks about a dark closet. I don’t know what’s in there—it might be dream or nightmare. You understand that.”
“Yes.” Though it hadn’t been a question. “I understand that.”
She breathed a bit easier. “I used what I had in L.A. as an excuse because it was logical, but it wasn’t the real reason. I was just afraid to walk into that closet.”
“And are you still?”
“A little.” It took more effort that she’d imagined to relax her fingers. She wondered if he knew it was the final step. She held out her hand. “But I want to try. I want to go there with you.”
His fingers laced with hers and she felt the nerves melt away. Of course he knew. “It won’t be dream or nightmare, Lenore. Every minute of it will be real.”
She laughed then, because his hand was in hers. “Now you’re really trying to scare me.” Stepping closer, she kissed him softly, until desire built to a quiet roar. It was so easy, like sliding into a warm, clear stream. “You won’t scare me off,” she whispered.
The arms around her were tight, but she barely noticed. “No, I won’t scare you off.” He breathed in the scent of her hair, wallowed in the texture of it She’d come to him. Completely. “I won’t let you go, either. I’ve waited too long for you to come back.”
“You knew I would,” she murmured.
“I had to, I’d’ve gone mad otherwise.”
She closed her eyes, content, but with a thrill of excitement underneath. “Hunter, if Sarah doesn’t, that is, if she isn’t able to adjust…”
“Worried already.” He drew her back. “Sarah gave me a pep talk just this evening. You do, I assume, know quite a bit about lady stuff?”
“Lady stuff?”
He drew her back just a bit farther, to look her up and down. “Every inch the lady. You’ll do, Lenore, for me, and for Sarah.”
“Okay.” She let out a long breath, because as usual, she believed him. “I’d like to be with you when you tell her.”
“Lenore.” Framing her face, he kissed both cheeks, gently, with a hint of a laugh beneath. “She already knows.”
A brow lifted. “Her father’s daughter.”
“Exactly.” He grabbed her, swinging her around once in a moment of pure, irrepressible joy. “The lady’s going to find it interesting living in a house with real and imaginary monsters.”
“The lady can handle that,” she tossed back. “And anything else you dream up.”
“Is that so?” He shot her a wicked look—amusement, desire, knowledge—as he released her. “Then let’s get these dishes done and I’ll see what I can do.”
One Summer
Chapter 1
The room was dark. Pitch dark. But the man named Shade was used to the dark. Sometimes he preferred it. It wasn’t always necessary to see with your eyes. His fingers were both clever and competent, his inner eye as keen as a knife blade.
There were times, even when he wasn’t working, when he’d sit in a dark room and simply let images form in his mind. Shapes, textures, colors. Sometimes they came clearer when you shut your eyes and just let your thoughts flow. He courted darkness, shadows, just as relentlessly as he courted the light. It was all part of life, and life—its images—was his profession.
He didn’t always see life as others did. At times it was harsher, colder than the naked eye could see—or wanted to. Other times it was softer, more lovely than the busy world imagined. Shade observed it, grouped the elements, manipulated time and shape, then recorded it his way. Always his way.
Now, with the room dark and the sound of recorded jazz coming quiet and disembodied from the corner, he worked with his hands and his mind. Care and timing. He used them both in every aspect of his work. Slowly, smoothly, he opened the capsule and transferred the undeveloped film onto the reel. When the light-tight lid was on the developing tank, he set the timer with his free hand, then pulled the chain that added the amber light to the room.
Shade enjoyed developing the negative and making the print as much as, sometimes more than he enjoyed taking the photograph. Darkroom work required precision and accuracy. He needed both in his life. Making the print allowed for creativity and experimentation. He needed those as well. What he saw, what he felt about what he saw, could be translated exactly or left as an enigma. Above all, he needed the satisfaction of creating something himself, alone. He always worked alone.
Now, as he went through each precise step of developing—temperature, chemicals, agitation, timing—the amber light cast his face into shadows. If Shade had been looking to create the image of photographer at work, he’d never have found a clearer statement than himself.
His eyes were dark, intense now as he added the stop bath to the tank. His hair was dark as well, too long for the convention he cared nothing about. It brushed over his ears, the back of his T-shirt and fell over his forehead nearly to his eyebrows. He never gave much thought to style. His was cool, almost cold, and rough around the edges.
His face was deeply tanned, lean an
d hard, with strong bones dominating. His mouth was taut as he concentrated. There were lines spreading out finely from his eyes, etched there by what he’d seen and what he’d felt about it. Some would say there’d already been too much of both.
The nose was out of alignment, a result of a professional hazard. Not everyone liked to have his picture taken. The Cambodian soldier had broken Shade’s nose, but Shade had gotten a telling picture of the city’s devastation, of the waste. He still considered it an even exchange.
In the amber light, his movements were brisk. He had a rangy, athletic body, the result of years in the field—often a foreign, unfriendly field—miles of leg-work and missed meals.
Even now, years after his last staff assignment forInternational View, Shade remained lean and agile. His work wasn’t as grueling as it had been in his early years in Lebanon, Laos, Central America, but his pattern hadn’t changed. He worked long hours, sometimes waiting endlessly for just the right shot, sometimes using a roll of film within minutes. If his style and manner were aggressive, it could be said that they’d kept him alive and whole during the wars he’d recorded.
The awards he’d won, the fee he now commanded, remained secondary to the picture. If no one had paid him or recognized his work, Shade would still have been in the darkroom, developing his film. He was respected, successful and rich. Yet he had no assistant and continued to work out of the same darkroom he’d set up ten years before.
When Shade hung his negatives up to dry, he already had an idea which ones he’d print. Still, he barely glanced at them, leaving them hanging as he unlocked the darkroom door and stepped out. Tomorrow his outlook would be fresher. Waiting was an advantage he hadn’t always had. Right now he wanted a beer. He had some thinking to do.
He headed straight for the kitchen and grabbed a cold bottle. Popping off the lid, he tossed it into the can his once-a-week housekeeper lined with plastic. The room was clean, not particularly cheerful with the hard whites and blacks, but then it wasn’t dull.
After he tilted the bottle back, he chugged the beer down, draining half. He lit a cigarette, then took the beer to the kitchen table where he leaned back in a chair and propped his feet on the scrubbed wood surface.