Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  —Irish Proverb

  Ballymuir, Ireland

  E ach Sunday morning when she slipped through the plain doors of St. Brendan’s Church, Kylie carried a guilty little secret with her: she liked going to mass not only for what she got out of it, but for being seen. Her father hadn’t been much of a church-goer. Perhaps he stayed home out of fear of a lightning bolt striking straight to his heart, but more likely because sitting still for an hour and more was inconceivable to Johnny O’Shea. As was the concept of a Higher Authority.

  Kylie was not her father; she believed. Each Sunday was a reaffirmation of the way she tried to live her life—tried being the operative word. Last night, for instance, she’d had far too many uncomfortable and inappropriate thoughts about Michael Kilbride. And today, as she settled early in a pew, she fought not to crane her neck like a spectator at the Ballymuir Races.

  How she wanted him to be there. Coming in with his sister Vi, as he would, there’d be no missing him. Between her height and her flame red hair, Vi stood no more chance of being inconspicuous than Kylie did of being bold. And Michael was no man to be easily lost in a crowd, either. Even one packed into tiny St. Brendan’s. Kylie shifted as subtly as she could to increase the range of her peripheral vision.

  Breege Flaherty, who had sat next to her, reached over and patted her hand. “All morning you’ve been as nervous as an ewe come mating season. Whatever’s the problem?”

  “No problem, none at all,” she assured her friend, secretly amused and appalled at how close Breege had struck to the truth.

  Widowed Breege was Kylie’s closest neighbor, both in proximity and in her heart. When the rest of the town had turned from Kylie after her father’s arrest for fraud, Breege had remained steadfast. The fact that her dearest friend was eighty-two years old didn’t seem odd in the least.

  “If you’ve no problem, then slide down, dear. You’ve left people waiting in the aisle.”

  Embarrassed, Kylie glanced back up and found herself looking straight into Michael Kilbride’s unforgettable green eyes. Her eyes did a low, lazy loop as she took in exactly how splendid this man was. He was wearing nothing grand, just dark trousers and a thick fisherman’s knit sweater. Ah, but he wore it well. She’d not mind looking at him till time spun to a stop.

  Breege’s subtle nudge called Kylie back to her surroundings.

  She tugged her gaze away from Michael. Right behind him stood his sister looking none too pleased to be biding her time in the aisle. Kylie hastily moved closer to Breege, making room for the two Kilbrides. After giving what she hoped passed for a polite smile rather than the half-hysterical grin she felt painting its way across her face, she focused on the service about to begin. For a few brief minutes she even succeeded.

  But inches away sat Michael Kilbride, seeming almost oblivious to her presence. The less he noticed her, the more she did him. Or so it seemed to Kylie, who had begun to hear only his deep voice as he sang, his steady responses. A crowd of hundreds and she had reduced it to one. Not once, though, did he glance her way. By neither word nor gesture was he anything other than impersonal. In fact, his disregard seemed to wave itself like a flag of challenge.

  Lately, she had fixed upon the idea of committing an act so wild and unexpected that for a short while it would lift the weight of respectability from her. And for that short while, she could sink her teeth into life—not be proper on the exterior, ready to shatter inside, Miss Kylie Soon-to-Be-a-Saint O’Shea.

  Here and now—in the middle of church—she’d like to shake Michael Kilbride by his broad shoulders and hiss, “Have you forgotten me already? Did that kiss mean nothing to you?” Sanity kept her in her seat. It was a blessing, too, considering Vi Kilbride’s watchful gaze was upon her almost as much as hers was on Michael.

  By the end of mass Kylie had herself firmly convinced that the man didn’t even recognize her. And though she told herself she should be relieved, that he was far too rough and masculine for her to handle, she was sure her heart would break.

  When Breege stopped to chat with a group of friends, Kylie kept her head down. She didn’t know where Michael Kilbride was, and didn’t want to. She’d not embarrass herself further. At least now her humiliation was a private thing. When Breege announced that she’d be staying in town for supper with Mrs. McCafferty, relieved, Kylie turned heel and fled.

  The miles to Kylie O’Shea’s couldn’t have seemed longer. Michael immediately learned that it was one thing to commandeer Vi’s car, but another to drive it. He was thankful that this time of year he stood little chance of running into a poor sod of a tourist who’d strayed to the wrong side of the road. It was struggle enough to keep true to the curves and hills without hopelessly grinding the car’s gears.

  Rounding the last torturous bend before the little track to Kylie’s home, for the first time he asked himself what exactly he was doing. He owed her an apology, perhaps two. That much was certain. Yet he wasn’t truly sorry for the kiss—shocked that he’d done it, and a bit mystified, too. But sorry? No, he was too selfish to feel regret. All he could bear to give was an excuse. The honest truth was that the sight of her took away his good sense and what few words he’d ever been able to string together. And he expected this meeting to be no different.

  As she had been the day before, Kylie was at work in her field. Knowing no one else would come their way, Michael parked the car in the middle of the track and climbed out. Since his Sunday best and his everyday were one and the same, he didn’t hesitate before joining her.

  She had changed from the simple blue dress she’d worn to church. The oversized sweater he’d seen yesterday hung to her fingertips. Her long, slender legs were now covered by khaki colored pants tucked into muddied black wellies. Her hair, though, was the same as it had been in the too-close confines of St. Brendan’s. She wore it pulled back from her face in a neatly woven style he vaguely recalled the girls saying was a French braid all those years ago.

  Whatever the name, he’d sat through mass with his fingers burning to loosen the strands of the plait, to feel its silken length. Because he knew he wasn’t beyond temptation—he’d proven that well enough the night before—he’d pretended that Kylie O’Shea wasn’t there at all. And hurt her by it, he knew.

  “Hello,” he said.

  She murmured a greeting in reply but never stopped working. He had wondered whether she would make this easy on him. Now he had his answer.

  “Fine day to finish clearing the field,” he offered as he fell in step next to her.

  She spared him a chilly glance from under her lashes.

  Filling her arms with jagged rocks, she stalked off to the fence and began setting in her load. Torn between frustration and the sure knowledge he was getting a warmer reception than he deserved, Michael stood and watched her for a moment.

  Then with a shake of his head, he bent down and jimmied a large rock free of the earth. Using hands and occasionally the foot, he rolled it in a zig-zagging path to the fence. And all the while he considered his next move. Honesty seemed the only way out.

  She still stood at the low line of fence, scowling at it as if by sheer force of will she could make it grow. Michael moved behind her, wanting to rest his hands on her slender shoulders but not daring to touch her. Not deserving to.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She swung round to face him. A hot flame danced in those cool blue eyes, making him realize that his sister wasn’t alone in the ranks of warrior.

  “Sorry for what?”

  Jamming his hands deep into his pockets he muttered, “For kissing you. It was wrong of me…stupid. I should have warned you…or something.”

  “Kissing me? You’re sorry for that? There’s nothing else you’ve done that you think might be worth an apology?”

  A recitation of that list would stretch long past sunset, not that the woman in front of him looked inclined to let him slip in a word.

  “Well, I’ll admit the kiss was unexpected,” she said. �
�And not invited, either. But I want you to take a look at me.”

  As though he’d be able to look away from such shimmering beauty.

  She held her hands out to her sides. “I might seem a child to some, but I’m twenty-four years old and capable of knowing when I want to be kissed. And equally capable of telling a man to stop. Not that I stopped you last night. And not that I’ll need to worry about stopping you, with you all but offering to send an engraved announcement before you try again.”

  She moved close enough that if he took his hands from his pockets he could haul her up against him. Tempting, so tempting.

  “What amazes me, Michael Kilbride, and makes me doubt for my sanity, is that I’m beginning to think you’ve had less experience with the opposite sex than I have. Though looking at you, I can’t imagine how that could be true.”

  He didn’t think she’d like the answer, so he gave her none.

  “Now, will I be getting that apology for the way you acted this morning?” The rueful shake of her head was something he was sure she’d practiced on her students time and again. “Not so much as a neighborly nod or hello.”

  Michael had promised himself that he’d give her the truth. Slipping his hands from his pockets, he stepped closer yet. He cupped her hand—so small—in his palm.

  “For this morning, I’m truly sorry,” he said, savoring the feel of her cool skin. The fact that it was a bit work-roughened somehow made her seem all the more appealing. “I’m not much good at social matters.”

  He turned her hand so that, palm upward, it still rested within his. She didn’t fight him, just gazed at him through cautious eyes. It astounded him—humbled him—that she would welcome his touch. With his free hand he pushed back the heavy wool of her sweater until the inside of her wrist was exposed.

  “Don’t think that I ignored you, Kylie O’Shea, because you filled my morning, not whatever words Father Cready was offering up.”

  With one fingertip he traced the slender blue veins beneath her translucent white skin. The intimacy of it made him swallow hard and hesitate before speaking again. But it didn’t make him stop touching her. Never that.

  “So think I’m a boorish sod, but never, ever think that I didn’t notice you.”

  Kylie couldn’t look away from the long finger so intimately stroking her skin. This was no kiss, she thought. But it might as well have been, for the quicksilver thrill his touch sent chasing through her. She imagined that caress traveling further, up to the sensitive skin at the inside of her elbow and to the upper curves of her breasts.

  Kylie tugged her hand from Michael’s. She drew in a ragged breath and met his eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d shaken her. She didn’t want him to know exactly how much.

  “You are a man to seize the moment, aren’t you?”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Are you looking for another apology?”

  Not for his touch, she wasn’t. Fussing with the lopsided hem of her sweater she answered, “No more than I was last night.”

  His smile was wry and teasing all at once. “Good, because the well was running dry. I’ve given you more apologies this morning than I’ve managed to force out in my entire life.”

  Still breathless, she stepped away and set back to work.

  “So how long are you in Ballymuir?” she asked, though not certain she really wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure. I’m thinking of settling here,” he said, sounding almost startled at his own words.

  Kylie’s first thought was that she couldn’t have wished on a star and done better.

  “Truly?” she stammered. She scrambled for some inane question to mask the confusing sense of elation and something much darker that whispered across her skin, leaving the downy hairs at the back of her neck dancing in its wake. “And you’re moving from where?”

  Michael paused. “I’ve family in Kilkenny.”

  “Ah. Well, if you need help finding a place or settling in, just let me know.” The words slipped out, and how Kylie wanted to swallow them back. Glancing at Michael, she wondered whether it was her imagination or if he truly was inching closer to his car. She felt half-ready to run, herself.

  “I expect I’ll be staying with Vi,” he said. “At least till I’m more sure about things.”

  “I see.” Kylie gathered up a few more rocks and tossed them onto the pile. She’d do well to stop the personal questions now, she knew. Before she found her thoughts too far down a path she knew she shouldn’t take.

  When clouds blew in to cover the sun and a chill rain began to spit from the sky, Kylie gave up on field clearing for the day. She turned to Michael. “Would you like to come inside for a while? I started some bread just before you—the bread!”

  Forgetting manners, Michael, everything but her two precious loaves of bread no doubt blackened to cinders, she flew to her house. When she reached the oven door, she already knew it was too late. Grabbing a potholder she pulled out the loaves and dropped the pans on the stove top where they landed with a metallic clank. Though she wasn’t one for swearing, she tried on one of her father’s favorites for size.

  Low laughter rolled from the doorway. She turned to see Michael framed in the entry, and experienced a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.

  “I’ve never heard anything more halfhearted in my life. If you’re going to use talk like that, you’ve got to give the words power. Like this—” Loud enough to ring in the rafters, he launched the same profane phrase she had. “Now you try it.”

  A hot crimson blush climbed her face. “I couldn’t. I’ve scarcely thought words like that, let alone used them.”

  He laughed. “I’d noticed. But this would be our secret. Here in the privacy of your home, no one need know what you’re saying. Though I don’t suppose you should get so accustomed to those words that they slip out while you’re teaching the young ones.”

  “You can’t imagine what I’ve heard from a few of those eleven-year-old boys when they think no adult’s listening.”

  Moving out of the doorway and closing the door behind him, he grinned. “Oh, I can imagine, all right. I was about that age when I had a bar of soap for supper one night after Vi told Mum what she’d heard me saying. I belched bubbles for a fortnight.”

  “You did not,” Kylie replied, laughing in spite of herself.

  “A day, then. But my first point’s the same. Relax in your own home, Kylie. It’s one of the few places on earth you’re free to be as you really are.”

  Kylie looked down at the burnt loaves. Michael had homed in on her personal sorrow: not allowing herself even that bit of freedom. She couldn’t afford it, any more than she could more flour for bread. And for the lack of both, she wanted to hate her father, but knew she was more to blame.

  It had been her choice to accept the job at Gaelscoil Pearse. “The next worst thing to being a nun” the other teaching students had sniped when she’d told them where she was going. True, the school held a very conservative philosophy and expected its teachers to be above reproach.

  To Kylie, it had seemed a perfect fit, especially since the school paid better than any other in the area. She didn’t mind wearing her skirts below her knees and was certain she wouldn’t enjoy the local nightclub, anyway. As she’d focused on the struggle to repay her father’s endless debts, she’d scarcely thought about what she might be missing. And being able to stay close to Breege was worth almost any sacrifice. But lately…

  She cut off that thought, too.

  Looking back at Michael, she saw a passing expression on his face that seemed to echo her emptiness. Burdened with her own regret, she had no time to wonder why he should look that way. It was enough to find the composure to gloss over the moment. She stepped away from the stove and toward the hearth where two bricks of peat still glowed, their scent competing with that of the well-cooked bread.

  “I can hardly offer you the bread.” She paused to tug her damp woolen sweater over her head and smooth down the worn cotton
shirt she wore beneath. “Are you wanting some tea, though? Wouldn’t take more than a minute to get the kettle going.”

  At his answering silence, she turned to face him. Just looking at him, feeling the odd, intense current that seemed to envelop them both, sent a shiver through her. Gooseflesh raised on her arms and she rubbed at it.

  “What I’m wanting has nothing to do with food,” he said in a voice so quiet and low that she had to strain to hear it over the pounding of her heart. “What I’m wanting is to come to you and undo each of the buttons on your shirt till I find what waits for me beneath. Then I’m wanting to put my mouth against your skin and learn the feel of you till I know you so well that you’re part of me.”

  More words than she’d yet had from him. Small wonder he saved them up, what he could do with them. She didn’t look away from his green eyes. Mesmerized, she didn’t blink, couldn’t have if she wanted to.

  “But since all that would surely call for an apology, I’ll be leaving now.” As he walked out the door, he called back over his shoulder, “Though if you like, you can consider it your engraved announcement for our next time together.”

  Their next time. Kylie flopped into the worn armchair she’d been so fiercely gripping. Their next time. Her heart had scarcely survived this one.