Stranger on the Shore

by Carol Duncan Perry

  "What... what is it?" he managed to ask.

  "Depends on who's talking. The family calls it Gertie's Gazebo. Everyone else calls it The Folly. Grandpa built it for my grandmother as a first-anniversary present. It's modeled after one they saw in New Orleans on their honeymoon. Grandpa even duplicated the fancy fretwork that supports the roof.

  "But why in the middle of a cow pasture?"

  "The original, the one in New Orleans, was by the side of a small lake. According to Grandmother, there were ducks and swans swimming back and forth and water lilies blooming in the water."

  She moved aside to allow Jordan through the narrow gate, stiffening when his hand casually brushed against her arm. His touch was as breath stealing as she remembered. She walked to the corner of the enclosure and waited for him to join her.

  "See that shallow ravine down the hill? Grandpa planned to dam up the ravine to create a stock pond in there. But a gazebo too close to a stock pond wouldn't be exactly romantic. So he built the gazebo up here to overlook the pond. Then he discovered a problem. Evidently, there's a fault in the bedrock. The ravine won't hold water. So here it sits, Gertie's Gazebo, high and dry on the side of a hill pasture."

  Jordan followed Sarah up the steps into the hexagon-shaped structure. The open-air building, enclosed with latticework to a four-foot height on the sides and covered by a cone-shaped roof, provided a circular view of the surrounding hillsides.

  "I don't think Grandmother minded about the pond," Sarah said, her voice soft and hushed. She and Grandpa still come out here often. They say it's the best place on the farm to see the Milky Way."

  "No, I don't think she would," Jordan agreed. "This is one of those cases where it's the thought that counts."

  Sarah took a seat on one of the cushioned benches built along five sides of the structure. Jordan selected a bench opposite her. "Anyway," she added, "I thought it would be a good place for us to talk. At the house we run the risk of being interrupted every few minutes."

  Jordan nodded, shifted restlessly on the bench and unconsciously raked his hand through his hair. He looked across the small space separating them, wondering how to start. Sarah beat him to it.

  "Why are you back?" she asked, her eye meeting, probing his.

  He fought to control his breathing. "I had to come." Although he knew his voice sounded brisk, matter-of-fact, he'd had no control over the words. How did she do that to him? A feeling of disquiet, something akin to anger, stirred in his body. He stood abruptly, took a quick step toward her. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he turned away and looked out over the countryside.

  "Look, Sarah, I don't know if I can explain it, but I need to try. I once told you I was a rover, occasionally resting in strange places for a while, but eventually moving on. I've never found a place where I thought I could stay. But this time, when I left, it was different. It called me back. I couldn't get it out of my mind."

  He turned toward her again, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I couldn't get you out of my mind." He watched her face for a moment, as if waiting for a reaction.

  Sarah clutched her hands together in her lap, forcing them to be still, hoping he hadn't noticed her agitation. Her mind swam dizzily, caught between separate reactions of hope and fear. She stared at him mutely, wondering if he was waiting for her to say something, wondering what she should say. But before she could gather her thoughts, he continued speaking.

  "I got to thinking, what if I'm not like the wind? What if I'm not a leaf or a piece of flotsam, but a seed caught in the current, blown around, looking for a place to land? What if this is the place where I could settle, could grow roots? Do you understand, Sarah? I don't know if it is. All I know is, I want to find out."

  Sarah tried to think. The implications of what he was saying and her own emotions mingled in a chaotic jumble of reason and desire. "What are you asking, Jordan? What do you want? What do you want from me?"

  His response was immediate. "I want to stay here, for a while at least. I want a chance to taste life as one who might belong, as more than a passing visitor."

  She didn't realize she was holding her breath until he paused. He took a step toward her, then abruptly stopped and thrust his hands into his pockets again.

  "I don't want to hurt you, Sarah. And I'm not masochistic. I was being truthful before. We could hurt each other. It would only take a spark. I'm not asking for that. I want a chance to get to know you, you and this place. But under the circumstances, I won't stay if you don't want me to. Do you, Sarah? If I stay, can you be my friend?"

  Sarah sat silently for a moment, almost afraid to believe what she'd heard. It was as perfect an answer to her problems as she could hope to find in an imperfect world. He was asking for time—time for him to get to know her and for her to get to know him. Could she give that to him? Could she not? First friendship, then, later, perhaps... What will come, comes, she reminded herself.

  Jordan stood waiting, wondering if he should have approached her differently, if he could have won her agreement more easily. He held his breath as she finally raised her eyes from the floor and looked into his face. He began to hope when he saw her smile.

  "How much of a purist are you?" she asked in a breathless voice.

  Her question threw him into total confusion, again. "Purist?"

  "I know you'd personally never bait a fishhook with a worm, but how do you feel about eating a fish someone else has caught that way?" Her eyes teased gently. "You can stay for supper tonight, if you like. But it's Friday. Jimmy Joe provides the fish."

  * * *

  Over the next few days Sarah inserted Jordan into the midst of summer farming activities, introducing him to members of her family, watching in fascination as her relatives' natural wariness of strangers was replaced by acceptance and friendship.

  Although Jordan was house-sitting a colleague's home near Eureka Springs, each day he drove through the throngs of tourists, arriving at the farm, ready for the activities of the day. Sarah carefully arranged her schedule so that at least one member of her family of chaperons was always nearby.

  But she couldn't prevent her eyes from following his tall lean frame whenever he was in sight. Nor could she escape the fluttering sensations she felt each time his eyes purposely sought hers. Although she'd carefully avoided any physical contact between them, she knew that her obvious restrain was causing raised eyebrows and knowing grins from certain of her kinsmen.

  It was only a matter of time until her well-meaning relatives intervened "on her behalf" and rearranged her carefully laid plans. But even knowing that, she was unprepared to feel Jordan's hands at her waist, hands lifting her from her position in front of the suds-filled kitchen sink and gently depositing her to one side.

  "It will be faster if I wash and you dry," he said. "You know where things go."

  "You're going to wash dishes? But Grandmother—"

  "Your grandmother is taking a well-deserved rest in a rocking chair on the front porch," he told her. "What's the matter? Don't you think I know how to wash dishes?" His voice held a soft, teasing sound. He lifted a towel from the stack next to the sink and tied it around his waist. "It's been a while, I'll admit, but I washed my first stack of dishes standing on an apple crate so I could reach the sink. It's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget."

  Sarah watched, afraid to trust her voice, as he expertly washed and rinsed three plates, setting them on the drain board in front of her. The white suds clinging to his arms emphasized the golden hue of his skin.

  `"You couldn't keep avoiding me forever, you know. Your cousins are already taking bets—" He grinned when she raised shocked eyes to his face. "Better grab a towel. You're getting behind."

  "They wouldn't dare—" she protested as she automatically began drying the dishes. Then: "Yes, they would," she admitted in a resigned voice.

  His grin turned into a full-fledged laugh. "I like your family," he said.

  "Sometimes they can be a pain in
the... the..."

  "Derriere?"

  "Well, yes," she said.

  "As I remember, it's a very pretty derriere.

  "Jordan," she protested, looking quickly toward the open door between the kitchen and the dining room.

  "It's all right. They've all adjourned to the front porch. Besides, I was choosing my words very carefully."

  Sarah found the teasing banter relaxing. "They like you, too. Grandpa says, for a city boy you do pretty well on a tractor seat. Believe me, that's high praise."

  "I was at home on a tractor seat long before I became a city boy, Sarah."

  Jordan regarded her with solemn eyes. "I think there's a lot about each other we don't know. I hope—"

  "You hope what?"

  Jordan caught his breath. So many things, he thought. I hope you'll forgive me if you learn why I came back. I hope I'll discover what it is that draws me to you, to this place. He refused to follow the thoughts any farther, afraid of what he might find. Instead, he smiled. "I hope we have a chance to learn about each other."

  "Most of the time I think people help make their own chances," Sarah said.

  Jordan's eyes met and held hers. It was too much to ask of any man. She'd avoided being alone with him for days. Didn't she realize that was like denying water to a man in the desert? Didn't she know it was part of the male psyche to accept a dare? Wasn't she was aware that she was challenging him to make his own chance? He withdrew his hands from the dishwater, drying them on the towel tucked into his waistband, his gaze never wavering, never allowing hers to drop. Then he reached for her.

  Sarah stood as she was, mesmerized by the compelling look in his eyes. She knew she should say something, do something. She saw him reach for her, tried to step back, discovered she couldn't move. She felt his hand warm on her shoulder, breathed the fresh smell of the lemon scented detergent mixing with the clean male scent of his skin. He bent his head, and his lips brushed, then claimed, hers with a gentle sweetness that spread through her limbs, weakening her knees.

  This kiss was unlike the explosion on the riverbank, that searing blue-white blaze of wanting she'd been unable to forget. This was a carefully controlled flame, smoldering banked coals, no less intense in heat and no less compelling in nature. Sarah felt her resistance fading, felt her body swaying toward him, melting into his only one small glimmer of reason remained. She knew that if she didn't move away she'd be lost, consumed in the fire of her wanting. It was self-preservation that made her try to retreat.

  Jordan felt her sudden resistance and reluctantly raised his mouth from hers. "Ah, Sarah," he whispered against her lips, "Chance is sometimes a risky business." He continued to hold her for a second. Then, glancing toward the open doorway, he turned back to the sink and plunged his hands into the dishwater. If he was right, the kitchen was about to be invaded. "Start drying, Sarah," he hissed under his breath, "Someone's coming."

  His warning preceded T.J.'s entrance by seconds. Jordan turned toward the man, his movement blocking Sarah from sight, giving her another moment to collect herself.

  "You here to help supervise or chaperone?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his good humor.

  T. J. ignored him. "You'd better come, Sarah," he said. "Dad and Aunt Gertie are into it about Grandmother again."

  "Not again," Sarah cried. Throwing the towel at T.J. and all but running out the door.

  "Well, I guess I know what she wants me to do," T.J. said cheerfully, reaching for a dish on the drain board.

  Jordan eyed him curiously. "Family crisis? No, never mind. It's none of my business." He rinsed the last cup and set it in the drainer, then leaned against the counter as T.J. finished drying the few remaining items.

  "It's no big secret," T.J. told him. "My grandmother is getting old. Her home's on the mountain above Hogscald Hollow. The family thinks she should move down to the valley, and everyone takes sides when they start talkin' about how they're going to get her off the mountain. None of their talk amounts to a to a hill of beans anyway, 'cause Grandmother says she's fine where she is, and she don't plan to move."

  Jordan tried not to smile at the look of disgust on T.J.'s face. "So why'd you run to Sarah?" Jordan asked, trying to untangle the complex family relationships. "If I understand it right, Sarah's grandmother and your grandmother are sisters. That makes Sarah a—what? Great-niece? Surely that's not as close a relationship as either her sister or your dad, who's her son. Right?"

  "Yeah. But Sarah's the only one that can keep the peace, 'cause everyone knows she's the only one who has a chance of talking Grandmother into leaving that mountain. They're both—I mean, Grandmother and Sarah are special close. Always have been."

  Both what? Jordan knew T.J. had started to say something else but had changed his mind. He didn't push. He didn't need to get involved in her family affairs, but he was beginning to understand what Sarah meant when she talked about family obligations.

  T.J. hung the damp dishtowel on the back of the cabinet and moved toward the doorway, gesturing for Jordan to follow him. "I think we can go on out to the porch now. Sarah should have had time to calm everybody down."

  Jordan grinned wryly as he followed. Sarah might be a calming influence on her family, but nothing about her had a calming effect on him.

  Chapter 8

  The sun dried Sarah's hair on their walk from the swimming hole. It lay in soft waves, framing her face with the same pink champagne cloud that had so intrigued Jordan during their first meeting.

  As they turned off the road and into the long, winding driveway, Jordan allowed himself to drop a step or two behind Sarah. Her slender hips, clad in the worn denim cut-off jeans she'd pulled over her damp bathing suit, swayed under the tail of her outsize man's shirt. She moved with a natural grace, accepting her sensuality without thought.

  How could he have believed he'd be able to maintain a platonic friendship with her? Every hormone in his body was waving a white flag. In some ways, the tension between them had eased since the night they'd shared dish duty and a kiss in the kitchen of her grandparents' farmhouse, but Jordan had been careful not to push the relationship too far or too fast. He forced himself to be content with an occasional caress, a quick kiss, a casual touch. Who was he kidding? It took every bit of his control to keep him from rushing his fences like one of T.J.'s amorous stallions. At times, he convinced himself Sarah was completely unaware of how badly he wanted her. Then he'd catch her glancing at him and have to turn away to prevent himself from answering the unconscious promise reflected in her eyes.

  Jordan clenched his hand, wanting to reach out and take her in his arms. He wanted to let his fingers twine through her silky hair, feel her smooth skin and gently rounded hips tremble under his caressing hands. He wanted to feel her move beneath him, giving herself and accepting him in return.

  As they neared the farmhouse, he quickened his pace, reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it in that casual way friends did. He hoped the physical contact would exorcise his erotic fantasies."

  Hand in hand, they approved the porch steps, stopping abruptly when Sarah caught sight of the unhappy barefoot boy sitting on the top step.

  "What's wrong, Jimmy Joe? Why so sad?" she asked gently.

  "Grandma's mad. I can't find my tennies." Jimmy Joe's words were interspersed between barely disguised sniffles. "We were going to Billy Hawkins's house. Only I can't find my shoes, and Grandma says if I can't find my tennis shoes I can't go."

  "Couldn't you wear your other shoes?"

  Jimmy Joe shook his head, his eyes bright with barely controlled tears. "Grandmother says we'd be sure to go wading in the creek, it being such a hot day and all. And if I have my Sunday shoes on, then I'll have to take them off. Then I'd probably cut my feet in the creek. So that's why I can't go if I can't find my tennis shoes. He paused for breath. A tear rolled unchecked down his freckled cheek. "I've looked everywhere, Cissie."

  "She smiled gently and tousled his red curls. "Not everywhere, I'l
l bet."

  Jordan watched as Sarah let her hand rest lightly on the top of his head for a moment. Then she frowned.

  "You went down to the springhouse yesterday afternoon, didn't you? Grandpa killed a copperhead there the other day. I thought he told you to stay away until he checked for a nest."

  Jordan drew a quick breath. Sarah had been with him yesterday afternoon? How'd she know Jimmy Joe had gone to the springhouse? Coincidence? Or something else?

  Jimmy Joe looked up, guilt written all over his face. "It was so hot. It's cool in the springhouse. I was only there for a little bit."

  "I know it's cool there, Jimmy Joe. So do the snakes. That's why Grandpa told you not to go. You're not to go again. Understand?"

  The boy's eyes filled with tears. "But—but that's where I left my tennis. I just remembered."

  Sarah sighed. "I know. I'll get them. You're barefooted. You wait right here." She disappeared around the side of the house.

  Cissie's mad at me, ain't she?" Jimmy Joe asked.

  "I think she's more worried than mad," Jordan told him. "Copperheads are nothing to laugh about. She doesn't want you to get hurt."

  The boy hung his head.

  Sarah returned minutes later, tennis shoes in hand.

  Are you going to tell Grandpa?" the boy asked.

  "Not this time, if you'll promise me you won't go back until it's safe? Promise? No matter how hot it gets?"

  "I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die," he said, making the appropriate gesture. Then he threw his arms around her neck. "I'm sorry, Cissie. I didn't mean to scare you."

  "I know," she told him, smiling. "Just remember your promise. Run along now. Grandmother is probably waiting."

  The boy's face cleared instantly. "Thanks, Cissie. I'm sure glad you see so good." He cleared the three porch steps in a single leap and raced toward the back of the house.

  Still smiling, Sarah shook her head and turned toward Jordan. Her smile faded when she was the expression on Jordan's face. How could she have forgotten? She took a quick breath, her smile faltering, her mind racing furiously. Could she bluff her way out of it? "All you have to do to keep track of an eight-year-old is figure out where he's not supposed to be," she began. Then, defeated, she let her voice trail off into silence.