by Lisa Kleypas
“They live in Pasadena.”
“Doesn’t she have other friends?”
“Yes, but not on the island. With the exception of Zoл and me, she lost the friends she made with Kevin. They didn’t want to piss him off by taking her side.” With exaggerated patience, Justine asked, “What exactly is the problem, Sam?”
“I barely know her,” he protested.
“You like her. You rushed right over here when I called.”
“I don’t know Lucy well enough to help her in and out of bed, carry her to the shower, change the bandages, all that stuff.”
“What, you’re all prudish now? Come off it, Sam. You’ve been with a lot of women. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“It’s not that.” Sam paced across the empty waiting room, raking a hand through his hair. How could he explain the profound danger of intimacy with Lucy? That the problem was how much he actually wanted to take care of her? He didn’t trust himself with her. He would end up having sex with her, taking advantage of her, hurting her.
He stopped pacing and glowered at Justine. “Look,” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to get close to her. I don’t want her to depend on me.”
Justine gave him a narrow-eyed glance that should have slayed him on the spot. “Are you really that screwed up, Sam?”
“Of course I am,” he snapped. “Have I ever pretended to be normal?”
Justine made a sound of disgust. “You know what? I’m sorry I asked. My mistake.”
Sam scowled as she turned away. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about it. Not your problem.”
“Who are you calling?” he insisted.
“Duane. He and his friends will take care of her.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. “You’re going to give a wounded woman on medication to a biker gang?”
“They’re good guys. They have their own church.”
Instant fury sent hot blood to his face. “Having your own church doesn’t make you a good guy. It only makes you tax-exempt.”
“Don’t shout at me.”
“I’m not shouting.”
“I wouldn’t call that your inside voice, Sam.” Justine lifted her phone and tapped on the small screen.
“No,” he growled.
“No, what?”
Sam took a deep breath, yearning to put his fist through a wall. “I’ll—” He broke off and cleared his throat roughly, and gave her a wrathful glance. “I’ll take her.”
“To your house,” she clarified.
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Good. Thank you. My God, all this drama.” Shaking her head, Justine went to the vending machine and punched some buttons to get a drink.
* * *
Lucy blinked in bewilderment as Sam Nolan came through the curtain partitions. “What are you doing here?” she asked faintly.
“Justine called me.”
“She shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
His gaze slid over her, not missing a detail. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and gruff. “Are you in pain?”
“It’s not bad.” Lucy gestured to the IV bag. “They’ve got me on some kind of narcotic something-or-other.” Fretfully she added, “There’s a needle in my hand.”
“We’ll get you out of here soon.”
She focused on Sam’s T-shirt, dark blue with the printed white outlines of what looked like an old-fashioned telephone booth. “What is the phone booth for?”
“Police box. From Dr. Who.” Seeing her incomprehension, he explained, “It’s a time-traveling spacecraft.”
The shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “Geek,” she said, and blew her nose.
Drawing closer, Sam settled his hand on her hip, exploring the outlines of a polyurethane bandage, adjusting the drape of the hospital blanket over her splinted leg. There was something oddly proprietary about the way he touched her. Lucy stared at him in bewilderment, trying to fathom what was the matter with him. He had the air of a man who was facing an unpleasant duty.
“You look angry,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re clenching your jaw.”
“That’s the way my jaw always looks.”
“Your eyes are glaring.”
“It’s the hospital lighting.”
“Something’s going on,” she insisted.
Sam took her icy hand in his, careful not to dislodge the pulse oximeter that had been clamped to her forefinger. His thumb rubbed lightly over the backs of her fingers. “For the next few days, you’re going to need someone to help you out. This is more than you can handle on your own.” A measured pause. “So I’m going to take you to Rainshadow Road with me.”
Lucy’s eyes widened, and she tugged her hand from his. “No. I … no, I won’t do that. Is that why Justine called you? God. I can’t go anywhere with you.”
Sam turned quietly ruthless. “Where are you planning to go, Lucy? The inn? Being closed off in a room by yourself with no one to help you? Even if Zoл and Justine didn’t have a big event going on this weekend, they’d still have a hard time getting you up and down all those stairs.”
Lucy pressed a clammy palm to her head, which had begun to ache fiercely. “I … I’ll call my parents.”
“They’re at least a thousand miles away.”
She was so worried and depleted that she felt her throat tighten against a new threat of tears. Appalled by her lack of control, she put her hand over her eyes and made a frustrated sound. “You’re too busy. The vineyard—”
“My crew will cover for me.”
“What about your brother and Holly?”
“They won’t mind. It’s a big house.”
As she began to comprehend the situation, Lucy realized that Sam would be helping her with bathing, eating, dressing—intimacies that would be embarrassing even with someone she had known for a long time. And he didn’t look any happier about the situation than she was.
“There’s got to be another solution,” Lucy said, trying desperately to think. She drew in an extra breath, and another, unable to get enough air into the tightening confines of her lungs.
“Damn it, don’t start hyperventilating.” Sam’s hand settled on her chest, rubbing a slow circle. The familiarity of the gesture caused her to gasp.
“I haven’t given you the right—” she began unsteadily.
“For the next few days,” Sam said, his lashes lowering to conceal his expression, “you’ll have to get used to having my hands on you.” The circling motion continued, and Lucy subsided helplessly. To her mortification, a little coughing sob escaped her. She closed her eyes. “You’re going to let me take care of you,” she heard him say. “Don’t waste your breath arguing. The fact is, you’re coming home with me.”
Thirteen
It was early evening by the time Sam’s pickup turned onto Rainshadow Road and proceeded along the private drive. He had signed all of Lucy’s release forms, collected a sheaf of medical instructions and prescriptions, and had accompanied Lucy as an RN had taken her outside in a wheelchair. Justine had been there too, her manner gratingly cheerful.
“Well, kids,” she had chirped, “this is going to turn out fine. Sam, I owe you. Lucy, you’ll love Sam’s house—it’s a great place—and someday, I guarantee we’ll all look back on this and— What did you say, Sam?”
“I said, ‘Shove it, Justine,’” he muttered, gathering Lucy up from the wheelchair.
Unperturbed, Justine followed as Sam carried Lucy around the truck. “I put together an overnight bag for you, Luce. Zoл or I will drop off more of your stuff tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Lucy had wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck as he lifted her with astonishing ease. His shoulders were hard against her palms. The smell of his skin was delicious, clean with a hint of salt, like ocean air, and fresh like garden plants and green leaves.
Sam placed Lucy in the truck, adjusted her seat back, and buckle
d the seat belt. Every movement was deft and efficient, his manner impersonal. He kept glancing at her, taking measure. Unhappily she wondered what Justine had said to persuade him to take her. “He doesn’t want to do this,” she had whispered to Justine in the hospital, and Justine had whispered back, “He does. He’s just a little nervous about it.”
But Sam didn’t seem all that nervous to Lucy. He seemed quietly pissed off. The drive to the vineyard was silent. Although Sam’s truck had excellent suspension, there was an occasional bump in the road that caused Lucy to wince. She was sore and exhausted, and she had never felt like such a burden to anyone.
Eventually they turned onto a private drive that led to a Victorian house adorned with gables, balustrades, a central cupola, and a widow’s walk. A lazy sunset turned the white-painted house the color of Creamsicles. The foundation was skirted with a profusion of red shrub roses interspersed with white hydrangeas. Nearby, a stalwart gray barn chaperoned the vineyard rows, which frolicked across the terrain like children being let out for recess.
Lucy stared at the scene with bemused wonder. If San Juan Island was a world apart from the mainland, this was a world inside that one. The house waited with its windows open to catch sea breezes, moonlight, wandering spirits. It seemed to be waiting for her.
Taking in Lucy’s reaction with an astute glance, Sam pulled the truck to a stop beside the house. “Yes,” he said, as if she had asked a question. “That’s how I felt when I first saw it.” He got out of the truck and walked around to Lucy’s side, reaching in to unbuckle the seat belt. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said.
Hesitantly Lucy complied. He lifted her, mindful not to bump her splinted leg. As soon as his arms closed around her, Lucy was aware of a new, baffling feeling, a sense of yielding, something dissolving inside. Her head drooped heavily to his shoulder, and she struggled to lift it again. Sam murmured, “It’s okay,” and, “It’s fine,” which made her realize she was trembling.
They ascended the front steps to a wide covered porch with a light blue ceiling. “Haint blue,” Sam said, as he noticed Lucy looking upward. “We tried to match the original color as closely as possible. A lot of people around here used to paint their porch ceilings blue. Some say it’s to fake out birds and insects, make them think it’s the sky. But others say the real reason is to ward off ghosts.”
The rush of words made Lucy realize that Sam actually was a little nervous, just as Justine had said. It was an unusual situation for both of them.
“Does your family know that I’m visiting?” she asked.
He nodded. “I called them from the clinic.”
The front door opened, allowing a long rectangle of light to slide across the porch. A dark-haired man stood holding the door, while a blond girl and a bulldog came to the threshold. The man was a slightly older, more heavyset version of Sam, with the same roughcast handsomeness. And he had the same dazzling smile. “Welcome to Rainshadow,” he said to Lucy. “I’m Mark.”
“I’m sorry to impose. I—”
“Not a problem,” Mark said easily. His gaze flicked to Sam. “What can I do?”
“Her bag’s still in the car.”
“I’ll get it.” Mark brushed past them.
“Make way, guys,” Sam said to the child and the dog, and they scuttled to the side. “I’m going to take Lucy upstairs.”
They went into an entrance hall with dark floors and a high coffered ceiling, the walls covered with cream paint and hung with framed botanical prints.
“Maggie’s making dinner,” Holly said, following them. “Chicken soup and yeast rolls, and banana pudding for dessert. Real pudding, not from a box.”
“I knew it smelled too good to be Mark’s cooking,” Sam said.
“Maggie and I changed the sheets on your bed. She said I was a good helper.”
“That’s my girl. Go wash up for dinner now.”
“Can I talk to Lucy?”
“Later, gingersnap. Lucy’s exhausted.”
“Hi, Holly,” Lucy managed to say over his shoulder.
The child beamed at her. “Uncle Sam never invites anyone here for a sleepover. You’re his first one!”
“Thanks, Holly,” Sam said under his breath as he carried Lucy up the sweeping mahogany staircase.
A breathless laugh shivered in Lucy’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know Justine made you do this. I’m—”
“Justine couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”
Lucy let her head fall to his shoulder, unable to look at him as she said, “You don’t want me here.”
Sam chose his words carefully. “I don’t want complications. Same as you.”
As they reached the landing, Lucy’s attention was captured by a huge window that afforded a view of the front drive. It was a striking stained-glass work, a bare tree delicately holding an orange winter moon in its branches.
But when Lucy blinked, the colors and patterns disappeared. The window was bare. It was nothing but clear float glass.
“Wait. What’s that?”
Sam turned to see what she was staring at. “The window?”
“It used to be stained glass,” Lucy said dazedly.
“It could have been.”
“No, it was. With a tree and a moon.”
“Whatever was in there was knocked out a long time ago. At some point someone tried to make the house into apartments.” Sam carried her away from the window. “You should have seen it when I bought it. Shag rug in some rooms. They’d knocked out support walls and put in some flimsy chipboard ones. My brother Alex came in with his crew to rebuild load-bearing walls and put in support beams. Now the place is rock solid.”
“It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale. I feel like I’ve been here before, or dreamed about it.” Her mind was tired, her thoughts not connecting properly.
They went into a long rectangular bedroom paralleling the bay, the walls paneled with wide beadboard, a fireplace in the corner, abundant windows revealing the shining blue flat of False Bay. The window on either end of the row had been fitted with screens and opened to let in the outside air.
“Here we go.” Sam set her on a large bed with a seagrass headboard and quilted blue covers that had already been folded back.
“This is your room? Your bed?”
“Yes.”
Lucy tried to sit up. “Sam, no—”
“Be still,” he said. “I mean it, Lucy. You’re going to hurt yourself. You’re taking the bed. I’m going to sleep on a rollaway in another room.”
“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room. I’ll sleep on the roll-away.”
“You’re going to sleep where I put you.” Sam tugged the snowy white and blue quilt over her. Bracing one hand on either side of Lucy’s body, he stared down at her. Maybe it was the effect of the sunset glow pouring through the windows, but his face seemed to have gentled. He reached down to tuck a loose lock of her hair behind her ear. “Think you could stay awake long enough to have some soup?”
Lucy shook her head.
“Rest, then. I’ll check on you in a little while.”
Lucy lay quietly after he left. The room was serene and cool, and from the distance she could hear the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Pleasantly indistinct sounds filtered through the floor and walls, voices punctuated by an occasional laugh, the clinking of pots and dishes and flatware. Sounds of family and home, floating on the air like a lullaby.
* * *
Sam paused to stare out the window on the second-floor landing. The moon had appeared even before sunset had finished, a massive white-gold circle against the magenta sky. Scientists said that the size of the summer solstice moon was an optical trick, that the human eye was unable to accurately measure distance without the help of visual cues. But some illusions were truer than reality.
Once Sam had read a story about an ancient Chinese poet who had drowned while trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He had been drinking rice win
e along the Yangtze River—too much wine, in light of his ignominious death. But God knew there was no choice in yearning for something or someone you would never be able to have. You didn’t even want a choice. That was the fatal temptation of moonlight.
Lucy was in his bed, as fragile as a broken orchid. He was tempted to stay in the hallway just outside the bedroom door and sit on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting for any sign that she needed something. But he made himself go downstairs, where Renfield was trotting back and forth with a discarded sock in his mouth, and Holly was setting the table, and Mark was on the phone talking to someone about scheduling a dentist appointment.
Heading into the kitchen, Sam went to the big freestanding wooden worktable where Maggie stood whisking cream in a bowl.
Maggie Conroy was pretty rather than beautiful, her personality so effervescent that she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. It was only when you stood right next to her that you realized she couldn’t be more than five foot one. “I’m five one and a half,” Maggie always insisted, as if that last half inch made a damn bit of difference.
In the past Mark had always gone for trophy chicks, the kind who were great to look at but rarely fun to spend any actual time around. Thank God that when Mark had finally gotten serious with someone, it had been Maggie, whose quirky optimism was exactly what the family had needed.
Wordlessly Sam approached, took the whisk and bowl from her, and continued to whip the cream.
“Thanks,” Maggie said, shaking out her cramped hand.
“Why don’t you use the mixer?”
“Mark didn’t tell you?” Maggie scrunched up her face adorably, and hung her head in shame. “I burned up the mixer motor last week. I promise, I’ll replace it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said, still whisking. “We’re used to kitchen disasters around here. Except that Mark and I are usually the cause. How did you burn up the motor?”
“I was trying to make whole wheat pizza dough, and it got too heavy and stiff, and then there was a burning smell and the mixer started smoking.”