What the Waves Bring

by Barbara Delinsky

“No.” She shook her head conclusively. “I prefer something smaller, more modest. My little place on the bluff in ’Sconset is just about right.”

  The soft laugh that rumbled from his depths echoed through her. “I have to agree with you there. So it really doesn’t matter whether I own something like this … does it?”

  “Nope!”

  “That’s good. What if I’m a pauper?”

  “Not a chance.” She denied his quip with certainty.

  A dark, strong brow quirked into his forehead. “How can you be so sure?”

  “If you were a pauper, you wouldn’t have been out in that boat on the ocean to begin with!”

  Heath had no ready answer for her rationale and merely sat in silence and studied the townscape for several final moments before starting the car again. “I’m hungry,” he announced, firmly shifting the topic of conversation. “Direct me, sweet April, to the inn of your choosing.”

  But even as she gave simple directions, April was not ready to yield the subject. “I wonder why you were out there, Heath,” she began pensively. “The path of the hurricane was well-plotted, long before it hit. Why would you have taken a boat out? Oh,” she gasped, “do you think that there were others with you on the boat?” It was the first time that particular thought had occurred to her. Somehow, from the start, she had pictured a lone sailor, tossed by the storm.

  “April,” he scolded darkly, suddenly growing impatient, “I have no idea! I’ve been over and over every possibility in my mind. Take my word for it—when I find the answers, you will be the first to know. Now,” he growled, pulling over in front of the Downeyflake in response to her pointing finger, “do we eat or not?”

  “We eat.” She was contrite for having been insensitive to his own worries, yet it seemed imperative to keep some semblance of reality in mind. How easy it would be to take to this man, as though he were free of all ties and had no other purpose in life than to be here, on the island, with her!

  “The chowder is great here.” She directed herself forcibly to another reality, that of filling their stomachs. Over steaming bowls of the superb fare, close in thickness to a stew, yet lighter and more subtly seasoned, they talked of the island and April’s pre-Ivan experiences on it. When the waitress—dark-haired, pretty and no more than twenty years of age—lingered by Heath’s shoulder for longer than was necessary after delivering a spinach salad and fresh zucchini bread, April was generous.

  “The poor girl,” she whispered, when the subject in question finally wandered off, “has never seen a true-to-life mariner before, battle scar and all. It’s very dashing …”

  Long, lean fingers probed the healing bruise. “Do you think she might have recognized me from somewhere?”

  April smiled in gentle chiding, as she absently tucked her hair behind either ear. “Tsk, tsk, such modesty. Of course she didn’t recognize you. But a good-looking man sticks out like a sore thumb—any newcomer sticks out, now that the tourist season is over. My face, she knows already. Yours”—she grinned smugly—“will give her something to dream about!”

  “And your dreams, April?” He deftly turned the tables. “What do you want from life?”

  What would have been an easy question to answer several days before now was as complex as any she had faced. “I’m not sure,” she murmured at last. “I used to think that living here quietly, doing my work from the house, visiting the mainland—‘America,’ they call it from here—for holidays and vacations, would be everything. I’m really very happy …” An instant of puzzlement clouded her gaze before she swept it away with a grin. “The theory behind my column is that one can always find the eye of the storm and take refuge in it. Nantucket is the eye of my storm now.”

  But Heath persisted, ignoring her reference to something other than what was on his own mind. “What about a man? A husband? Children?”

  She feigned nonchalance, “What about them?”

  “Don’t you want to marry?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not against it …”

  “But how will you ever meet men here?”

  “Oh,” she said, grinning sadly, “one can never tell. Very interesting things come in with the tide …” At his sharp glance, she realized the inappropriateness of her quip. “My point is,” she went on quickly, “that one does not have to live in the middle of civilization to meet people. Some of the islanders are as lovely human beings as I’d ever want to know!”

  With that general statement, she returned her attention to her lunch. It was only afterward when, having picked up the mail and purchased a second set of clothes for Heath, stocked up on the groceries and filled the car with gas, they headed home that Heath reminded her of that statement. “They may be ‘lovely human beings’ to you,” he grumbled, negotiating the puddles slowly drying on the winding roads, “but I felt like a one-man sideshow. Was it my imagination or do they all have a tendency to stare?”

  “That’s their way, Heath,” she explained patiently, recalling her first days as an islander. “Once the summer season is over, the faces are pretty much the same here. A new one attracts instant attention. It was that way with the girl in the restaurant—”

  “And the postal clerk and the salesman and the kid who pumped gasoline …”

  “They’re curious. That’s all.” But her own curiosity was pricked. Eyes narrowing, she twisted in her seat to face him more fully. “Why does it bother you, Heath?”

  “I don’t like the idea,” he said, slamming his fist against the steering wheel, “that someone possibly knows something that I don’t!”

  “Aha! A dictatorial mastermind!”

  “That’s not it, and you know it, April!” With his black hair across his forehead and his eyes dark in brooding, he was the mysterious stranger once more. A shudder passed through April at the thought of what might be hidden from them both. “It’s very frustrating, darlin’ …” He emphasized each word, reminding her of the deeper dilemma, that one which involved the two of them. It certainly was frustrating! she bemoaned in silence.

  There was, however, only one cure for their frustration—that frustration that surmounted even the physical temptation of wanting and needing, craving and desiring. Heath had to learn his identity. It was as simple as that!

  Simple, yet an elusive goal, they were to learn as, with the phone service restored and the Apple properly hooked into its jack, they sat side by side, communicating with the Source. Back one day, then two, then three—surely covering the period when a missing person may have been reported—they went, with April demonstrating how to punch in key words to call forth all mention of shipwrecks, men overboard, men missing, and every other possible related word or phrase. After the first few searches, Heath took over at the keyboard, with April at his elbow, as they scanned the wire services and newspapers up and down the east coast.

  “Nothing!” she proclaimed in dismay, throwing her hands up and stalking from the machine. While Heath persisted at the hitherto unproductive chore, she threw herself onto the sofa with the parcel of letters that had arrived in the morning mail. There were notes from several friends, plus a dozen new letters for Dr. April Wilde and “Eye of the Storm.” It was to the latter that she turned her attention.

  The first few letters failed to stir her interest. Methodically, she continued to read, subconsciously seeking a diversion from her inner tension. When it came, she grabbed at it. Her loud chuckle was one of nervous energy as much as genuine amusement. “Listen to this, Heath!” she called out on impulse, starting to read as the dark head turned.

  “‘Dear Dr. Wilde. I have a problem. I come from a small planet in another solar system and am here on earth for just a short time. I was sent to study the human race, but find it far too complex for my simple brain to analyze. How do you do it? If you can tell me your secret, I might not have to fly home empty-handed. And if I wait much longer, my spaceship will rust. What should I do? Signed, Lost ’n’ Spacey.’”

  April’s grin thinned to a w
ry grimace. “I don’t usually get too many cranks. The rising cost of postage discourages them. This is a beaut!”

  “Will you answer it?” he asked with good-humored curiosity, standing, stretching, then approaching her.

  “Sure! This is an easy one.”

  “Oh?” A dark eyebrow doubted her.

  “Uh-huh. I write, ‘Dear Lost ’n’ Spacey. Try the Ziebart process. It’s very good for rust.’”

  With feigned gravity, Heath pondered her response. “Not bad,” he mused, easing himself down onto the sofa, drawing her into the crook of his arm. “Not bad. Here, let me see. What else have you got there?”

  She rested comfortably against him, savoring the nearness, as he quickly skimmed the letters. “How about this one?” he asked, reading aloud one that she had not yet read. “‘Dear Dr. Wilde. I don’t know what to do about my boyfriend. He shares my apartment, my food, my supplies, my utilities—and sends every penny he earns home to mother. Is he trying to put something over on me? I refuse to support him much longer! Signed, I’m-Not-Your-Mother.’” Heath hugged her tightly. “I know you’re not mine, but this letter pretty much describes the situation here, doesn’t it?”

  “No!” She sat up with a start, sternly pushing herself from him. “It sounds like that fellow is using the poor woman. You’re not using me!”

  “How can you tell?” His eyes glittered the short distance to hers, challenging her.

  “I know. I trust you. And, besides,” she said, forcing herself to take it all in fun, “I’d know if you were sending notes to Mom. You haven’t asked me for a stamp yet!”

  Passing over her somewhat biased explanation, he goaded her on. “What will you suggest to ‘I’m-Not-Your-Mother’?”

  She thought for a moment, her fingers playing idly with his at her shoulder. “I think … that alternative service is one possible solution.”

  “‘Alternative service’?”

  “Yes.” She looked brightly up at him. “If that woman’s boyfriend refuses to chip in, she should put him to work around the place.”

  “Strip-the-wallpaper type of thing?” he broke in on a mischievous note.

  Her eyes fastened on the movement of his lips, firm and efficient. “Possibly …”

  “Or cook dinner, coax the car out of the mud, uncork the wine …”

  There was hypnosis in his nearness, a lure she wanted to fight but could not. “You don’t have to do anything, you know,” she whispered, licking her suddenly dry lips.

  Had she been more lucid, April might have recognized the fire in his eyes as his concept of a more sensual type of alternative service. But she could think no further than the instant in which she lived, no deeper than the feel of his lips as he gently covered hers. They were smooth and seductive, securing her willing response. Captured in the delight of the moment, she kissed him back, consuming his will to consume, devouring his need to devour.

  Intoxicated and entranced, April let herself feel and enjoy, savoring the hardness of his man’s body beneath the quest of her fingers. If this was to be his repayment for her hospitality, she was an active recipient, for her touch drove Heath to distraction.

  With a deft flip, he shifted to lower her onto her back on the sofa and sprawled across her from his own half-seated position. His face nestled in the soft, scented flesh of her neck as his fingers grew more daring, caressing the line of her legs, the curve of her inner thighs, the warmth of the goodness between. Mindlessly, she arched against his hand, bereft when its pressure eased.

  “It isn’t fair, Heath …” she rasped softly.

  “What, darlin’?” The snap of her jeans yielded to the skillful work of his fingers, the zipper instants later.

  “No … don’t …” she protested meekly, but his hand found its way beneath the silken fabric of her panties to stroke the creamy softness of her stomach. Tremors of excitement coursed through her as, her body now aflame with desire, April fought to recall distant words of warning. “It isn’t fair … that …” She gasped as his fingers found the warmth they sought, “ … that … I want you … so much …”

  He opened his mouth to cover hers and swallow her cry as, with the sudden up-strain of her body, spasms of ecstasy rippled through her, exploding in breath-robbing seconds of fiery rapture until, at last, he held her close and still.

  “Oh, God, Heath!” she whimpered in broken rasps. “I shouldn’t have … you shouldn’t have … ohhhhh …” Mortified, she buried her face in the cool texture of his shirt.

  He kissed her temple, an undeniable look of pleasure in his eyes.

  Her voice was higher than normal and very wispy. “God, Heath! Why did you do that?”

  He held her back, then, to appreciate the flush of excitement glowing brightly on her cheeks. “Do you know the satisfaction I get from giving you pleasure?”

  “You shouldn’t have—”

  “Why not? Isn’t pleasure a vital part of life?”

  “B-but, that kind of pleasure,” she stammered, “is … different. I swore I wouldn’t … you caught me off-guard …”

  His fingers slid over her still-pulsing frame. “Shall I do it again?” The even white crescent of his smile flashed roguish intent at her.

  “No!” She bolted up forcefully, fumbling with her clothing in a clumsy attempt at repairing its disarray. Finally, taking the burden from her shaking fingers, Heath set her to rights. The delight he took in her embarrassment served only to disconcert her more.

  “There you go, darlin’!” He hauled her to her feet gently and gave a final, straightening tug to the waistband of her jeans. “Now, back to the major problem. My problem.” Sobering, he approached the computer. “It seems that we’ve struck out here.” He twirled to catch her naughty gleam. “No, I’m not a baseball player!” Pointing to his lean cheek, he grinned knowingly. “No tobacco pouch!” Ignoring her mirroring smirk, he let his gaze survey the machine in despair, before dismissing it. “I think we’d better get on the phone.” Bowing his head, he shut his eyes tightly, then massaged his temples with the broad span of his long, bronzed fingers.

  April was instantly alarmed. “Do you feel all right, Heath? My Lord! I’ve nearly forgotten the time you went through! I keep assuming that you’ve got your strength back—”

  “I have! I’m just tired and, at this moment, feeling very torn …”

  “In what way?” she whispered, understanding and feeling the same, even before he explained.

  “It’s the dilemma we faced before. Do we broadcast my predicament far and wide, in hopes of getting faster results? If I do have family out there somewhere, that seems the best thing to do. But …” His dark eyes bore into her, stating his hesitation without words. “Or, we can take a more private approach.” He paused, still studying her closely. “Tell me, April. Does your family have clout?”

  “You mean political power?”

  He frowned and shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. Let me rephrase that question. Do you have any … connections? Do you know anyone who might be able to be discreet … but prompt?”

  With comprehension came her slow nod. “There’s a close friend of the family—he owns a newspaper chain—”

  “Is he your boss?”

  “Not quite! He wouldn’t run my column if I paid him. Has this thing about absolute impartiality. But he’s well respected … and I do love him for it. He’d be the one to help us.” The sinking feeling in her stomach, at the thought of Paul Watson’s very able help, had become all too familiar. If only things could continue as they had been for the past few days! If only the inevitable moment of truth could be indefinitely postponed!

  “We’ve got to, April.” Heath approached her, reading her thoughts like an open book. “We’ve got to see if he’ll help us.” Turning away, he tried to explain. “I have this … odd … fear of … going public all of a sudden. I can’t begin to understand it. But, for our sakes”—he looked gently at her—“if not for someone out there who may think me dead, we have t
o know the truth. Soon.” He hesitated again, then pushed on, very quietly. “Will you put through the call?”

  In her heart, it was the last thing she wanted to do. But it did have to be done. Nodding, April walked to the phone, lifted its ominous receiver and dialed directly. Moments later she had Paul Watson on the line and, with tact and simplicity, she outlined the problem. When she finally replaced the receiver there were unbidden tears in her eyes. Their privacy had been breached, Heath’s and hers; deep inside, she sensed that things would never be the same.

  In a moment of soul-searching, she felt stunned. How absurd—all that had happened in such a short time! She’d taken a total stranger in from the storm, had come to enjoy him, to depend on his presence. Had there been that lack in her life before? Did she need a man—that badly? Or—was it simply and solely Heath she needed?

  It was her silent but powerful awareness of that man that brought her back to the present. Eyes downcast, her back to the tall, dark figure who awaited her word, she spoke softly. “He’ll get right to work on it. We’ll get a call back as soon as he learns anything. It probably won’t be until tomorrow morning.” The silence they shared spoke of their mutual apprehension.

  It was late in the afternoon when she phoned Paul. The phone stood silent throughout the evening, echoed by the air of reluctant expectancy that hovered between them. April spent the evening feigning concentration on her writing; Heath applied his energy to the peeling wallpaper in the spare room. Later, when he sat before her Apple and deftly plugged in the game card for a challenging bout with “Adventure,” she gave up all pretense of work and studied his broad back. He was strong and capable; where had he come from?

  More than anything, she wanted to go up to him, wrap her arms about his neck, hold herself close to him, and cry for his love. Love? Was that what she wanted? Was that what she felt? She had thought herself in love with Shane Michaels, and she had known who he was, where he had come from, where he was going. How could she be in love with a man whose name was merely a product of her own imagination? Whose past was a total blank? Whose future was an enigma?