Haven Creek

by Rochelle Alers

  “What would you expect from a man if you decided you wanted a relationship?”

  “That’s easy. He has to be willing to let me be me.”

  Nate was taken aback by Morgan’s response. “What about fidelity?”

  “Isn’t that a given?” She’d answered his question with one of her own.

  They swayed in unison, their feet barely moving. Tightening his hold on her waist, Nate buried his face in her short, curly hair. The curves of her tall, slender body fit perfectly against the contours of his physique; their bodies were molded together like puzzle pieces. The scent of her perfume complemented her sensuality. It was subtle, hypnotic, and wholly alluring.

  “Not with some couples.”

  “It is with me,” she said quietly, her moist breath sweeping over Nate’s ear. “I know firsthand what infidelity feels like, and I don’t have to tell you it cuts like a knife.”

  “If I were your man I would never cheat on you, Mo.”

  Morgan’s fingers dug into his shoulder blades. “And I wouldn’t cheat on you. But that’s something we don’t have to worry about.”

  “Why?”

  Her mouth grazed his jaw. “Because we’re friends, Nate.”

  He smiled. “Why do you sound so confident about that?”

  “Because that’s what I want,” Morgan countered.

  “What about what you need?”

  Morgan stopped swaying, her eyes meeting his. “It’s never about need, because it interferes with my focus.”

  Nate wanted to laugh. He never would’ve predicted he would find himself attracted to a woman who wanted friendship without the entanglement of a commitment, and at this time in his life he wanted and needed the same.

  He lowered his head and brushed a light kiss over her parted lips. “We’re now officially friends.”

  This was the second time that night Morgan questioned her sanity, asking herself if she could maintain a friendship with a man who reminded her of why she’d been born female. Even when she’d experienced her first sexual encounter, it’d been Nate’s face and not the one of the man sharing her bed she’d fantasized about. It had been Nate’s mouth kissing and tasting her exposed skin. It had been his hands that made her aware of areas on her body she’d come to recognize as erogenous zones. And it had been fantasizing about Nate during lovemaking that helped her physically transition from girl to woman.

  Crazy or not, she had to remind herself that she was no longer that wide-eyed, hero-worshipping girl who hung onto Nate’s every word and took a corridor that led away from her classroom just so she could bump into him in the hall. Even if he didn’t speak to her, Nate would always nod or smile. The one time he said she looked pretty, Morgan believed she’d been hallucinating because she had worn a dress she’d relentlessly hounded her mother to buy for her. It was a simple sundress in a sunny yellow with crisscrossing straps that bared her back. A pair of black patent leather ballet flats with a grosgrain bow pulled the winning outfit together. It was at that point that her infatuation with the honor student turned to love. Not only had he acknowledged her, but he’d also thought her pretty.

  Morgan knew at the time that Nate was too old for her and that her parents would never permit her to date an eighteen-year-old boy, but that didn’t stop her from filling up the pages in her diary about what he wore, what she’d overheard him say, and what she felt when she found out that he was dating Chauncey. Morgan hated Chauncey; she thought she was hideous and wished her dead. Years later, when she reread what she’d written, she got down on her knees and prayed to God to forgive her. Fast-forward nineteen years: Now Nate had asked whether they could see each other, albeit as friends—but it was tantamount to dating, to an ongoing relationship free of commitment.

  As much as Morgan would’ve wanted the situation to be different, she knew that whatever they would share had to be commitment-free. That way there would be no pressure and no hard feelings. Any illusion of falling in love, becoming engaged, getting married, and setting up a household with a husband had fled. As a professional businesswoman, her focus was on growing her business. Kara had entrusted her with a multimillion-dollar historic restoration and preservation venture, which she planned to see to fruition. It was a challenge Morgan sought the first time she’d visited a historic site, one that was not far from Newburyport, Massachusetts. She’d dreamed of it, yet had no idea it would become a reality when she reached thirty-two years of age.

  “Friends,” she repeated. Her response seemed to please Nate as he spun her around and around in an intricate dance step. “Wait a minute, Twinkle Toes. Don’t tell me you’re practicing for Dancing with the Stars.”

  Nate dipped her low. “I’ll have you know I took dance lessons back in the day.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, staring up at him.

  He eased her upright, then led her back to their table and seated her. “Nope. My aunt Lizzie had been a professional dancer. She’d come along when not many of our people could get roles in the movie musicals that were so popular in the forties and fifties, but with her so-called exotic looks she was able to get parts denied other black performers. She continued to work until she married my uncle. He was a Communist sympathizer who’d convinced her to attend several meetings with him. Her name was one of many that appeared on the Hollywood blacklist during the McCarthy witch hunts. Her career ended abruptly, and no casting agent would let her through the front door.”

  Totally intrigued by the story, Morgan was unaware that she’d bitten her lip until she felt it throbbing with her pulse. It was then she realized she knew nothing about the Shaws other than that they had produced a long line of carpenters and furniture makers. “What happened after that?”

  “Once the word circulated he and his wife were commies, my uncle was summarily dismissed from his job with a building maintenance company. The only position Aunt Lizzie could find was cleaning houses, and Uncle Phillip got by doing odd jobs. A woman who was a professor at UCLA and wrote articles for the Daily Worker under a pseudonym hired her as a live-in housekeeper and my uncle as a landscaper. When the woman discovered my uncle’s skill as a carpenter, she commissioned him to make built-in bookcases, furniture for the formal dining room, and several guest bedrooms. My uncle died from a ruptured aorta a few days after he celebrated his fiftieth birthday. Fortunately he’d taken out a modest life insurance policy, naming Aunt Lizzie as the beneficiary. She handed in her resignation, rented an apartment, and then set up a dance studio, offering lessons to neighborhood kids.”

  Morgan heard the huskiness in Nate’s voice when he talked about his aunt having to give up teaching once she was diagnosed with an arthritic hip. That’s when he accepted the scholarship to attend San Diego State University and her offer to come live with her. On days when she was able move around without too much difficulty, she taught him to fox-trot, waltz, quickstep, tango, and rumba. She also taught him how to cook. He told Morgan how she would fuss with him about spending all his free time with an old woman when he should’ve been out with his friends, but as a full-time student who worked another twenty hours a week making cabinets, he’d been too exhausted to socialize.

  A wry smile pulled down one side of Nate’s mouth. “Our roles were reversed when her arthritis worsened and I became the caretaker. After I graduated I tried convincing her to move to Las Vegas with me, but she didn’t want to leave her old neighborhood. She wound up in a skilled nursing facility after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and I made it a practice to visit her every weekend.”

  “Where were you living?”

  “Vegas.”

  Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. “You drove from Las Vegas to San Diego every weekend?”

  He nodded. “The two cities are only three hundred miles apart. The other residents would tease her, saying her son must really love her to visit so often. I played along with them after I heard her tell another patient I was her son. That’s when I started calling her Mama.”

  “Wha
t ever happened to her?”

  He stared at the flickering candle on the table. “I’d gone to see her for her birthday and she was lucid for the first time in weeks. We talked about when she met my uncle after he’d gone to see her perform in an all-Negro dance revue when it came to Charleston. She talked for hours, and I listened. Then she said she was tired and wanted me to leave. I kissed her, told her I loved her, and said I would be back the following day. She said I was the son she’d always wanted. The nursing home called me six hours later to tell me she’d passed away in her sleep.” Nate closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. “It was the second time in ten years that I’d lost a woman I loved.”

  Morgan placed her hand over his fisted one. “She’s at peace, Nate.”

  He opened his eyes, the light from the candle reflected in his golden orbs. “I know that, and I try not to dwell on it.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Come on, Mo. If we’re going to be friends, then we should feel comfortable talking about anything.” His expression brightened. “Do you want another glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you. If I have another glass you’ll have to carry me out of here.”

  “I could carry you under one arm like a football.”

  Resting her hands at her waist, Morgan glared at him under lowered lashes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t get huffy, baby. You’re hardly a heavyweight.”

  Nate talking about her weight had aroused old fears and insecurities about her body—the ones she had when she was the brunt of boys’ adolescent jokes. “Maybe you’d prefer I look like Trina?”

  Without warning, Nate’s face went grim. “Where is all this coming from, Morgan? I meant it when I said you’re beautiful. No, I take that back. You are stun-ning! In case you didn’t notice, more than half the men had their tongues hanging out when you stood up to go to the buffet table. Hoyt was cheesing so wide that if this place were any brighter, I know I would’ve been able to see his molars.”

  Morgan hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. Was Nate actually jealous? And if he was, did that mean he felt something that went beyond friendship? Or was it simply male posturing?

  “Dylan’s not interested in me. He’s here with his girlfriend.”

  Nate grunted. “Since when has that stopped a dude from hitting on another man’s woman?”

  Her eyes drank in the sensuality of the man who was separated from her by the small span of the round table. It was she who’d stared at Nate when he’d gotten up to get his food, too engrossed in him to notice whether other women were staring at him. “Don’t you mean another man’s friend?”

  Nate waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s a girlfriend, fiancée, lover, or wife. There’s an unwritten rule among dudes that you never cross that line. And Hoyt crossed it when he kissed you.”

  Morgan’s confusion increased when she replayed Nate’s rationalization over and over in her head. She didn’t want to read more into it, because then she would have to conclude he was jealous, and there was definitely no reason for him to be jealous of her and another man. They’d laid down the ground rules. They would be friends without a physical relationship. And for Morgan, that meant that she was free to pick and choose whom she wanted to date or sleep with.

  “Did we not establish that we would be friends and nothing more?”

  “I’m not debating that, Morgan. How would you feel if we were out together and some woman pushed up on me and then kissed my mouth?”

  Not wanting to get into an argument with Nate as to their prearranged relationship, Morgan chose her words carefully. “It wasn’t a real kiss, Nate. He just missed my cheek. Honestly, I don’t know how I would react, especially if I didn’t know her. I’d probably be more surprised than anything else. But you know Dylan.”

  “Remember I’ve been away for a long time, so I don’t know your connection to him.”

  “There is no connection other than we graduated the same year. There are a couple of things you should know about me. I’m not a jealous person and I’m not your ex-wife. In other words, you can trust me not to screw around on you if we decide to take our friendship to the next level. And if we don’t and I meet someone with whom I want more than friendship, then you’ll be the first to know.”

  A beat passed. “You don’t bite your tongue, do you?” Nate asked.

  She smiled. “Not when it comes to defending my actions or beliefs,” Morgan countered. “It’s different when you’re the youngest in the family. Not only did I have to fight not to be treated like a baby, I had to fight for my independence. I come from a family of scientists who expected me to follow in their footsteps. My parents are dentists, Rachel has a degree in forensic science, and Irene is not only a medical examiner but she also married one. They see me as the oddball artist who spends her time drawing and decorating grown-up dollhouses. So if you feel you’re going to have a problem dealing with my frankness, then I suggest we stick to a solely business relationship.”

  Slumping back in his chair, Nate’s gaze met and fused with hers. “I don’t have a problem with you being outspoken. It’s one of the things, along with you being unpretentious, that I like about you.”

  Bowing her head slightly, she smiled. Most men she met were usually turned off or intimidated by her directness. She’d spent too many years hiding, retreating, cowering, and praying she wouldn’t become a target of their ridicule. “Thank you.”

  “There’s no need to thank me. I like the fact that you’re confident enough to accept who you are.”

  It’d taken a long time for Morgan to accept who she was. Once she decided she wanted to become an architect rather than an engineer, it signaled a turning point in her life. Whenever she accompanied her grandfather on his photo shoots, it was the old buildings she loved photographing. Peering through the viewfinder at a dilapidated structure, she’d tried to imagine who’d lived there and what their lives had been like. She was very confident in her career. Much more confident than she was when it came to interacting with men.

  “I think there’s one more thing you need to understand before I take you home tonight.”

  Nate’s ominous tone caught Morgan off guard. “What’s that?”

  “You’re nothing like my ex-wife.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”

  A hint of a smile played at the corners of Nate’s mouth. “It’s definitively and unequivocally a compliment.” He signaled a passing waiter, asking that he bring the check for their drinks. “Are you certain you don’t want another glass of wine?” he asked Morgan.

  “I’m going to pass because I made plans to go into the office tomorrow.”

  “You work six days a week?”

  “It’s more like five and a half. I open at ten and close around two on Saturdays.” Morgan had to shout in order to be heard over a group of men and women who had entered the club cradling large decorative bags filled with gaily wrapped gifts. The hostess sat the party of twenty at a long table only a few feet from Morgan and Nate. The sounds of shrieking, laughter, and the booming bass-line beats coming from the powerful sound system made it impossible for her to hear what he was saying.

  Pushing back his chair, Nate rounded the table. “Let’s get out of here,” he said in her ear. He paid the waiter, telling him to keep the change.

  Morgan needed no further prompting. The noise had escalated to an ear-shattering level. Nate held onto her hand as he pushed his way through the throngs of people standing at the bar. It was apparent the impending storm had held off long enough for Happy Hour regulars to come out and enjoy a night of live music, food, and exotic drinks. They managed to make it to the front door, where a line of young men and women waited at the entrance, hoping to gain admittance. “I’m glad we decided to come early,” Nate remarked as he led Morgan to his truck.

  “I’ve told Jesse and Dwayne to expand the club to include a room for private parties. Tha
t way they won’t have to turn away people at the door. Jeff is a nitpicker when it comes to overcrowding. One time he came by on patrol and there were so many people in the club folks could hardly move. Jeff told Jesse he had to shut down immediately and warned him that the next time he was cited for overcrowding, he would have to appear in front a judge and face the possibility of having his liquor license suspended.”

  Nate helped Morgan up and then came around and sat beside her. “Sharon tells me Jeff is a straight-up, no-nonsense sheriff. I don’t see it, because whenever we talk he seems so laid-back.”

  “He takes his job very seriously,” Morgan said in confirmation. “After spending twenty years in the Marine Corps as a military police officer, he’s not to be played with. Did Sharon tell you what happened a couple of years back, when he first took over as sheriff and he had a run-in with some kids from the mainland who’d come over on the ferry to get high?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “They confronted him and ended up a sorry sight by the time the EMTs took them to Charleston for medical attention.”

  Pressing the button to start the engine, Nate shifted into reverse and backed out. He’d barely cleared the space when a low-slung two-seater nearly hit his bumper as the driver swerved into the parking space.

  “What did he do to them?”

  “When Jeff confronted them in the Cove’s schoolyard, one kid came at him with a bat while another pulled a gun. Then the fight started, with Jeff coming out the winner. He grabbed the bat and broke the arms of the boy with the gun, and then he punched out the wannabe baseball player. At first we heard there were six kids, but the official report said there were only four.”

  “With four against one they definitely had the advantage.”

  “They would’ve had the advantage against someone not trained in hand-to-hand combat.”

  Nate’s deep chuckle echoed in the close confines of the vehicle. “It sounds like they had a death wish.”

  Morgan’s sultry laughter joined his. “I’m certain a few of them were wishing for death or anything to stop the pain. That’s when the word circulated that Cavanaugh Island has a badass sheriff who’d rather bust heads than talk. It must have worked because we haven’t had any problems with kids starting trouble.”