Just Breathe

by Susan Wiggs

  He kept hold of her hand. “I’ve got a better idea. Let me take you home.”

  Oh, God. She thought about the things he’d whispered in her ear. Her heart started pounding. Their last conversation hovered between them, the old dispute still open because there was no way to resolve it. She tried to dredge up as many excuses as she could find. “What about Aurora?”

  “She’s out watching the fireworks, and then she’s having a sleepover at a friend’s. And I already know your grandmother’s watching your boys overnight.”

  She took a deep breath. Felt the firmness of his muscular arm beneath her hand. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and slipped away. As she crossed the pavilion, she grabbed Vivian and pulled her along to the ladies’ room. “He wants to take me home,” she said, practically hyperventilating. “What am I going to do?”

  “Well, you could take two cars, or leave one here and pick it up in the morning—”

  “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.” Her eyes burned with tears, and she grabbed a paper towel to blot them away.

  “Sweetie, a lot of girls have shed tears over Will Bonner, but never because he wanted to take them home.”

  “Ah, Viv. You know why I’m scared. I can’t just do this as a lark. It matters too much. I failed so miserably with Jack. How can I be sure—”

  “You can’t,” Vivian told her, shoving her toward the door. “No one can, but why on earth would you let that stand in your way?”

  * * *

  They could see the fireworks from her front porch, the starbursts reflected in the still waters of the bay. Muted jazz was playing on the radio, and Will opened a bottle of champagne. He’d come prepared with the bottle in an ice chest—just in case, he’d told her.

  In case of fire, she thought, break glass. A comic strip popped into her mind.

  They clinked their champagne flutes together.

  “So,” he said, gently trapping her between himself and the porch railing. “Here we are.” Framed by twining roses and the white scroll-work of the porch trim, he looked like something she’d dreamed.

  “I’m afraid,” she blurted out, thoroughly taken aback by the sensation of his thighs pressing against hers.

  “So am I. Finish your champagne.”

  They emptied their glasses and with the tips of his fingers, he cupped his hands over the flutes, clinking them together as he set them aside. Then he kissed her long and deeply. It was the kiss she had been waiting for and dreading and hoping for ever since that day in the hospital, and it seemed to go on forever. At the end of it she felt drunk, not with the champagne but with emotion. He took her by the hand and they went inside, heading straight for the bedroom.

  Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, she thought in Shirl’s voice.

  Shadows and moonlight fell across the floor, creating shifting bluish patterns. The lace curtains whispered against the sill of the open window, and in the distance she could see the last of the fireworks reflected on the surface of the water. Will stopped and kissed her again, and she barely noticed when he unhooked the back of her dress and let it whisper to the floor.

  She had carried twins—high birth-weight twins—and had nursed them for almost six months, and her body bore the evidence of that. For a moment, apprehension flared to sheer terror. Yet the way Will looked at her, the things he whispered in her ear and the tender glide of his hands over her breasts and hips made her feel light and beautiful and desirable. She paused, trying to calm the churning apprehension. Unless she stopped this—right here, right now—their relationship was going to change forever, and there would be no undoing it. Was she ready for that? Were they really doing this? Here? Now?

  His wordless answer to her wordless questions came in the form of a long, leisurely, open-mouthed kiss. He didn’t hurry or push as he laid her down on the lavender-scented bed, and took her with a slow eroticism that bound her up in its spell.

  She had forgotten, or perhaps she’d never known, what it was to make love to a man who loved her, who didn’t regard sex as a marital duty, who wasn’t keeping secrets from her. Need and passion outweighed caution, and she explored his body, hungry to know every inch of it. It was almost embarrassing, how much she wanted him. “You must think I’m a maniac,” she whispered.

  “I was counting on it.”

  She rested her cheek on his bare chest, absorbing the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat and soaring with joy and an overwhelming tenderness. And relief. There was that, too. After so much time, she hadn’t been certain that she was still this kind of woman. In his arms she felt reborn, as though he’d rekindled an inner flame. Still, old demons haunted her, and she spoke with uncertainty. “It’s just...that it’s been so long for me, Will. And I’ve never been all that good at sex.”

  “Where the hell did you get that idea?” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Never mind. Don’t answer that. And don’t say that about yourself, ever again. It’s not a matter of skill or experience.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He stopped her again, gently tracing his thumb across her lips. “End of discussion. You’re good at it. You have no idea how good.”

  * * *

  The birds woke Sarah up early. Last night might have been a dream, except that her whole body sang with memories, and there was a sleeping man beside her. She had an urge to wake him up, to breathe in the scent of his skin and run her hands over him but if she did that, they might not ever leave the bed.

  Which didn’t seem like such a bad idea, when she thought about it. Except that the world awaited—families and complications just outside trying to get in, like moths batting themselves against a window screen, seeking the light. She slipped from the bed and let Franny out. Then, in the quiet early morning, still wearing a soft smile, she made a pot of coffee.

  The smell roused Will, and he appeared in the kitchen in nothing but his Levi’s, the top button undone. “Let’s sleep in,” he said, coming up behind her and nuzzling her neck.

  She caught her breath, then turned and handed him a mug of coffee. “I need to go get the boys.”

  He let out a long-suffering sigh and sipped his coffee while looking around the kitchen. He browsed through the guest book with all the notes left behind in the cottage by grateful guests. When Sarah had first moved in, she had resented the cheerful, romantic entries in the book. All those happy couples and families, so delighted with their seaside vacation. Now that she’d been here awhile with the boys, she was more understanding. There was a desperation of denial in some of the entries— “See? We are too a happy family” was the unspoken message.

  Watching Will, she held her breath, not sure she wanted him to spot the entries she’d added at the end. With her, making smart-alecky drawings was almost a reflex; she’d never been able to resist a blank page. There was a cartoon self-portrait of her holding the twins like the Scales of Justice and the caption “Now we are three.” She drew other little milestones—the boys’ first smiles, first teeth, first success at crawling and pulling themselves up. And sure enough, Will paused at her rendition of Lulu saying “Getting married is like having your teeth straightened. If you do it right the first time, you won’t have to go through it again.”

  He chuckled, then took his coffee out on the porch, looking as though he belonged here. That was the thing about Will Bonner, she thought, watching him from the doorway. He was so at home in the world, in his life, in his own skin. Yes, he had forfeited much to stay in Glenmuir, but she sensed no resentment in him. He embraced this place, with its small-town quirkiness and old seaside traditions. Instead of brooding about missed chances from the past, he delved into the life of this community, providing a vital service and taking joy from small things. She had felt that from him last night, from his unhurried lovemaking and unabashed delight.

  “If you keep staring at me li
ke that,” he said to her, “those boys are going to be in kindergarten by the time you pick them up.”

  She blushed, but the heat of her skin was a pleasure in itself. “I’d better get going,” she said, forcing herself to move away from him.

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “No, thanks. The car seats take too long to switch out. And before we start that, we need to talk about whether or not we’re going to start acting like a couple.”

  “Babe, I think we settled that question last night.” He came back inside and put his mug in the sink.

  “Then you’d better go home and have a talk with Aurora before she hears it through the grapevine. And no, I won’t be there for the talk.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Freely admitted.” She kissed him one last time. “Now, go.”

  He groaned, but agreed that he’d better leave. Watching him drive away, she leaned against the front door and sighed with the sort of happiness she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. The walking-on-air, grinning-at-nothing happiness that made life a beautiful thing. She pressed her fingertips to her lips and remembered the taste of him, and the way he felt inside her, and soon she was regretting that she’d let him go.

  Thirty-Eight

  Aurora was putting together her stuff to go stay at her grandparents’ house. The routine, repeated every duty cycle throughout the year, was as familiar as brushing her teeth. Duffel bag with four changes of clothes and something to sleep in. School backpack. And lately, dog food and Zooey’s inflatable bed. When she was little, Aurora used to cry every time her dad went on duty, because she knew it would be days before she’d see him again. Now, she didn’t feel sad at all. Her grandparents were awesome, and from their house, it was walking distance to Edie and Glynnis’s houses, and a little farther on was the Parker place.

  Okay, walking distance was a bit of a stretch. In reality, it was a giant hike. If she just “happened” to walk past Zane Parker’s house, he’d know it was deliberate.

  Unless...brainstorm. She had the perfect excuse. “I have a dog now, don’t I, Zooey? Don’t I, boy?”

  The dog pranced in response.

  “We’ll go on a nice, long walk, and we might even need to stop at the Parkers’ to...let’s see. Yeah! To borrow a book from Ethan.” She added the dog’s leash to her bag and went to get her cell phone. It was charging in its usual spot on her dad’s bureau, in the surge-protector strip she’d given him last Father’s Day.

  Zooey followed her up the stairs. Ordinarily, Aurora would stop and play with him, but her granddad would be picking her up in a few minutes. “Chill,” she muttered to the dog, who grabbed a stray sock and shook it wildly. The top of the bureau was his repository for phones, keys, stuff from his pockets, a book of matches, little clippings and business cards and his Rolodex. A business card for somebody with the arson squad. She paused when she came to this, picked it up, put it down again. The top drawer was partially open. She inched it open, recoiling when she came across a box of condoms.

  With a shudder, she shoved the drawer shut, muttering, “That ought to teach me to snoop.”

  Zooey whined, then stretched into a playful bow. He trotted off and returned a few seconds later with a tennis ball, and dropped it eagerly at Aurora’s feet. Grateful for the distraction, she bounced the ball high, laughing when the dog popped up and snatched it in midair. She had him jumping practically to the ceiling. He never missed, until she made a bad throw. The ball went under the bed and Zooey dived after it. The ball must have gotten caught or wedged somewhere, because she could hear him scrabbling around and whining. Soon it became clear he was having no success, so Aurora had to belly crawl halfway under the bed, feeling around among the dust bunnies. The dust made her sneeze, and the sneeze made her bump her head. Then her hand hit something hard and hollow. A box?

  She dragged it out from under the bed, which freed the ball for Zooey to pounce on. She was about to slide the box back under the bed when something made her hesitate. It was a fireproof safe, locked with one of those four-digit codes. Put it back, she told herself. It’s a bad idea to snoop. Put it back.

  But she didn’t. She fiddled with the rollers a few times. Her dad used the same four-digit PIN code for everything: 9344, which spelled “WILL” on a telephone keypad. She gave it a try, and felt a guilty start when the box opened.

  The dog was skittering around, trying to get her to play, but she waved him away. The box contained papers and documents, which didn’t look too interesting. At first. Then something caught her attention—a receipt from the Gilded Lily Jewelers. She stared at the item description: “1 ct. diamond solitaire 18k gold.”

  Her hand shook and she let the paper drift to the floor. She glared down at the receipt. Ever since the Oyster Festival, her dad had been dating Sarah Moon. Really dating, like with dinners out and long, whispered phone calls. If this receipt meant what Aurora thought it meant, she’d end up with a stepmom. That meant the death of all hope that Aurora’s real mother would ever return. Not that she’d admit it to anyone, but after such a long time, she still dreamed of that. Now with Sarah in the picture, Aurora wouldn’t even have the dream.

  She rifled around some more and what she saw shocked her even worse. Money order receipts, all made out to her mother. The dates proved they’d been sent regularly for the past five years. Why had he kept sending money after her mother took off? Was he paying her to stay away?

  Aurora dug deeper through the papers, some of them yellowing with age. There was a file containing forms and documents related to her mother’s immigration and naturalization hearing. There was an old statement her dad had given, describing the circumstances under which he found Marisol Molina and her daughter.

  She read it, riveted. Here was the real story, at last. The mystery unveiled. The truth. She started to tremble deep inside, and then the trembling radiated outward, causing her hands to shake and her chin to quiver. She felt kind of sick, too, because it was nothing like she had imagined her past to be. She never knew about the squalor, the cruelty, the fact that her father had rescued Mama and her from a nightmare. As Aurora read the words, tiny flashes went off in her mind. She didn’t know if they were memories or her imagination, filling in the blanks. Fire and yelling, running feet, screams. A flight of stairs leading up and up, a hallway filled with smoke that made her gag and stung her eyes.

  As she knelt on the floor in the bedroom, her eyes smarted with new tears. She never knew her mother had worked in a house of prostitution or that Aurora had played in a muddy yard soiled with goat dung, or that her mother had been the victim of frequent beatings. It was all there, starkly reported in an official report to the U.S. Citizen and Immigrations Services.

  Her dad had let her believe he’d brought her and her mother into his life because he loved them. Now Aurora realized he’d merely rescued them like he would anyone else, like he would a stray cat.

  * * *

  In the company journal, Will made his customary entry—the date and time along with, “Capt Bonner relieves Capt McCabe on house watch dept., personal quarters in good order.” He leaned back in the desk chair, a stupid grin on his face. He and Sarah were together, finally. He felt as though he’d won the lottery. No, more than that. He’d won the kind of future he hadn’t let himself imagine—until now. He was done with waiting. Sure, she had a lot on her plate. Yet he saw no point in holding back. He loved her. He was only going to love her more as time went on. Waiting served no purpose other than to drive him nuts.

  He’d even bought a ring. Was he jumping the gun? Probably. Did he give a shit about timing? Not anymore. He grabbed his wallet and took his patrol vehicle to the grocery store to pick up a few things for the next shift. He still had the stupid grin on his face as he swung through town. There had been a time when he’d thought Glenmuir would kill him, this tiny seaside hamlet where nothing e
ver happened. Now he knew this was where everything happened, where his future lay.

  His daydream about Sarah was shattered when his radio sounded. The quick-call had gone off back at the station—a fire at the Moon Bay Oyster Company. “Structure fire, barn or outbuilding, fully involved.” The Moons’ place.

  “I’m almost there,” he said, speeding past the grocery store. He was several minutes ahead of the engine and crew. A jolt of urgency tightened his gut. He was close by and hoped like hell the building had been empty.

  He was the first to arrive and backed the patrol vehicle into place near a hydrant. Grabbing his radio, he raced to assess the situation. The building was isolated and no human life appeared to be involved. The bad news was, the building was an inferno, and the location was precarious, at the base of an upward-sloping ridge covered with dry grass and resinous pine trees parched by a recent drought.

  Kyle Moon was there by himself. He filled Will in while Will pulled a hose line off the back of the truck. “...used to be housing for seasonal workers,” he shouted over the noise of the fire. “Now it’s used to store all kinds of things. We had some workmen here this week. They left a stack of pallets by the building. I know it’s a code violation—”

  No shit, thought Will. “Any solvents? Paint? Marine resins, varnishes, substances under pressure?”

  A series of explosions blasted inside. “All of the above,” Kyle said. “And...there’s a propane tank. It’s old, though. I can’t remember the last time we had it filled.”

  A propane tank. Great. Will got down to business, planning the attack, although the engine crew was still several minutes out. Even from a distance, the heat nearly boiled his eyeballs.

  There were more explosive bursts. Another flare-up briefly illuminated the area like a lingering flash of lightning, picking out ominous details. A stack of wooden pallets, burning brightly, lay nearby. There, surrounded on three sides by flame, was the hundred-gallon propane tank. He could hear the ominous whistle of a venting sound coming from the tank. “Fuck me,” he whispered.