“I hope so. I— thank you, George.” His hand was so soft against her face. She found herself turning to rest her cheek against the callused palm. It was a long moment before he said softly, “You’d better get into that shower before your leg tires. This standing around can’t be doing you any good.”
He moved to let her pass. As she was going through the doorway to the bathroom he asked softly, “What about your marriage, George?”
Why had she let this happen? Couldn’t they just be strangers, with secret lives?
“I loved him,” she whispered. “We were very happy.”
He said nothing. She added, “We were married for nine years. He died three years ago.”
“And you haven’t stopped missing him?”
“I’ll never stop missing him,” she said flatly, limping away and closing herself into the bathroom.
She wished it wasn’t true, that she didn’t have to go on hurting like this forever, never able to stop without the loneliness welling up and drowning her.
As the water streamed down over her shoulders, she was abruptly enveloped by a brief fantasy that Scott was in the next room waiting for her.
How many times did she have to lose him?
Once in reality. Forever in her mind.
Did Lyle feel like this about Hazel? She hoped not; she didn’t want those eyes to conceal such a painful, desperate loneliness.
She scrubbed her hair hard under the pounding water, washing the last traces of the sea away, soaping every part of her body that could stand to be touched. She had red marks and black and purple marks that would be with her for a long time, but she was alive and it was time to get active, get away from the misery and self pity that seemed to go with being stuck in bed.
Lyle was nowhere in sight when she came out of the bathroom, but he had left a soft jogging suit that must be Dorothy’s on her bed. She pulled it on thankfully. She thought she could get away without a new bandage on her leg if she stuck to soft, loose pants for a while.
The house was empty. She moved down a long corridor, past the room that must be Lyle’s.
A warm room, in brown and rust and gold. Masculine, yet comfortable. A big mirror on an oak wardrobe reflected a lighthouse painting with waves crashing on the rocks. On another wall, a modern rendition of colors communicated a strong mood, although she couldn’t have identified the subject matter of the painting. The modern and the traditional, mixed together.
The more she learned about Lyle, the more she liked. If it weren’t for this restless need to move on, she might have been able to enjoy getting to know him better.
But it was too easy to think here, too easy to let her emotions get the better of her. She kept having dreams that brought Scott back. She’d managed to keep control ever since Scott died. She certainly couldn’t let go now.
A book lay open on Lyle’s bedside table. George resisted the temptation to step closer and read its title.
Robyn’s room next, its door open on a profusion of stuffed animals. A big orange cat stretched and rested its head on the back of a stuffed bear as George passed.
The living room was filled with books, CDs, and records. She browsed through them, finding all her favorites. There was classical music, too, but she had never developed much of an ear for classical. She loved guitar music of almost any sort, loved playing the guitar herself, and she was going to ask Lyle if he minded her playing some of these CDs while she was here.
Most of the CDs were commercial ones, but some were labeled by hand, in a firm handwriting that she knew would belong to Lyle. It was like him. Square and even, with a flourish here and there. The song titles written in his hand intrigued her. They must be special favorites of his.
The books were a surprising assortment. Some of the books were on music, more on flying. An assortment of novels that ranged from Robert Ludlum to Ernest Hemingway. Children’s books, some on how to raise rabbits.
Rabbits? Here on Green Island?
A book of poems by Tennyson.
Two copies of a volume entitled Verses in Flight, by Lyle Stevens.
Lyle?
She took one off the shelf, opened it and found the dedication. For my daughter Robyn.
She sank down on a big overstuffed chair, turning the pages slowly. Poems of flying, verses of love for his daughter and the animals he took under his wing.
Dreamer’s eyes, she’d thought. Poet’s eyes.
When she looked up and saw him standing there, it wasn’t a surprise.
“I found your book,” she said slowly, her eyes far off.
He sat on the arm of the chair, leaning over to read with her, bracing his arm on the chair behind her head. She could smell the tangy scent of after shave and wondered why a man out in the middle of nowhere would bother to use a tangy after shave lotion. For her?
“I wrote that one in Stewart,” he said, reading over her shoulder. “Glacier country. They were shooting a movie and I was flying people around, taking them up to the glacier, back down.”
“Tell me about it,” she invited eagerly.
He grinned. “It was fun. What an insane amount of running around they do for a movie! And money flowing like water. The studio spent a fortune on helicopter time – spent a fortune on everything.”
He named the movie.
“I remember seeing that! There were helicopters in the movie too, weren’t there? Were you flying in any of them?”
“Yes. In one scene – the rescue scene.”
“You mean the avalanche?” The book went slack in her hands as she twisted to see his face. “That must have been dangerous flying!”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling with the memory. “It was risky, all right.” He laughed. “My brief run as a stunt man! My mother gave me hell when she saw the movie, but I wasn’t married at the time, didn’t have Robyn. There was no one depending on me.”
“So it was all right to risk your life?” Her voice sharpened and he chuckled. He took the book from her hands and tipped her chin up so he could see into her eyes.
“You sounded a bit like my mother there,” he teased her. “My dear George, you’re hardly the lady to talk sharp about people risking their lives, are you? Single handing a sailboat through some of the most dangerous waters in the world!”
“But I had no intention of killing myself at it.” Nor had he, of course. “You come from a big family, don’t you? A close family.”
“Not that big. My parents, and three of us. Russ and I, and Conrad. Con’s my older brother.”
She shifted, drawing her legs up and turning to see his face without strain. He was relaxed, leaning back on the arm that rested so close to her head. “And you’re all close?” she asked.
“So so,” he told her, grinning. “Russ and I get on okay, but Con and I always fought. He was bigger than me, but I usually didn’t have the sense to stay out of his way. I used to tease him, drive him nuts. Then he’d lose his cool and clobber me. Nowadays I stay out of his way. We see each other at Christmas. Last time I saw him was at Russ’s wedding. We got into an argument and Mom threw us out of the house to cool off.”
“Is he married?”
“Oh, yes. And I may not be scared of Con any more, but I’m sure the hell terrified of Betty. She’s almost six feet tall, never a hair out of place, and a voice like a sergeant major. They’ve got two kids – a boy and a girl – who never have a hair out of place either. I keep getting the urge to take them out fishing, get them covered with seaweed and smelling of fish, then bring them home. Con would never forgive me, but I’m sure the kids would be better for a bit of dirt and adventure.”
His hand had dropped to her shoulder and was kneading gently. She found herself relaxing against his arm. “It sounds nice,” she said slowly. “Robyn told me about your parents. They live on a farm near Victoria, don’t they?”
“Not exactly a farm. A couple of acres, kind of a hobby farm. They’re retired and puttering around. When I was a kid we lived on a lighthouse fur
ther up Vancouver Island, but my parents bought the Victoria property when I was in my teens. After that, we always went there for holidays. That’s a habit we’ve all kept over the years. Robyn and I still go down there for at least a few days every year.”
She was smiling until he said, “You’d like them – you’d like my family, I mean. And they’d like you. Especially my father.”
Lyle wanted to tell her that he would take her to see them, but the urge frightened him a little, and he knew it wasn’t time. “Tell me about your family, George.” She shrugged and winced and he said, quickly, “Are you all right? Those ribs still hurt?”
She shook her head, shifting away from his touch. She’d been enjoying talking to him – until he started asking questions.
She didn’t want to talk about her family. They were nice people, but, except for Jenny, there was no one who gave her a feeling of homecoming. And talking about her family would lead to Scott.
When she moved, the dog moved too, his toes clicking on the kitchen floor as he padded towards them. He stopped in front of them, placing his head carefully on George’s lap. She stroked him. Her hand came away covered with dog hair.
“He needs a good brushing,” said Lyle, shifting to his feet. “I’ll get the brush.”
George relaxed, relieved that the subject was changed. She wasn’t going to have to fence with Lyle, to try to avoid talking about Jenny and Mom and – inevitably – Scott.
When Lyle handed her the brush, she started brushing the dog firmly. Scruff sagged against her leg with a groan that was either pleasure or pain.
Lyle said gently, “George, you’ll have to talk about it all some day. You can’t shut everything in.”
She found herself breathing shallowly, her eyes challenging his as if there were a threat, as if she mustn’t let him closer.
It was a long moment before he shifted, breaking contact with her eyes. “I have a weather broadcast to do. Robyn’s next door at Russ’s place. You look after Scruff and we’ll both be back in a bit.”
Thank goodness he’d gone!
Some crazy part of her wanted to share everything with him, to go into his arms and feel them close around her, strong and secure. She wanted to tell him all her problems, her hurts, and let him make everything right.
Was she insane? Going through a second childhood?
Or was it Lyle himself? Was it the strength of the man’s personality, making her feel the warmth of his presence even when he left the room?
He was a man who should have a wife and a big family. She could see him calmly managing an unruly pile of children and animals, writing poems in the quiet moments, and somewhere in it all, flying that airplane into the skies.
She had never had an animal, had never realized how much hair could come out of the coat of a dog that was part husky and part many other things. Scruff groaned and stretched, pushing against the brush. George stopped when her arms were aching.
Who had told her about someone spinning the hair of a husky dog and making a sweater of it? She giggled, trying to picture Lyle doing that.
She found the garbage can in the kitchen and threw away Scruff’s hair.
The house was quiet except for the faint noise of wind from outside. She could see the ocean through the windows. What a city dweller wouldn’t give for a view like this! But what city dweller would be willing to pay the price of remote isolation?
In the kitchen an oil stove beckoned to her with promises of warmth. Outside was the wild.
She’d been too long indoors.
She found a warm Mackinaw hanging near the stove. The sleeves were too long, but she rolled them up and prowled through the porch, looking for shoes. A windy March day was no time to be without shoes.
In the end she gave up the search, going barefoot, trying to keep her feet out of the way of Scruff’s paws when the dog suddenly realized he was being left behind and scrabbled to catch up to her as she went through the door.
She couldn’t imagine this dog bearing the respectable name of Harry. Robyn had been right to name him Scruff.
She walked downstairs into the midst of a noisy cluster of buildings. What was the racket? Electricity being generated?
The lighthouse tower stood tall and white between the two houses, a prominent landmark to warn mariners of the rocks around Green Island.
Rocks. Lady Harriet, about to hit the rocks.
No! Think about something else. The buildings. Light tower, engine room – that must be the second house, where Lyle’s brother lived. Robyn was there right now, inside that house. Lyle was giving a weather report, but where?
Spooky. Empty. As if there were no one else in the world. Through every crack between the buildings, all around her, was the ocean. She could feel it, smell it.
She was on the edge of the world. Alone.
She would be alone all her life.
Lyle had his family, his animals. Russ had his wife and the baby they were expecting.
George didn’t belong here. She had no one. She should leave, get back to the world, get moving again.
She prowled around the buildings, forcing the restlessness, getting her mind ready for leaving to do whatever it was she was going to do next.
She walked around the outside of the engine room, onto some kind of wooden platform that was built out over the edge of a cliff. She tuned out the roar of the engines, concentrated on the wind howling over the rocks.
She couldn’t hear him, but she knew when Lyle came up behind her.
“I had to get outside.” She twisted to look up into his face, looking for anger but finding none.
“What about the leg?” He was watching her, his eyes narrowed as if they could tell more than he would learn from her words. She shifted her bare feet self-consciously.
“My leg’s okay. The weather’s better, isn’t it?” She turned away from him, waving an arm towards the water, wishing she didn’t feel like an awkward teenager, wishing she wasn’t so aware of him.
His eyes stayed on her face. He could feel her unease, but wasn’t sure what was causing it. He said, “It’s still pretty rough. I don’t think you’d want to be sailing.”
She shuddered. She turned away as if to reject the memory, but couldn’t keep from asking, “Is that where she went down? That rock to the north?”
“Yes,” he answered, remembering how her face had looked just after he’d pulled her out of the water.
“I’m lucky to be alive, aren’t I?” She looked up at him. He didn’t know what she was be looking for, but had an uncomfortable feeling that she was comparing him to her husband. He disliked the idea intensely.
She finally looked away, frowning. He wished he could catch her hand and draw her closer. He’d like to stand here with his arm around her, looking out over the wild Pacific, feeling her against his side.
He moved a little closer, sheltering her from the wind, but he could feel her tension at his nearness.
George glanced up at him. He was waiting for her to step away. She stood carefully still. It seemed important for him to believe she was not bothered by his nearness.
He was standing so close. She felt his height, the strong breadth of his shoulders.
Scott hadn’t been as tall. His masculinity had been more civilized, more— more predictable. George’s eyes swung back to Lyle, tracing the hard curves of his face, the surprising softness of his lips. She almost imagined she could remember Lyle’s arms pulling her from the cold sea. It was this uncertain memory that made her uncomfortable enough to step away.
“I can’t believe you spotted me out there in the water.”
“Luck,” he said harshly. The lines on his face suddenly stood out painfully.
Then he smiled, his eyes lighting with a challenge that struck a chord of memory.
“Lyle, you— you weren’t by any chance at the Holiday Inn last year, were you? In Vancouver? I was booked in a room on the second floor, and you— you had a room on the same floor? We passed in the h
all once. Then, when I had dinner with Jenny, my cousin, and you were sitting—”
He’d been wearing a brown suit, and Jenny had said something like, “You’ve made a conquest there,” while George had tried to pretend those disturbing eyes weren’t watching her.
“You probably don’t remember,” George said hurriedly, wishing she hadn’t started this. “Maybe it wasn’t—”
“I remember.” His eyes were giving her a disturbing message, as they had that day in the corridor. “I recognized you as soon as I pulled you out of the ocean.”
“In a cruiser suit!” She turned away to cover the flush that she felt surging into her face and neck.
He wanted her. He’d wanted her from the beginning. Was that why she’d been so aware of him?
Incredibly, part of her wanted to respond, to meet his eyes and answer the invitation with her own wordless acceptance.
She mustn’t! She was too weak, too vulnerable. In Mexico, the problem had been that she felt nothing. With Lyle, here on this island, she was in danger of feeling too much. If he took her in his arms, she was so mixed up and confused that she might close her eyes and lose herself in the dream.
She couldn’t use his arms to pretend she had Scott back. She must never do that!
She pushed her hands into her pockets, managed to laugh and throw him a bright, superficial glance. “I’m not sure I’m flattered at your recognizing me. I must have been better dressed at the Holiday Inn!”
He seemed to see right through the brittle brightness, and said, “You looked a bit like you do now. Like a wild thing, afraid of captivity.”
Startled, she jerked back. His hand shot out and grasped her arm, pulling her away from the edge of the platform.
“Watch—”
“It’s okay,” she said breathlessly, pulling away from his touch. “I— I really think it’s time I left. I appreciate all you’ve done, but I should—”
He was watching her, seeing too much.
“Where are you going?” he demanded insistently. “What’s the hurry?”
She looked around desperately. Somewhere, anywhere. Surely it didn’t matter, so long as she got away from here.
Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady) Page 22