Island Hearts (Jenny's Turn and Stray Lady)

by Vanessa Grant

  “Will you sing my song, George? I’d like to hear it.”

  She looked down at the paper. He was making this too easy. He should be angry. Upstairs, in his arms, she’d done the unforgivable. And she was still doing it, remembering Scott and letting Lyle see her thoughts. What kind of woman was she?

  He played the tune softly for her, as if he knew that she needed no more than a reminder to fix the notes and the rhythm in her mind.

  She fled her discomfort, took refuge in the music. The words were soft and haunting, fitting for the notes that her fingers coaxed from the guitar. It was a song of love and healing. As she sang it, George could see Robyn growing strong and confident until she walked away from her father to a love and a life of her own.

  “Robyn’s song,” she said softly as the music faded.

  “Yes,” he agreed quietly.

  She picked out the melody again, low and haunting. “It could be a hit,” she said warmly, humming the refrain. “You should—” She broke off at the hint of laughter in his eyes. “No, you already have, haven’t you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m trying, George. Breaking into the music industry isn’t easy. I’ve had a few songs picked up, but no hits yet.”

  She picked out a tune on the guitar, notes she remembered hearing once on one of the radio stations. “It’s yours, isn’t it? I heard it on the radio in Vancouver.” She saw the pleasure in his eyes and was glad she’d put it there.

  “I didn’t know it had made it to the airways, though. Was Annie Carson the singer?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  He nodded, adjusting the dials, then switching the synthesizer off. “I think Annie did all right with it, but it didn’t make the top ten or anything like that. George, why didn’t you tell me you were a guitar playing lady with a voice?”

  “I just play at it, but you— Lyle, what are you doing stuck out on a lighthouse in the middle of the Pacific?”

  “The edge of the Pacific,” he corrected.

  She frowned at him sternly, angry at the waste of his talent. How could he promote his songs from here? He had to get closer to the music world, mix with the people who could be singing his songs. “Don’t joke about it. I don’t understand why you’re making music like that, and living in a place like this! Your songs are very distinctive. They have that something that—” She waved an expressive arm. He followed her gesture with his eyes.

  “Is it so bad here?” he asked curiously. He shuffled his papers together and placed them carefully in the top drawer of the desk. “I rather like the house. It’s got—”

  “It’s not the house,” she retorted angrily, “It’s the island! Five hundred feet of rock and grass!”

  “Six hundred feet!” He was angry too. “And a fabulous ocean view!”

  She shrugged impatiently, standing up and pacing restlessly. Just talking about the smallness of his island made her feel stifled, trapped. “Five hundred or six hundred, it’s too small! Don’t you think you should be out in the world, instead of hiding out here, out of contact?”

  “George!” His voice dropped, yet somehow became more harsh. “Since you know nothing about the circumstances, don’t you think you should stop trying to make me angry by telling me how to live my life?”

  “I—” She realized suddenly that somehow her attack was hurting him.

  He moved sharply. She could hear his breathing, shallow and disturbed, but his voice was carefully casual as he said, “We both need some fresh air. Come on, let’s get outside. Put on some shoes and socks while I check on Robyn, then we’ll go for a walk.”

  She was glad to escape the disturbed emotional atmosphere that had grown in the music room.

  Outside, the night air was cool and salty, the fog engulfing the far end of the island. Lyle took George’s hand as they walked down the outside stairs. The wind had stopped. She should pull her hand away. But it was dark. He knew the way, and she didn’t. Her fingers curled around his.

  At the front of the house he led her towards a steep path that twisted down to a small beach. Their silence was easy and companionable. Where had the anger gone?

  “Can you climb?” he asked, his hand holding hers tightly as if he would keep her safe against the night.

  “I think so.” She wanted the exertion, the feeling of movement to get her away from too much emotion. She flexed the muscles of her thigh, said, “Of course I can.”

  He laughed softly, leading her towards the path, asking whimsically, “What’s the longest you’ve ever stayed in bed?”

  She had to hang onto his hand going down the steep path. She couldn’t see the ground below her feet. With anyone else she might have felt nervous. With Lyle it was somehow impossible to be uneasy.

  She wondered if they could forget what had happened tonight. They could be friends then, like brother and sister.

  “The longest I’ve been sick, you mean?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  It was nice, walking together, feeling his warm, callused hand around hers. If they were friends— there weren’t many friends that lasted forever, but Lyle would. He had come close to something deep inside her. Someone she could always come back to. She’d have two people then. Lyle and Jenny.

  She said, “I don’t usually get sick. This shipwreck. Chicken pox when I was a kid. And last year I was in hospital for a few days.”

  He stepped onto the sand, turned back and closed his hands securely around her waist to swing her down the last couple of feet. His hands remained warm against her as he stared down in the misty darkness. “What happened?”

  She felt so secure, so safe. Was this unfair? Was she teasing him by standing in his arms? “My cousin and I were on the west coast of the Queen Charlotte Islands – sailing – and I had a big feed of clams.”

  “Red tide?” He either saw or felt the motion of her nod of assent. “You were lucky to survive it.” He sounded frightened.

  “Jake came,” she explained, wanting to reassure him. “He came just in time and flew Jenny and I into Queen Charlotte.”

  “Who’s Jake?” Then he remembered, “Jenny’s husband? Your cousin’s husband?” His arm slipped up over her shoulder as he turned her and started them walking over the sand.

  There was nothing sexual in the feel of his arm on her shoulder. Earlier he’d wanted her, but that could have been just a natural male reaction to a scantily dressed woman in his arms.

  That was it, of course. It had happened, and it was over now. So she could relax, let herself enjoy this. What had they been talking about? Oh, yes – Jake and Jenny.

  “Yes— well, they weren’t married then. She was running away from him, and he was firmly in pursuit. They’re married now, and very happy— I didn’t know this beach was here. Why didn’t I see it from my window?”

  “It’s covered by the water at high tide.” She shivered and he drew her closer. “Are you dressed warmly enough?”

  “It was just that bit of wind.” Funny. She’d never been friends with a man like this before. Was it like this having a brother who was close?

  “Tell me about Jenny.“

  She did, her voice warm with her affection for her cousin as she told Jenny and Jake’s love story.

  Then she found herself telling Lyle about their childhood, the escapades she and Jenny had gotten into.

  “It was me,” she told him with a laugh. “I was always in trouble, always refusing to stay where I should be, to do what was expected of me. My mother was always upset.”

  Lyle moved them to a low rock where he could lean and hold her in his arms, giving her his warmth. “What about your father?”

  She drew away. She didn’t often think about her father. Not anymore. It was so long ago, and it hurt remembering that he was gone.

  “I remember when I was— oh, about ten, I guess, Jenny and I were out in the dinghy. We weren’t supposed to, but I’d talked her into it and we were out on the water. The wind came up and I was scared. I had to pretend to Jenny that
I wasn’t afraid, that it was all right. I was older, and she’d come only because I did. But inside I wasn’t sure we’d make it back. We did – just barely! When we landed on the beach, my father was there, striding over the sand towards us. He looked ten feet tall, and furious.”

  “What did he do?” Lyle’s hand rubbed along her arm, absently caressing through the thick Mackinaw he’d made her put on.

  She shivered, but it was only a remembered cold. “He took us home. I was terrified of what he’d say, but he didn’t say a word. I was trembling, afraid, and he bundled me out of the car and said, ‘Get to bed!’ and that was the end of it… but I knew better than to take the dinghy out alone again.”

  The slow surf crawled over the sand, its sound warm in the darkness. Lyle’s arms were close around her.

  “He died when I was thirteen.”

  Lyle’s lips found her cheek. “That’s a bad age to lose someone who means so much.”

  She’d never said this to anyone, but now she admitted, “I thought the world ended. I shouldn’t have. There was my mother, and Jenny moved in with us when her parents went overseas, so I wasn’t alone. But I was pretending, going through the motions, until—”

  A sea bird cried and George shivered.

  “Until you met Scott?“

  “Yes,” she whispered. Scott. Suddenly it was all welling inside her, and she had to talk, to let it out. “I was seventeen, and… he was there. I couldn’t believe that he wanted me, that it was really me. It was like coming to life, having someone of my own, being in love and—”

  She broke off, shuddering, remembering her awakening earlier that night. Her voice was so low he had to bend closer to hear the words. “I’m sorry, Lyle. I— God! It was unforgivable, but I need him so badly! I can’t—“

  She pulled away, pulled the knowledge of the cold closer, as if it brought strength. She seemed to have no control over her emotions anymore. Love and loneliness and fear and need – they swept through her of their own volition. She was suddenly afraid of what she might do or say next.

  “I think you should leave me here alone,” she said harshly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight, but I— I’ve really said enough, done enough for one night.”

  She walked a few steps away, needing to be alone, but somehow knowing he wouldn’t leave her there. She took a deep, ragged breath, wishing for sunshine and cold wind, for numbness, distance from her own emotions.

  Lyle’s quiet voice hit her like a slap of the cold water she had wanted. “It’s time you woke up and started looking around yourself, George.”

  She jerked around, welcoming the sensation of anger. It wasn’t his pain or his business. He’d no place intruding, handing out words of wisdom.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked harshly. “I’m awake. I’ve got eyes.”

  He stepped closer, his voice dropped as hers rose, holding her attention against her will. “You’re so busy feeling sorry for yourself, grieving, that you’ve no time left to live life, to really take part in it.”

  She gasped, her hands forming fists. “What do you think I’m doing, crawling into a corner? I’m out sailing, seeing the world. I’m not sitting at home, hiding from life.”

  “No,” he agreed slowly, as if he saw everything she had hidden from the rest of the world. She wished she hadn’t let herself feel close to him, because now he was turning their intimacy against her, accusing. “You’re not hiding, you’re running from life. You’ve lost your husband, your father. You’re sorry for yourself. You’re holding onto your grief, telling yourself that George is a brave girl because she pretends she’s happy when she’s really miserable.”

  She hugged herself, wanting to turn away but somehow frozen by the quiet certainty of his voice. “And just what do you think I should be doing?” she asked with low bitterness.

  He came close, framed her face with his hands. Even in the dark she felt her eyes trapped by the intensity of his. “Let him go. He’s gone, George… You loved him and he loved you. It’s over now. You’re left with the memories… only the memories. It’s time you put the memories where they belong, in the past, and got involved in life again.”

  “I am involved,” she denied weakly.

  “Are you?” His thumbs kneaded her cheekbones softly, demanding, “Who’s in your life, George? There’s no one, is there? You’re moving through the world, alone, avoiding even the people who might once have been close to you.”

  She shook her head in a weak denial, but he wouldn’t stop. “Why wasn’t there anyone to call when you landed up here, George? Who’s keeping track of your journey? Where are your family, your friends?”

  She found the strength to pull away from those tender hands. Her voice was tight. “I have friends.”

  She could see his head move in denial, disbelief. “Friends, but none that have a claim on you. You move on before they can get close.”

  It was true. She found her head bending in assent. There was only Jenny, and even Jenny she kept at a distance.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning she got up early, belted Lyle’s housecoat tightly around her and went into the bathroom for her shower. Ever since the shipwreck she’d been drifting, lost on a tide of feelings and reactions. It was time for her to get back control of her own life. She made an action plan as the water pounded down on her. First, pin down Lyle about getting transportation off this island.

  Lyle. His eyes and his hands and the music. Robyn and the dog and—

  Saying goodbye.

  Perhaps she could come back to visit. Later, when she had herself in control again.

  First she had to leave. To do that, she needed transportation. Transportation first. Then— she and Robyn could go for a walk, exploring the inter-tidal zone. Robyn would like that. If the sun shone, perhaps Robyn could do her school lessons on the lawn.

  Later… later she would cut Lyle’s hair. Not too short, she decided as her fingers worked shampoo into a lather in her own hair. She wouldn’t want to cut away the locks that waved across his forehead.

  What would it feel like to run her fingers through that softly waving hair, feeling— damn!

  She scrubbed harder at her scalp, tensing against the warm sensations that were flooding under her skin. Talk about men having a one-track mind! She couldn’t seem to stop herself from thinking about Lyle’s hair, his hands, or the man himself. This was some kind of belated reaction to her widowhood, because no man had been able to touch her since Scott died.

  Scott. This morning his image floated across her mind like a memory, lacking substance.

  Soaped and rinsed, she dried her body roughly with the towel, tried to stop thinking about everything except leaving.

  Lyle’s hair. A walk with Robyn. Should she cook dinner for them tonight? Not that she was a gourmet cook, but then, neither was Lyle from the evidence she’d seen. What else? Would Lyle let her into his music room again, to play his guitar and sing his songs? Or even just to listen?

  Transportation – that was the first thing, the most important. Not music. Not Lyle.

  The dresser drawer contained more clothes. She put her own jeans on, topped with an unfamiliar sweat shirt that asked, ‘Where the heck is Kitimat, BC?’ The shirt was loose enough that she could leave her bra off without it showing. She was far too sore to put it on again. Where was Kitimat, anyway? And whose shirt was this? Dorothy’s, perhaps?

  The kitchen was filled with warmth and noise. Lyle was at the stove, turning strips of bacon in a big cast-iron frying pan. Russ was sitting astride a kitchen chair turned backwards. Robyn was setting the table.

  Russ tilted the chair, asking Lyle, “What should I do about number two generator?”

  Lyle neatly laid two more strips of bacon in the pan. “Shut it down and put number one on. We’ll take a look at it later this morning. If we can’t see what the problem is, I’ll send in a message tonight to the district manager. How many eggs, Russ?”

  Robyn sp
otted George, and put down a plate with a bang and a smile. “Are you going to eat with us? Daddy said you might want to get up this morning!”

  Lyle said, “You’re looking nice this morning,” and she found herself returning his warm smile as she pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  “I thought it was time I got up for my meals. Can I help set the table?”

  His eyes flashed from warmth to a deep intensity that reminded her of the night before, of his hands stroking her heated skin. She flushed and turned quickly to Robyn.

  Businesslike, the little girl said, “We need another plate. And jam for the toast. You set the plates and I’ll get the jam.” She limped quickly towards the pantry, Tom following close behind her. The cat got stopped by the kitchen door as Robyn closed it behind her, so sheared off and sniffed hopefully around Lyle’s ankles.

  “Forget it, Tom!” Lyle said sternly. “I’m not in the mood to drop any scraps for you. Did you sleep well, George?”

  “Fine.” She kept her eyes carefully on the plates she was setting. She wanted to walk over to him and touch him, to say hello with more than her voice.

  Transportation, she reminded herself.

  Russ shifted, his chair squeaking on the floor. “It’s hard to believe Lyle fished you out of the water last week. We both thought you were dead when you came out.”

  Russ’s eyes were a friendly gray. George found herself grinning and admitting, “Fool that I was, sailing your waters in a March storm! I’m glad you found me.”

  “Lyle did the finding,” said Russ easily, tossing back an unruly lock of hair. They looked so much alike, these two brothers. George smiled as Lyle unobtrusively slipped a piece of bacon to the cat.

  Russ said, “He woke me up and dragged me down to the north end, determined there was a shipwreck out there.”

  “It was the dog,” Lyle explained. “Scruff was spooky, wouldn’t let me rest.”

  “I’ve got to thank Scruff, then.” She stared at the table and took a deep breath. “Because I’m all right now, and I wouldn’t have been. But today—”