Sweet Pretender

by Virginia Hart

  It was a solitary spot. She was alone. Yet the feeling that came with aloneness didn't touch her. She had the sensation of being watched, though there was no one about. Or was there? Eli's shack was out of sight, somewhere to her right and up, obscured by rocks, dunes and stunted trees bent low by years of wind and storm. Two other people sat on the sand some distance up the beach. A man and a child of about four. But they were too occupied with building a sand castle to take notice of her.

  First scanning the stretch of smooth beach to the other side, Melissa shaded her eyes and looked toward the ledge above. Her pulses began pounding out a deafening fugue when she saw a man standing on the rocky shelf, staring down at her. It was Jeremy. But the recognition did nothing to relieve her apprehension.

  The breeze tousled his dark hair and clearly patterned his shirt and slacks to the strong male lines of his body. Even at a distance she could see the fierce set of his features—or did she imagine it?

  Determined not to be intimidated by him, she smiled and waved a hand in exaggerated greeting, as she might have done if they were old chums happening upon each other in welcome surprise. She should be sketching, like some otherwise idle Victorian woman, and he would make his way down to admire the way she had transferred what she saw to paper.

  "It's so much more than a mere copy," he would say, completely awed by her talent. "You've managed to capture not only what I see when I stand in this spot but what I feel."

  The real Jeremy wasn't so cooperative. He didn't return her wave or show any sign of recognition. But he didn't move away, either.

  The child's cry distracted her. She turned toward the sound. The father was trying to introduce his unwilling son to the chill water, and the child was wailing and clinging to his legs.

  "Don't be such a baby," the man was chiding. "There aren't any fish out there big enough to eat you."

  When she turned her attention to the ledge again, Jeremy was gone. But where?

  She studied the narrow shelf for many moments with a curiosity bordering on excitement, finding the place where it cut into the hill face and made steps, of a sort, upward. Did he live up there somewhere?

  She could visualize him in a cabin similar to Eli's, more sparsely furnished, but just as cluttered. He'd have a crudely made slab desk, where he'd sit long hours, combing restless fingers through his crisp black hair as he plotted some new mechanical thrill for fair-goers everywhere.

  Before she had time to rethink her actions, the child in her lured her toward the slope. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the cabin she had already furnished in her mind, she began working a diagonal path between the low boulders, pushing aside some of the dry, wind-whipped branches and ducking under others.

  Enthusiasm for her adventure dimmed as she reached the halfway point and realized, even if it meant being seen, she should have chosen an easier ascent. The rise that lay before her was precipitous and threateningly brambled. It was time for a retreat.

  Too late. Her foot slid between two close-set stones as she turned, pitching her forward. Her arms flailed wildly as she tried for a handhold. Any handhold. She caught a limb, but it gave way with a thunderous cracking sound as it split to the root. It cushioned her fall but left her facedown, her hair caught in the angry snarl of branches.

  Groaning in frustration rather than pain, she lay very still, wanting to make certain she wasn't hurt.

  "Are you all right?" A man's voice boomed from above her.

  If it was Jeremy, she decided, making claws of the fingers that pressed into the gravelly earth, she wouldn't answer. She'd stay there until he moved away. He couldn't see her, and he might think he'd imagined the noise.

  "Dammit, answer me. Are you hurt?"

  It was Jeremy. She recognized the snarl. "I'm fine," she called. "Will you please go away?"

  "What the devil are you doing?" He was closer now.

  "I'm studying flora and fauna," she snapped, trying with frantic manipulations to free her hair.

  "Hold on. Let me do that." His knee dug into her rib cage as his fingers began working at her hair. "We can't save the ribbon, I'm afraid."

  "Ouch! Forget the ribbon. Just save the hair, won't you?"

  "Sorry. There you go. Up now." Tugging at her with an awkward hold that brought her up bottom first, he set her upright, steadying her against his own body.

  Sharply aware of the intimacy of her position, she stepped away and began brushing furiously at her pants. They were ripped from calf to knee. Ruined on their first wearing. She could have screamed.

  "You've scratched your face," he said, reaching out.

  She shrank from his touch, pressing a finger to the stinging place she'd only that moment noticed alongside of her chin. "It's nothing."

  "All in a day's adventure, I suppose." His eyes were gleaming jet stones.

  "I like to hike."

  "You might have tried the path."

  "I was on my way to Eli's cabin."

  "You're off course."

  "I guessed as much." How could such a monosyllabic exchange unnerve her? she wondered, feeling the sudden need to escape.

  "I'm going there myself," he said. "I'll take you."

  "Oh, no." Ignoring the hand Jeremy offered, she brushed the hair from her forehead to clear her vision and dropped to her knees again. The paperweight. She'd lost it in her struggle for balance.

  "Now what?"

  "You go ahead," she told him, patting the thick tussocks of wild grass and reaching into a small hollow that angled downward.

  "What are you looking for?"

  There it was. She curled her fingers around the glassy smoothness and drew her treasure carefully from its hiding place, grateful that it hadn't shattered. "My paperweight."

  "You carry a paperweight with you?" He sounded disbelieving, as if he thought she was somehow bent on invading his sacrosanct hillside.

  "Yes," she answered, bristling. "No. It's actually a miniature camera. I'm a spy, you see, and the entire world is breathlessly awaiting news of the Sandgate reunion festivities."

  His half smile was just as charming as it had been before, maybe even more so with golden spears of afternoon sunlight touching his bronzed skin. But she wasn't charmed. She'd seen the less-than-disarming side of Mr. Jeremy York the night before and had been hurt by it.

  "Maybe I should search you for hidden microfilm."

  "Maybe you'd like to try." The second she'd uttered the ill-advised challenge, she regretted it.

  His focus lowered to her breasts, and every inch of her from tip to toe was flushed with an uncomfortable warmth. "No need," he said. "A visual search is more than adequate."

  Her intake of breath was almost a hiccough as she glanced down to see that it wasn't only her pants that were torn. Her shirt was minus its buttons and open to the waist, showing a sheer pink bra and an even pinker expanse of skin.

  Jeremy laughed at her discomfort. "Such modesty. You'd be revealing more than that on the beach in your average bikini."

  "I don't wear a bikini," she lied.

  "A pity."

  "May we go now?" she asked crisply, yanking the ends of her shirt together to tie them in a secure knot.

  "Of course."

  His was a beautifully formed back, she thought, not able to keep from noticing the symmetrical knit of his muscles—here, there, everywhere. His was also a handsome back-of-head. Nonsense, she chided herself. What could be special about the back of anyone's head? Still…

  Jarring her thoughts to safer ground, she inserted bits of nervous conversation into the ensuing silence, telling him about her search of the antique shops that morning and about her luck in finding the paperweight.

  "And your business in Westerly. How did it go?" she asked, wanting him to know she hadn't forgotten his invitation, offered and withdrawn. Perhaps he'd even explain and clear the air between them.

  "About as I expected." With an exaggerated sweep of one hand, he held a drooping branch aside. As if she could have become any mo
re disheveled by pushing her own way through.

  "Thank you," she said, disappointment making her voice barely audible.

  "There's Eli's cabin." He pointed. "I still don't see how you missed your way. The landmarks are clear. There's the Sea View."

  "It was foggy last night, remember?"

  "All the more reason for—"

  "Is it really so important?" She slid past him to take the lead wanting to sidestep the question before he had time to realize what had actually lured her up the slope. "If I'm going to meet Eli, I'd better do it. The dance is tonight, and I have to get back in time to make myself presentable."

  Eli Campbell wasn't shy and standoffish, as she had expected he would be. He wasn't even particularly surprised by her visit, and if her less-than-elegant appearance took him aback, he didn't comment on it. He was in his late fifties, with pale eyes, thinning iron-gray hair and a firm handclasp that didn't match the frailty of his physical makeup. His plaid shirt and well-worn dungarees hung on him as if he had shrunk inside them.

  "Come to see Murphy, have you?"

  "Murphy?" she questioned.

  "I'm a believer in the name suiting the owner. Murphy means 'warrior of the sea,' and it fits him like his feathers. Took a liking to Illona, his cage mate, right off. Won't let any of the others near her."

  "You give names to all the birds you doctor?"

  "Everything with a heart that beats deserves its own identity." In pushing aside a pile of unopened letters, he swept several to the floor but didn't bother to retrieve them. He plucked a frayed account book out of the desk clutter and waved it.

  "They're all of them in here. And I've treated almost as many little winged creatures over the years as there are grains of sand on the beach. I make note of all of them. Even those unfortunate fellows I can't save. Come along." He sniffed. "I'll show you my present boarders. Some of them are about to strike out on their own again."

  "Just give me a minute to put myself together," Melissa said apologetically. "I slipped on your hillside, I'm afraid."

  Eli nodded. "The washroom is through that door."

  "She knows the way," Jeremy commented, digging the coffee tin out of the kitchen cabinet above the sink. "She ran afoul of the terrain yesterday, too."

  Without a lipstick, a hasty washing was the best Melissa could do for her face. A rubber band she found on Eli's doorknob served to hold her hair back, and a strategically placed safety pin, also borrowed from her host, kept the ripped pant leg from ripping further. She wrinkled her nose at her unglamorous mirror image. What did it matter how she looked? Murphy wouldn't care.

  The tour of the bird hospital was an enjoyable one, with Doctor Eli enthusiastically commenting on this or that bird and explaining how each had come to him. There was Keegan, meaning "fiery one," and Asta, meaning "star," and Irving, meaning "friend from the sea." So many of them.

  "We'll be fast friends, Melissa," Eli promised her. "And that's good. I can use an extra pair of hands these days. Jeremiah, show her how to feed those little ones, won't you? Then we can busy ourselves with fixing that broken shelf for Gallagher and Frey."

  Jeremiah? Melissa considered the name and wondered if it truly belonged to Jeremy, or if it was a jovial tag Eli had placed on him. Somehow it fit. What did it mean? she wondered.

  A covered bowl Jeremy removed from the refrigerator was filled with what appeared to be dog food. He added liquid, dipped into the mixture with a toothpick and made tweeting sounds as he eased the food toward the nest of baby birds, whose beaks opened laughably wide as he approached. Gone was the straight-backed guardian of the gates. Here was a gentle man whose tenderness almost brought tears to her eyes.

  "This is the way. You see? They'll think you're their mama. Let's see you do it."

  "I'm not sure I can," she protested, drawing back as he pressed a toothpick into her hand. The tiny creatures, all pink and featherless, would be so easily injured.

  "Go ahead." Firmly he placed a hand on one of her shoulders, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

  She inhaled sharply and was catapulted into action, her hand trembling as she imitated Jeremy's movements. What if she were to push too hard, too far? "Like this?"

  "Perfect. Congratulations. You have a job."

  It was a rewarding task, but a lengthy one. By the time Melissa had satisfied her hungry brood, Jeremy had finished his sawing and hammering in the walk-in cage. How he accomplished anything at all, though, she couldn't fathom. The entire time he worked, the two men argued good-naturedly, but in earnest. Jeremy thought Eli was doing too much on his first day out of hospital. Eli thought Jeremy was all wet. Lying in bed, he claimed, was what did a man in, not honest toil. Unable to keep from laughing at the stinging barbs they exchanged, Melissa set to work changing papers in the bottoms of the cages and filling water and feed dishes.

  At last the three sat down for biscuits and mugs of Jeremy's abominable coffee, and Eli told about how his interest in birds began.

  When it was time to go Melissa promised, "I'll be back again soon."

  "You're welcome anytime, young lady," Eli assured her, following her to the door. "Anytime. But you, Jeremiah—stay away. I don't want you running your legs off doing for me. I'll be fine."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," Jeremy said.

  "Not if I see you first," Eli said, cackling. "I can do better without your fussing over me."

  Something in the way the older man had ushered Jeremy out with Melissa left her with the distinct impression that Eli was trying to play matchmaker. It was a bit embarrassing, but she didn't mind too much. She'd seen another side to Jeremy York's nature that day. A side she liked. Maybe they'd gotten off on the wrong foot before, as people do, and here was the perfect opportunity to make up for it. The walk home at a leisurely pace might take fifteen minutes. Much could be accomplished in a short time if two people were bent on getting to know each other.

  A flash of gray and a bird's cry overhead caught their attention, and they stood together for a moment, watching the flight.

  "I wonder if he's one of Eli's graduates," Melissa said.

  "Maybe."

  She wanted to ask him about Eli. The man's hermit life-style puzzled her almost as much as she had been puzzled when she'd supposed Jeremy was the birdman. Eli was a warm, giving person, who seemed to be starving for companionship. He certainly must have conversed with his "little people," as he called his patients, when no one else was about. A friend, if he were truly a friend, would have long ago encouraged him to put his grief behind him and venture out to take his place in the world again.

  Before she had time to put her thoughts into words, Jeremy turned to her, and she sensed that he was going to say something profound. The waiting made her feel as if she were inching out on the limb of a tall tree. Without warning, the limb might break and she would fall, twisting and turning, if he didn't reach out to her.

  "Do you have your paperweight?"

  Instead of answering, she held it up and shook it, making the snow fall inside the little glass ball.

  "Good. Can you find your way all right from here?" he asked.

  "Yes, of course." She tried not to sound as dismayed as she felt.

  "You're sure?" He frowned.

  "Very sure," she said through clamped teeth, wondering if this should be considered a second rejection or only a continuation of the first.

  "I'll say goodbye then."

  "Goodbye," she echoed, starting down the beach.

  So much for their nice getting-to-know-each-other chat, she thought, feeling his eyes burning into her as she went on her way. Or perhaps he wasn't watching her at all. Perhaps he'd already started up the hill.

  Fortunately, Natalie's back was turned to the door when Melissa arrived home, and she was able to scurry up the stairs without being seen. The woman would have been appalled by her appearance this time. Her sister's door was ajar, and the girl was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She sat up abruptly
and swung her feet onto the floor when she saw Melissa. Apparently all was not well.

  "You were right," Arlene wailed, ushering her inside the bedroom. "This entire charade was a horrendous mistake. Natalie is the female version of Attila the Hun. Look!"

  As far as Melissa could see, there was no problem. Unless it was the evening dress that hung on the closet door. It was lacy and pink with a full skirt and puffed sleeves. "She bought you some clothes? How nice."

  "Nice? Would you like to wear this?" Arlene yanked the dress from its hanger and held it under her chin. "I'm being 'allowed' to wear my turquoise to the dance tonight, she says. There isn't time to do any more shopping. But my clothes are far too sophisticated for my piano recital at the big talent show Friday night. Too sophisticated!"

  Melissa suppressed a groan. "Maybe the dress isn't what you would have chosen, baby. But you're Jean Kerr for now, remember? You're only supposed to be seventeen. Natalie thinks the dress will make you look younger."

  "I don't look younger in this atrocity. I look stupid and ugly." The girl's lower lip began to quiver.

  Usually Melissa could have stopped her sister's flow of tears with a few carefully selected words of encouragement. It was just such an episode—perhaps one of many—she had foreseen when she insisted on coming to Sandgate. Arlene could be sailing on a cloud one moment and plunging into the depths of despair the next. When called on it later, the girl would laugh and blame it on her artistic nature.

  At this moment, however, Melissa didn't feel much like a peacemaker. The words wouldn't come. She sighed and shook her head.

  "If these strangers frown on your fashion sense, what difference will it make? When we leave here, we'll never see any of them again."

  "But we will. I met somebody at the banquet last night. And I saw him again today, when Natalie and I were shopping." Arlene dropped the offending gown onto a chair and settled cross-legged on the bed, plucking a tissue from its box to blow her nose. "A very special somebody."