Becalmed: When a Southern woman with a broken heart finds herself falling for a widower with a broken boat, it's anything but smooth sailing.

by Normandie Fischer

  Oh yes, Matt. Matt and Hannah.

  “When Matt finally got home from the hospital, Hannah needed a break, so she went back with me to New York. That’s when I found your letter. I didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “I probably didn’t word it well. I’m not always good at saying what I mean.”

  “I gathered that after your phone call.”

  “I wish I could go back and change that.”

  “At least you came.”

  “Tadie—”

  A loud splash followed by a plaintive cry got them both up and running to the bathroom. Jilly was leaning over the side of the tub, reaching for her towel. “I got cold.”

  Tadie draped the towel around Jilly, willing her heart to slow as she patted the child dry. “Here you go,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “You had a nice long bath, and I’ll bet your fingers are all pruney.”

  Jilly inspected her hands. “They are.”

  “I’ll get you some lotion.” Tadie glanced over at Will, who leaned against the door jamb, watching them.

  He nodded, and she fled to her room to grab the scented body lotion, trying not to focus on his look or the sweet feeling of holding that little body. She’d better pack as much mothering as possible into these few days. And later, she could do that auntie thing, having Jilly visit sometimes. Or often.

  She took a deep breath as she rounded the banister and through Jilly’s room to the bath where Jilly stood, still wrapped in the big fluffy towel. Will must have gone back to his chair. Her father’s chair.

  “Okay, missy, you just climb up on the seat there. Keep the towel over your shoulders.” Tadie knelt and began rubbing the lotion into Jilly’s feet and legs.

  “Umm,” Jilly said, sniffing the air. “It smells like you.”

  “My mother used this lotion. Look at the label. It’s French, and it says water of green orange—l’eau d’orange verte.”

  “I like it.”

  “Here, put some on your hands,” Tadie said, squirting it into the child’s palm. She looked around the bath. “Did you bring your jammies in?”

  “I have them,” Will called from the dressing room. “Here you go.” He held out some pink flannel pajamas. “The cat sniffed at me, but he dashed past to your bed, punkin.”

  “I think he missed you.” Tadie found a hair dryer in the cupboard and directed the air toward the child’s silky hair as she finger-combed it.

  Long before they’d finished, Jilly started bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I need to brush my teeth and go see Eb. He’s waiting.”

  “You take care of your teeth and I’ll tuck you in, if that’s okay with your daddy.” She glanced at Will, who waited by Jilly’s door this time. He nodded, and his eyes held that peculiar intensity that brought a flutter to Tadie’s stomach. She quickly turned to hang Jilly’s towel.

  After she’d heard Jilly’s prayers and received a goodnight hug, she said, “You just scoot Eb off if he bothers you.”

  “He’s a good cat. He can sleep right here.” Jilly curled around Eb as she pulled him closer. “He’s my friend.”

  Tadie smoothed her damp palms down the side of her dress before knocking on Will’s door. “She’s waiting for you,” she said, indicating Jilly with a wave of her hand. “I’m going downstairs for a little while.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  The water had come to a boil by the time she heard his footsteps on the wooden floor. She braced herself for his approach.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  Over her shoulder, she asked, “Tea? It’s herbal.”

  “Thank you.”

  She poured the boiling water into a second mug and handed it to him. “Shall we sit by the Christmas tree?”

  He followed her. She focused on the door ahead, on moving gracefully, on not shuffling her feet, but it wasn’t easy.

  Setting his mug on the coffee table, he bent to check the fire. “It’s almost out. Shall I build another one?”

  A fire would be a focal point, a distraction. “Please.” And then, just so he’d know, “I suppose we can sit up and wait for Rita to come back. If you want. She’s staying in the room next to mine. Where Isa slept.” Boy, wasn’t she smooth?

  “I like her,” Will said, rolling newspaper and tenting the kindling over it. “And Martin. All of your friends, except Alex.”

  “Well, yes. But he’s not really a friend anymore. I’m glad you like the others.”

  As the flames caught and crackled in the hearth, she hit the Play button on her CD player, not remembering what she’d loaded, but longing for music. A fire, the lights on a tree, beautiful music. She could close her eyes and let it ease her.

  “Ah, Respighi,” Will said.

  Her eyes snapped open. His head rested against the back of the couch with his eyes closed and his fingers laced lightly across his lap. He’d recognized Respighi. And now he looked so comfortable sitting in her house. With her. What had happened to him in the past months to change him so radically?

  As the flames danced, she remembered her father’s trick log, the one that made the fire multi-colored. Her daddy would have enjoyed the feast today, although it would have been too much for her mother. Too many people, too much noise, way too confusing. Mama wouldn’t have remembered everyone’s name, and that would have upset her.

  Will remained motionless. She turned back to the fire. She mustn’t think about him sitting next to her, or how attractive he now seemed, or how much she’d like to …

  Stop it.

  Elvie had enjoyed herself, hadn’t she? And she’d looked good, all gussied-up in her navy flowered dress. The swelling had gone down in her arm, and her face had filled out a little. And wasn’t that mother of Martin’s a hoot? Doris and Elvie had chatted like good friends with no cultural, ethnic, or racial barriers between them. Rita must have been in seventh heaven.

  She felt Will’s gaze. The pull of it turned her. Oh, my.

  Treacherous heat rose up her neck, flaming her cheeks.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

  Her breath caught. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to close them.

  “I love the way the fire brings out the highlights in your hair and makes your eyes sparkle.”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She wondered if he could see the pulse throbbing in her throat.

  The music changed to Strauss. She didn’t remember putting that disc in the changer.

  He stood and took her hand, easing her to her feet. “Dance with me.”

  “Here?” She hesitated, but let him pull her into his arms.

  They fit so well, his shoulder and her cheek, his hand on the small of her back, her hand resting lightly in his. The blood pounded in more than just her neck now, and he must have felt it. Or maybe that was his blood, because the hand on her back eased her closer until she felt his breath caressing her hair and his heart thurumping under their joined fingers.

  The music swelled, pressing on her insides until she wanted to burst. She had to break away, otherwise she would cling to him and embarrass herself.

  She stopped dancing, but as she did, he pulled her closer, dropping feather kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks. She heard a groan and thought maybe it had come from her throat. But she didn’t care, especially when he moved to touch her lips with his. She was sure she’d fall apart from the pleasure of it. He deepened the kiss. When his hands roamed her back and then moved down her hips, pulling her closer, she’d passed into swooning territory.

  He pulled back enough to rest his forehead on hers. “Dear God, what have you done to me?”

  Her breathing still seemed awfully fast, but so did his. A detached part of her thought of what he’d just said. Had he really asked God, and if so, had God orchestrated their encounter? She hoped so. She hoped it wasn’t her neediness that had made it happen, or her obvious availability.

  What if it were only that? Who was needier than a spinster? She co
uldn’t let him see her face. She probably exuded take-me vibes—even if unintentionally.

  But this time she had meant them. Hadn’t she?

  His hands slipped down her arms and entwined with her fingers. “I can’t stop wanting you. I want to touch all of you.”

  When she could speak, she asked, “Me in particular?”

  “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “How can I know what to think?” She eased away from him. “I barely know you.”

  He watched her, his face intent. “You know how you feel.”

  She looked away, staring at the floor, at the geometric reds in the oriental rug, at the dark blue woven into it, and shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I’m rushing you. I’m sorry.”

  Wasn’t this what she wanted? But she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. She tossed up a prayer for help. “I suppose you are.”

  He moved away and slumped back onto the couch, looking deflated.

  She found a spot at the other end and leaned forward, bracing her forehead in her palms, her elbows on her knees, so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “Tadie, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, about my fears and why I didn’t want to admit my attraction to you. You obviously haven’t.”

  Wasn’t that what she’d just been doing? “That isn’t completely true.”

  “You’ve thought about me?”

  She nodded, but did not raise her eyes to his. What was she doing? Admitting her feelings made her vulnerable, because what if he were only talking about sex? Men did that, didn’t they? Made promises, spoke of romance, just to get what they considered the gold. And then they left.

  Or, they left if you didn’t give it to them. Either way …

  “I’ve been moving beyond simple attraction for some time now.” His voice brought her head around, and she saw the twinkle in his eyes that she found so adorable.

  “But I shouldn’t rush you. Although I’d like nothing more than to take you upstairs and show you how much I want you, I also know it would be wrong.”

  The heat gathered again. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look anywhere.

  She just couldn’t. And how could she say so without giving away her secret?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand rake through his hair. “I said I’d slow down, and now listen to me.”

  “It’s, uh … okay.”

  He took her hand. “I want to make love to you, Tadie.”

  Those words again. They were hard to ignore and hard to answer. But he’d said he wanted to make love to her, not that he loved her.

  “I can’t.”

  “I understand.”

  “I think I’ll go to my room now.” She tried to withdraw her hand from his.

  His grasp tightened. It didn’t hurt, but it forced her to stay. “Tadie, do you love me at all? Even the tiniest bit?”

  Love? He wanted to know if she loved him? What about if he loved her?

  She bit her lip again to keep from saying those words.

  Again, he did the raking thing with his free hand. He had such luxuriant hair. “I keep bungling this, don’t I? But I need to know, because I have fallen in love with you.”

  Her head shot up, eyes wide.

  “Deeply, irrevocably.”

  Whoa. “You have?”

  He nodded. A crooked smile played over his lips. “So?”

  “So ... what?” Did he mean, did she love him too? Or was he asking if she wanted to make love with him? Now. Here. Upstairs. Hadn’t he said he knew it would be wrong?

  “So, do you?” he asked.

  Is this what men did, give conflicting messages? She continued to look at him, trying to see into his soul.

  His smile faded and he placed her hand on the couch between them. “It looks as if I presumed again.”

  “Oh … no. No, I do love you. I mean, I think I do. But—”

  “You do?” That brought back the twinkle. “But what?”

  “I’ve no experience with this.”

  He grew very still. “With what? Falling in love?”

  Tadie lowered her head again and pointed from him back to her.

  “With what exactly?”

  Wasn’t it enough that she’d admitted she loved him? Why did he need more? Where was Rita or Elvie Mae, to tell him to go to bed and be good, that they shouldn’t have this talk?

  She never wanted to have this talk. Certainly not with a man who’d been married, and who, while making her want him, scared her to death.

  He must have read her mind. Or maybe her scarlet face and hidden eyes gave her away. “Did I turn you off by saying I want to make love to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did it scare you?”

  Oh, God, please. “I have no experience.” She sneaked a peek and saw his puzzled frown.

  “What about Alex?”

  She shook her head.

  “What about since then?”

  She wanted to dig a hole and drop right into it. What must he be thinking?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just assumed.”

  She felt the tears and jammed them back as best she could. She did not want to be the object of any man’s pity.

  “Excuse me,” she said, fleeing with as much dignity as she could muster. She half expected him to follow her—the poor spinster lady who loved his daughter. Of course, she would want a man, any man. And wouldn’t he be doing her a favor, after all?

  Either that or her inexperience must seem so odd that he’d reevaluate the love he’d proclaimed. And he’d be glad of the escape.

  Perhaps he would think to bank the fire and turn off the lights. She certainly hoped so, because no way on earth was she going down there again.

  Eventually, footsteps climbed the stairs and paused outside her door, but soon they crossed the landing to his room. And then there was silence.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Tadie woke to dark clouds pressing toward earth. It was Christmas Day. She tossed back her bed covers and struggled to ease her legs over the side. The hall barometer probably echoed her mood—storm imminent.

  As she padded into the bathroom, she realized she’d forgotten to ask Will if he and Jilly wanted to go to church. It didn’t matter. Not after last night. She could go without them, let them sleep. Or whatever.

  Rita had come in shortly after Will’s retreat to his room. Tadie had heard water running, then the soft closing of a door. And finally, quiet had stolen over the house again, disturbed only by the hum of the furnace when it kicked on sometime later.

  Jilly in one room. Rita in another. Innocent and oblivious.

  Tadie reached into the shower to flip on the faucet. While warm water meandered through the pipes, she brushed her teeth and glanced at her reflection. That was a mistake. The mirror was definitely not her friend this morning.

  The shower washed her hair and skin, but didn’t do much for her attitude. This was obviously the wrong time of the month to have houseguests. That had to be it. She was PMS-ing. She yanked a brush through her wet hair and plugged in the dryer, fluffing her curls under the hot air.

  Fine. It had been awkward last night, but recognizing the problem armed her to deal with it.

  After pulling on leggings and a dark turquoise sweater that hung almost to her knees—bought at Hannah’s insistence during the marathon shopping spree at H&M—she straightened her shoulders and whispered to her reflection, “You’re a strong, independent woman. You do not need to cower or act all miss-ish.”

  Miss-ish? Listen to her. Too many Jane Austens?

  But hadn’t she been exactly that last night? Running away like a scared teenager instead of a grown, in-control-of-her-life woman.

  She edged her lips with gloss and tried to breathe out the knot tying both her stomach and her lungs. She’d go downstairs and make a lovely breakfast for Will and Jilly, then she’d see what else the day brought. If they declined her invitation to church, she wou
ldn’t worry about it. She’d don her red-and-black suit and slip in next to Elvie. It was Christmas, after all, and that choir was beyond comparison.

  She found Will leaning back at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee clamped between his hands. He didn’t look as if he’d had a whole lot of sleep either, but he certainly seemed more relaxed than she felt.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said, trying for a lilt in her voice as she took down another mug and filled it.

  “Merry Christmas to you.”

  She stirred in creamer and stretched her lips, but the effort to form a smile of her own seemed unusually difficult.

  “I’m surprised Jilly didn’t beat us down here,” he said. “Rita came through a short time ago, said she was going to have Christmas breakfast with her parents. She wants us all to go to church with them. I told her Jilly and I would love to, but that it’s up to you.”

  Her coffee needed a dollop more honey. The spoon made lovely swirls as she stirred. “Thanks for making the coffee. I’m glad you found everything you needed.”

  “I remembered.”

  Why did that make her stomach flutter? She wished Rita were still here. And that was strange. How had Rita finished in the bath without her hearing anything?

  She opened the refrigerator door, which gave her something to look at other than Will. “Jilly’s bound to think the pickings are slim here in Beaufort, considering Santa’s sleigh was limited to the size of your suitcase.”

  Maybe she should make spoonbread.

  “Jilly will be fine.”

  Spoonbread needed eggs. She should get out the eggs.

  “Tadie, will you come over here and sit down? Please?”

  Her brows arched. Of course they did. Whose wouldn’t, a man using that tone of voice, tacking on a please at the end for form’s sake? Still, she closed the door and wedged herself in across from him, adjusting her chair slowly, concentrating on setting her mug in the center of a paper napkin to prevent rings on the antique table.

  He cleared his throat, but she merely drew her cup closer. When he spoke, his tone had gentled. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  She waved off the words, catching his eye momentarily. “It was nothing.”

  “To me, it was.”