A Woman To Blame

by Susan Connell

  "Bryn dear, are you there?"

  "Yes. Sorry. What were you—" she began, then broke off when she heard Liza's strangled sigh.

  "We don't have a lot of time to waste, you know. Jacaranda Key is planning a water festival for next month. Islamorada and Conch Key have already started advertising for their fishing tournaments. We must lock in a date for our fund-raising activity. I'll contact your volunteers and tell them to be at the restaurant tonight."

  Bryn had given a wide berth to Liza's zealous style, but tonight simply wasn't a good night to have the meeting. Furniture samples were being delivered to Chez Madison today. Before they arrived, she had her grandfather to visit and at least four calls to make concerning her design business. Once Jiggy picked up the box lunches and her morning jog was out of the way, she was going to be busy well into the night. "Liza, it's a mess over here."

  "No one's going to care. All your committee people require are a few snacks and a place to eat them. By the way, Captain Parrish loves key lime pie, so keep that in mind when you're preparing the food. And since you're right next to his marina, I'll let you tell Captain Parrish to be there at eight-thirty. I'll take care of notifying the rest of the committee, and I'll drop off the folders to you later today too."

  While Liza chattered on, Bryn looked across the kitchen where Rick's blazer was hanging. The navy blue linen blend was beginning to look as if it belonged in the kitchen. Even though she knew the act was a silly tactile indulgence, she caught herself touching the buttons and patting the pockets several times a day. If you'd, kissed me, Rick Parrish, I wouldn't still be wondering, waiting, wanting.... If he'd kissed her, maybe she wouldn't have this overwhelming desire to keep touching his jacket. All the errant, erotic thoughts she'd been having would most likely disappear with a real flesh-on-flesh experience. She felt her mouth squinching into a self-deprecating frown. How could she have spent the last few days letting her imagination build an almost kiss into the erotic event of her life? He was probably a lousy kisser anyway. She rubbed her thumbnail back and forth across her lips. Probably a brusque kisser, hard and tight-lipped and unsatisfying. Staring at his jacket, she started to think how she could remedy the problem when Liza's voice startled her.

  "Bryn, are you still there?"

  "Yes," she said, getting to her feet and turning away from the jacket. Fool, she thought to herself, let Rick Parrish remedy his own kissing problems. If he has any. "I'm still here."

  "Bryn?" Liza's voice was strangely soft.

  "What is it?"

  "Contacting Captain Parrish about the meeting isn't bothering you, is it?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I have an instinct for these things." Before Bryn could ask what "these things" were, Liza continued. "Maybe I'm out of bounds on this, but I think you ought to know how Captain Parrish's marriage ended."

  "Liza, wait." A sudden and overwhelming impulse told her not to listen. Staring at her white-knuckled hands squeezing the phone, she willed herself to relax her grip. "I-I think Rick should be the one to tell me about his past." She rolled her eyes. Why, oh, why had she responded that way? When was Rick Parrish ever going to be close enough to her to tell her anything about himself, especially about a divorce? "I mean, I like to stay clear of anything resembling gossip." Great! Now she sounded like a snob.

  "It's not gossip, Bryn. But you're probably right. Maybe Rick ought to tell you about it himself."

  Grateful that Liza's tone was reflective, and not hurt, she said, "Yes, well, I'll go over now and talk to him." She quickly added, "About the committee meeting, I mean."

  "Of course, dear."

  * * *

  Rick was talking quietly into his cell phone and didn't notice her when she walked into the marina office. Dressed in her running clothes, she stood inside the door with his jacket folded over one arm and the carton of lunches resting on her hip. Setting the carton on a display cabinet inside the door, she caught the jacket as it began slipping from her arm. Stroking it one last time, she was alarmed to realize that she was going to miss it hanging on the kitchen door. Running her fingers over the raised anchors on the brass buttons, she checked to make sure Rick wasn't looking at her before she sniffed the collar. How had a simple navy blue blazer become an object of fetish? Her search for the answer was interrupted by Rick's voice.

  "I know we should have talked about it before this," he was saying, his upward gaze dropping in defeat, then wandering across the room to Bryn. Holding her gaze boldly with his own, he kept on talking into the phone, "I have to go. Sure, I'll remember. We'll talk later."

  As he closed and pocketed the phone, Bryn felt her moxie waning. Feminine instinct struggled against common sense. Was his conversation about an upcoming fishing charter or a date? And why should it matter? While she'd been mooning over him for days, he had been avoiding her.

  "Good morning," he said, before pointing to her red running clothes. "Challenging me to a race this morning?"

  "Hello. What?" Looking down at her clothes, she said, "No," before brushing back her hair. A bouncy lock dipped across her brow again, but this time she pretended to ignore it. What had possessed her to give up hair spray and extra-body styling gel since she'd been down here? "I didn't mean to disturb your phone call."

  "You didn't. I was through," he said, picking up a pencil and writing on a clipboard. He looked up at her long enough to register the point with a smile. Turning back to the clipboard, he erased what he'd written, then wrote again.

  So it wasn't a lover he'd been talking with. Her shoulders relaxed along with her tightly clamped jaw. The call must have been about a charter, because he continued to write down numbers in little squares and make check marks in several columns. Standing by the display of potato chips and cheese curls, she had a nearly overwhelming urge to tear open the cellophane and toss them into the air like confetti.

  "So, what's up?" he asked, hanging the clipboard on a wall hook and sliding the pencil onto the counter beside the cash register.

  "Jiggy doesn't have to pick up the lunches. I brought them myself," she said, indicating the carton on the display cabinet. "Two roast beefs, three chicken salads, and one peanut butter and jelly. I put in extra pickles and pasta salad. And French apple pie. I didn't have any key lime." Why was she reciting the menu? He hadn't asked.

  "Jiggy's coming by to see you later. He's bringing Miss Scarlett back to Pappy's." Rick shook his head, fighting back a laugh as he rolled his tongue inside his cheek.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Jiggy's love life. Seems the parrot starts spouting scripture at the worst possible moment, and by the time he quiets the bird..."

  "I see," she said, exaggerating her nod. If anyone but Rick had told her, she would have been laughing out loud, but instead all she felt was a stinging rush of blood to her face. Why did she let him get to her like this? she wondered angrily. Swallowing, she took a step forward and began again. "You forgot your jacket."

  He was pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I thought I might have left it at Pappy's," he said, twisting to look at her while he squeezed honey onto a spoon. "Would you like a cup?"

  "No, thank you." Why hadn't he come by for the jacket if he thought he left it there? Why hadn't he at least called about it? Why hadn't he...? The silent questions building in her head suddenly exploded. "Why haven't you answered the messages I left on your phone?" she demanded. He hadn't been answering her phone calls for a full five days, but that was no reason to blurt it out like a recalcitrant teenager.

  The air conditioner started in with a warning rattle and then a blast of frigid air.

  "Sorry about that," he said evenly. "I've had a lot of unfinished business to deal with since I got back from my trip."

  Giving his coffee one last stir, he clinked the spoon against the edge of the mug before lifting it to his mouth. He did a thorough job of licking the residue of honey from the inside curve of the spoon and then the outside curve. The action was an everyday one, ordinary and common
place, but when Rick performed it, it vibrated with erotic overtones. Suddenly she was picturing him sliding his tongue over parts of her. Her eyes began closing.

  "You're right," he said as he dropped the spoon onto the tray with a loud clatter. "I should have called you back before now. I apologize."

  She searched his guileless expression, trying to find a sign that he knew what he'd been doing to her, but her gaze kept coming back to the shine on his lips. She could almost smell the warm honey and, if she moved closer, taste it. She wondered what he'd do if she ran her tongue over his lips. Encourage further exploration? Images of their naked bodies tangled together filled her mind until she had to pull in a long and calming lungful of air. Why was she allowing these images to continue? Eroticism had been a much-heralded but ultimately disappointing undertaking for her. Still, she couldn't seem to stop thinking about what being with him would be like. Attempting to banish the confusing thoughts and the accompanying tension they produced, she tilted her head to a comical angle. "Yes, you should have called me... but I have you here now."

  "Yes, you do," he said, reaching back with his hands and lifting himself onto the counter. "Up against the wall, as a matter of fact." Picking up his mug, he examined its sailfish decal before rubbing his knuckles over it. Before she could yell "Stop!" he was licking drops of honey from his fingers. "Hot," he murmured before looking up at her. "So what are you going to do with me?"

  She'd stared a moment too long at his fingers. His incredibly sexy, wet fingers. Down went her guard in a rush of delicious confusion. What was he saying?

  Hot?

  Wet?

  Up against the wall?

  What was she going to do with him?

  Streaming heat pooled in forgotten places inside her. Her lips felt full and tingling. For one lost second she felt like doing something very foolish. Very sexy. Very unlike herself. Finding herself in a free fall through her wildest fantasies, she struggled against them. He kept on smiling. Kept on staring. Kept on melting her resolve to pull out of this vortex of sensuality. And he was winning. Her hand drifted across her midriff before languidly moving to her arm. "Our first committee meeting is tonight...." She traced a long line down her arm, paused at her wrist, then dragged her fingertips up to her elbow. Perhaps it was the way his stare locked onto her movements, but her voice was beginning to sound low and sultry even to herself.

  "Tonight," he repeated, his voice dropping into a whisper suggestive of murmured endearments and soft kisses.

  Somewhere in all of this pseudo-foreplay she had to pull out and land on her feet. And soon. But not too soon. She took an extra breath before sending him the beginning of an invitation with a tiny lick of her lips. Holding his jacket against her hip, she moved forward and placed one hand on the counter. "They're all coming to Chez Madison at eight-thirty, but if you wanted to—"

  "Tonight?" The teasing maze of moves he'd been guiding her through went straight out the window with his bitten-off curse and shifting gaze. "I have something on my schedule for tonight."

  Don't stop this, she wanted to tell him. Don't stop this fresh energy tickling at my heart. I like it. I like the way it feels. Please don't do this because I called it Chez Madison instead of Pappy's Crab Shack. Please don't make me say anything reckless. Blood was pounding in her ears from sheer embarrassment, but that didn't keep her from whispering, "I need you there, Rick. Couldn't you ask someone else to help you out?"

  With an almost apologetic tone, he shook his head. "I can't get out of this, Bryn. Look, if I can make it later, I'll come by. Or maybe you could reschedule."

  Reschedule? Instead of a lovers' rendezvous, he made it sound like a business meeting. Her heart skipped a beat and she almost groaned out loud; it was a business meeting. Her hand dropped to her side as the sensual fog burned away, leaving her in a room filled with fishing tackle, sunscreen, and brightly colored hats that read Fish or Cut Bait.

  "Maybe you could reschedule," she said smartly, brushing her hair from her brow. She waited in silence until she felt her ears smarting with his answer.

  "I can't."

  Lifting her hand from the glass counter top, she straightened her spine. "The meeting's at eight-thirty," she said, clinging to the cool professionalism she willed to return to her voice. She headed for the door, but before her hand closed around the doorknob, more words welled up from a raw spot inside her. She could barely contain the hot anger she felt. "I'm busy too. I'm trying to run my business by phone from down here. I'm up to my neck in renovations at the restaurant. And my grandfather needs me." Twisting the knob, she fumbled twice before yanking open the door. "I don't have time to chase down the rest of the committee to reschedule this for your convenience, Captain Parrish."

  She didn't mean to rattle the glass panes in the door when she pulled it shut, but when she returned a second later to place the jacket on his counter, she didn't apologize. If she did that, he might turn his face from the window and see the stinging tears in her eyes. Then he'd ask why they were there, and she wasn't sure she knew the answer.

  * * *

  He hadn't lied to Bryn; he couldn't get out of his plans. He'd put them off too long as it was. Facing Sharon Burke and telling her their arrangement had to end wasn't going to be easy. For the next hour he busied himself with paperwork while he waited for his customers. Several times he stopped, pencil poised in midair, while he tried to think of a way to let Sharon down easily. Thumbing through one of his astronomy magazines hadn't helped either. In the end he decided to rely on the one thing Sharon always insisted on. Honesty.

  Picking up Bryn's carton of lunches, he walked out to the Coral Kiss. Below deck, he lifted out the first box to place in the cooler. She'd wrapped each one in banana-yellow ribbon with a hand-lettered card attached. He tipped the card to read it. Chez Madison—distinctive cuisine in the heart of the Keys. Shaking his head, he laughed softly. If he didn't admire her goal, he had to admire her perseverance. After storing the food, he went topside hoping to catch a glimpse of her upstairs at Pappy's in the open-air room. He never got the chance to look for her, because his group charter was climbing out of their van in the parking lot. As they gathered their gear he jumped down onto the dock and directed them inside the office to sign several forms. While he waited, he found himself thinking about the woman he would see tonight. Maybe with him out of her life, she could start thinking about a plan for the rest of it. About goals. And about finding the courage to move on.

  Sharon Burke was a good person, and after her husband died, a lonely one like himself. There were plenty of men lined up to impress the lovely widow, but as she told him, no one understood that she wasn't looking for another husband. Just a decent man to talk to, a man who didn't demand her constant attention when she simply wasn't ready to give it.

  At first, talking was all they'd both wanted. All they needed. Their no-strings relationship hadn't slipped mindlessly into a sexual one. They'd rationalized that move two years ago. When the need to find comfort and release grew strong enough, one of them would make a phone call to the other. Since she had been the last one to call over two months ago, he knew it was his turn. Maybe it was because of his visit to Angle's parents, but he kept putting off calling Sharon. Like a habit, his relationship with Sharon demanded little attention, required minimum imagination, and offered no challenge. His life had drifted on. Then Bryn with her peekaboo clothes, disturbing ways, and determined attitude blew into his life like an unpredicted hurricane. No matter how hard he tried to discount his attraction to Pappy's granddaughter, he'd known from the moment he'd met Bryn that it was time to end his relationship with Sharon.

  As he directed his customers aboard the Coral Kiss, he felt a sense of relief along with impatience to get the day over with, and to get on with his plans for tonight. Glancing out at the open water beyond the marina, he repositioned his ball cap and asked loudly, "Anyone here fish these waters before?" Through a chorus of noes, Rick came back with, "Aw, hell, neither have I." E
veryone laughed, and as they motored out of the slip, he had the feeling that his attempt at humor had more to do with relaxing himself than his customers.

  * * *

  The rest of the day Bryn worked on turning Pappy's Crab Shack into Chez Madison. As she watched the sample furniture being carried upstairs, she realized a moment of sweet triumph. Rick was going to hate the pastel upholstery and the delicate flowers carved into the light wood. Positioning the chairs around the tables, she told herself it would serve him right to cringe every time he passed by Chez Madison. He'd had no right or reason to treat her so shabbily. The dark justice was she could no longer fool herself into thinking he was interested in her. No more wasted time for her. Now she could give her attention to important matters.

  To her chagrin she began wondering if Rick would change his mind and assign the night charter to someone else. That possibility niggled at her mind all morning and afternoon. Later she went to Pappy's house to shower and change, and on her way back detoured three miles off Malabar Key to buy a key lime pie. She ended up buying the last two at the bakery. Halfway back to Malabar Key she glanced at the pie boxes, screamed in the privacy of her car, and pounded her fists on the steering wheel in frustration. She couldn't deny the evidence on the seat next to her; she couldn't stop thinking about him showing up at the meeting.

  At eight-ten she thought she saw the Coral Kiss inside the horizon.

  At eight-fifteen she put away the binoculars and requested his presence with a bargaining prayer. The committee, including Jiggy and the parrot, arrived instead. They all insisted on waiting for Captain Parrish.

  That was twenty minutes ago. Twenty endless minutes filled with Jiggy's noisy eating, May Leigh's high-pitched laughter, Hazel Miller's endless gossip, and Rita Small's card tricks. There was nothing remotely professional about the group, unless no one had bothered to tell her they were actors auditioning for a television sitcom. Her thoughts kept returning to Rick.