He doesn’t say much more other than to give me directions to a property about a mile away, on the edge of a residential area near downtown, that looks like a group of Tudor-style town homes.
When we pull in, I notice the discreet sign tucked into the formal landscaping: Lakepoint Adult Residential Center. As my car’s heater clicks down in the silence, I feel tears burn in the corners of my eyes. Oh, Brian.
He’s looking down at his hands, folded across his knees cramped against the bucket seat of my little car. His hair mussed by the wind, he looks like a sad teenager. Slowly, so slowly, he reaches over to unlock his seat belt, but instead he presses both palms, hard, to his eyes.
I reach over and squeeze him as tightly as I can against as much of my body as the console between us allows. His sobs are silent, shaking, so hard and deep that it’s difficult to hold him close.
His hands are still against his eyes, but tears are escaping anyway, and I put my mouth softly against the stubble where they are collecting, to kiss them away. As he settles, I realize that I’m rocking him, whispering nonsense.
This is, of course, the privilege of love, to bear witness to a strong man’s grief over the little sister he could never save, as much as he has tried to, with every moment of life.
He looks at me, his eyes wet, the irises iridescent. “Will you come in with me?” His voice is a heartbreaking scratch. His vulnerability glows around his ragged edges.
“Jesus, Brian. Of course. Absolutely.” I trace his eyebrows, then rub in the rest of his tears with my thumbs. He lets himself grow still with my touch for a few seconds, and then takes a huge breath.
“Let’s go.” He swings out of the car, pulling back his shoulders. In front of the discreet security doors, he pushes the buzzer, and I lace my fingers through his.
For some reason, I had expected the center to be really quiet, like the way I imagine a nursing home. But as the efficient, surprisingly young nurse practitioner leads us through a tour, there is noise and activity everywhere. The main building is a U of internal offices facing a large, multi-room recreation center where mobile residents are watching TV, sitting at computer consoles, and participating in group activities.
We don’t see any residents that look older than fifty or so. Our tour guide takes us through the assisted-living apartment area that acts as a bridge to the residential area for more fragile residents. Like Stacy.
Here, there are still private rooms, but the “apartments” are more like very homey and large hospital rooms, with specialized beds, roll-in showers, and oxygen hookups on the walls.
It’s scary to understand, to comprehend in the face of this overwhelming reality, how much Stacy really needs. How so many of her needs have been gathering, pebble by pebble, into the mountain that Brian climbs every day.
Standing in this room that is fitted for every contingency, I realize that there isn’t anything here that isn’t used daily in Brian and Stacy’s little house. Even these months, as Brian has felt safer to make more room for me and I got to know Stacy, I haven’t really understood what it means that Brian cares for her himself.
I’ve never figured out how afraid he must be, how scared. He seemed so competent, so easy with technical details, and so vigilant. Yet Stacy is truly fragile and her very immediate future, every day, is uncertain.
The care he gives her one day could be the thing that hurts her the next. To live with that fear, and never have any confirmation that anything you did was the right thing?
It’s astonishing, every kiss he’s ever given me.
Brian is gripping my hand tightly, barely nodding at the NP’s explanations. This part of the facility has a recreation room as well, but most of the residents have an aide close by, and more than a few are in specialized chairs like Stacy’s. The light is a little dimmer, though the room opens up to the building’s courtyard, which has beautiful landscaping.
“Okay,” Brian breathes, maybe in response to something the NP said, maybe not. He pinches his nose, looks up. “Okay.”
“Brian,” I ask, turning him toward me as the NP moves discreetly away to talk to an aide, “what do you need? Talk to me a little.”
He blows out another breath. “It’s just …” He lets go of my hand and grabs the nape of his neck. His eyes are brimming. “It’s just that she’s mine, you know? I get her, I know how to listen to her. Who will know her here? What if she’s scared? I won’t be here to know if she’s scared.
“She’s still just—a kid. I know that’s not really true, but, she is. I never wanted her not to be with family. Alone. And I think I won’t know how to be without her. I thought I was ready, and I hate that more and more, I can’t—” His tears are spilling now, and his voice is cracking. I can’t stop swallowing over my own sobs. “I hate that I can’t take care of her anymore. I’m her big brother, Carrie. Fuck. Just fuck this. Just fuck this.”
All of his own fear to bear, and he’s ready to shoulder Stacy’s, too.
When I reach up to hold him, I’m afraid he’ll resist, but he is nearly boneless against me, in that way he has, and he rests his face against my neck even though he must know he looks ridiculous, nearly bent in half to let my petite frame embrace him.
“Carrie?” His lips move against my neck.
“Yeah?”
“Other than it’s Wednesday, I can’t think of a worse time to tell you this—”
“What?” I pull back, and he takes my hands.
“I love you. I couldn’t be more of a mess right now, but I can’t believe I haven’t told you because I have, for so long now, and it’s like I don’t have anything else to give you, anyway. Not time. Not my full attention. Not the kind of boyfriend you deserve. But my heart, such as it is, you do have that.”
I am struck by my previous reluctance for regret, as if regret were the worst possible consequence of living. If I never wanted orchids, well, I never wanted daisies, either, common and sturdy.
To have the love of this man, who knows what it is to sacrifice his life for love, I would have waited longer.
His voice is rough from tears, but not from new ones. Saying this to me, in fact, seems to clear something in his face, even as his ears and cheeks go pink. I’m floating, sitting on a cloud made from the sounds of a thousand-piece orchestra. I can’t think of what to say, I can’t even work out how to put together the three words that would be most obvious, but I find that I’m laughing.
He frames my face in his hands, and it turns out I must have been leaking a little, too, because he’s smiling at me acting like a lunatic while he rubs my tears into my cheeks with his thumbs. “I love you, too,” I finally manage, his gaze deep in mine.
He grins. “Yeah, I know. There isn’t anyone who’s ever loved me as much, I don’t think.”
To hear that from him might mean that I’ve really managed something good and decent. I’m not content anymore. I’m happy.
My breath is getting a little shaky, and my knees are, too. I wrap my arms around him. His heart is loud in my ear, and I hold him so tight that the earpiece of my glasses is smashing against my temple. “I just wanted you. I don’t know how else to say it. I just did. I had all this room, and it was for you.” He squeezes me. “You’re my story guy,” I whisper.
“What’s that?” His voice drifts through the short hair on my crown.
“A story guy?”
“Yeah.”
“I sort of told you about it once. Some idea Justin has about somebody that makes a big bookmark in your life.”
“Huh.”
“But I think, maybe, I won’t look back at what you highlighted, because I won’t need to. I want to read all the way to the end with you.”
“Ooh-kay.” He kind of laughs, but he doesn’t let go. I rub my face into his sweater. Then he clears his throat. “All the way, even if you cry at the end?”
I smile. “Didn’t I tell you? My favorite stories have crying at the end.”
He lets me go, then grabs my hand
again. Our guide, who gets points for giving Brian time, straightens up at the desk where she was talking to the woman in scrubs and gives us a big smile. “Are you ready?” she asks.
Brian squeezes my hand. “Maybe,” he says.
“How about we look at the family-and-friends visiting areas. There’s a nice garden in our courtyard where visitors like to spend time with residents.” We start to follow her through the open French doors, and she perceptively walks ahead to let us talk. Brian catches my gaze with his. “Every single week, at least,” I whisper.
“The garden seems nice.” But he’s looking at me, not at the flower beds and trees around us. He swallows over the grief.
“It does.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am, too.”
“I’m glad you’re crazy and answered a lonely-hearts Internet ad.”
I laugh. “I’m glad you’re crazy and posted one.”
“Yeah, me, too. Okay,” he breathes out. Looks ahead.
“Come on.” I tug him forward. “You’ve got this.”
He pulls me to his side, and we don’t say much for a long time. It’s Wednesday, though, and the time in front of us is immeasurable, the hours crowded past every capacity.
Acknowledgments
I owe my husband and son such a great deal. My husband, Matt, never hesitated to find me the time and space to write, and gave my writing the designation of my work long before it was ever published. He was as proud and as serious about my manuscript as he is about the book it became. He was the first person to read this book, and to love it, and to tell me that others would read it, too. From the very beginning, he was the man who really saw me, even when it was hard for me to see myself. This is also the part where I reveal that he has a truly fantastic ass.
My little son, as serious and as story obsessed as his mom, who when I told him that my “love book,” as he calls it, got published, put his arms around me and said, “Mama! You’re an author! Authors are my favorite people.” Mine, too.
Ruthie Knox, in her no-nonsense and industrious and midwestern sort of way, took me in hand and did a great deal to point me in the right direction of the most lovely and amazing people. She insisted that I stop banking the ember of my hopes for my writing and fan it into a blaze instead. She is such a matchmaker in all things—heroes and heroines, people and their dreams. The opportunity to thank her in my very own book is only one way to thank her, but it is a particularly good one. Thank you, Ruthie.
My critique partner, Shelley Hughes-Mills, besides writing smart and achingly sexy stories about hot bass players and the women who torture them, has the best eye out there for what readers need from their love stories. She has read and returned and commented on tens of thousands of my words and is always right. Always. This won’t be the first time I thank you, Shelley.
My agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, and my editor, Susan Grimshaw, have been such a bolstering and unending source of optimism. I have learned a great deal from them and felt supported, utterly. Emily’s suggested edits really opened up the book, and Sue has believed in my voice from the first 1,500 words I queried. Thank you, ladies, so much.
I would like to extend my thanks and my appreciation of the Columbus, Ohio, Metropolitan Library system, one of the very best in the entire country. If readers wonder where Carrie works, in my imagination, it is there. The staff is professional and passionate, and the library’s resources and dedication to literacy are unmatched. The beautiful main branch building is an inspiration to me and to the city of Columbus.
If readers would like a Reading Is Sexy tote, just like Carrie’s, look no farther than Sarah Utter’s wares at buyolympia.com. I hope you find your Brian, if you haven’t already, soon.
Photo: © Elizabeth Wellman
MARY ANN RIVERS has been wearing a groove in her library card since she was old enough for story time. She’s been writing almost as long—her first publication credit was in Highlights magazine. She started writing and reading romance in the fifth grade once she stumbled on the rainbow of romance-novel book spines in the library’s fiction stacks.
She was an English and music major and went on to earn her MFA in creative writing, publishing poetry in journals and leading creative writing workshops for at-risk youth. While training for her day job as a nurse practitioner, she rediscovered romance on the bedside tables of her favorite patients.
Mary Ann lives in the Midwest with her handsome professor husband and their imaginative school-aged son. She writes smart and emotional contemporary romance, imagining stories featuring the heroes and heroines just ahead of her in the coffee line.
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Welcome to Loveswept!
I truly believe that one of the best things in life is spending long, leisurely days curled up with a book. Whether it’s a novel of erotic discovery and hidden desire like Stacey Kane’s scorching e-original CLAIMED, a sizzling small town romance like Elisabeth Barrett’s fourth e-original Star Harbor book, SLOW SUMMER BURN, or an electrifying story featuring hockey hunks like Toni Aleo’s contemporary e-original BLUE LINES … it’s a wonderful feeling to be transported to a new and exciting world … especially one filled with sexy heroes and vibrant heroines. Pick up these reads and lose yourself in romance and love.
And for more wonderful reads, don’t miss:
Sandra Chastain’s SURRENDER THE SHADOW – an enthralling classic of secrets and suspense; Katie Rose’s charming historical romance, COURTING TROUBLE – where an attorney and a determined suffragette butt heads; Adrienne Staff and Sally Goldbaum’s CRESCENDO – a sparkling story about a princely society man and his everyday princess; Iris Johansen’s blazing YORK, THE RENEGADE – where passion takes a man and woman on a wild ride in a rough-and-tumble mining town; and Ruth Owen’s BODY HEAT – an alluring tale of love, betrayal and murder.
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: September arrives with more timeless stories for you – Three enticing stories from Sandra Chastain, THE JUDGE AND THE GYPSY, FIREBRAND, and THE LAST DANCE, beloved author Iris Johansen’s THE DELANEY’S OF KILLAROO, Fran Baker’s enchanting SEEING STARS, Julie Ortolon’s irresistible DRIVE ME WILD as well as three original stories: another fantastic installment from Ruthie Knox’s ROMAN HOLIDAY serialized novel, Lauren Layne’s seductive AFTER THE KISS, and Mira Lyn Kelly’s sexy and sweet TRUTH OR DARE. October has more e-originals in store: Maggie McGinnis’s brilliant THE ACCIDENTAL COWGIRL, Megan Frampton’s sweltering WHAT NOT TO BARE, and Katie Rose’s delightful MISTLETOE AND MAGIC, as well as some wonderful reissues: Connie Brockway’s dazzling stories, DANGEROUS MAN and MY DEAREST ENERMY, Ellen Fisher’s memorable THE LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, Ruth Owen’s riveting works, SMOOTH OPERATOR and SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME, Iris Johansen’s delicious ACROSS THE RIVER OF YESTERDAY, and three breathtaking books from Sandra Chastain, THE MORNING AFTER, FOR LOVE OF LACEY, and GABRIEL’S OUTLAW. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for an excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s
Long Simmering Spring
CHAPTER 1
The telltale sound of the metal-on-metal rigging clanging above deck was a clear indication that Cole Grayson wasn’t inside a stifling-hot canvas tent in Kunar Province. The gentle pitch and roll under his back and the aromas of salt and sea could mean only one thing: he was on his brother’s houseboat in Star Harbor, thousands of miles from Afghanistan. His eyeballs were sticking to his lids, but for once, waking up early didn’t bother him.
He’d finally slept through the night. It had taken him only seven years, three months, and nineteen days.
Not that he was counting.
He swung his legs out from his berth and stood carefully, knowing his head would graze the ceiling of the small cabin. House
boats simply weren’t designed for men of his size. Given that Val nearly matched him in height, he had no idea how his older brother had made do on the vessel for so long.
Still, he wasn’t complaining. The eight months Val had let him stay on board had been a huge chunk of rent-free time. He’d given Val some money for the upkeep of the boat and for docking fees, but it wasn’t nearly as much as if he’d been paying for an apartment. As always, his brother had been more than generous.
Cole grabbed his jeans from where they were neatly folded on a nearby shelf and pulled them on over his boxers, not bothering with a shirt or shoes. Still a bit wobbly, he used a hand on the ceiling as a guide to steady himself and slowly walked to the short ladder that led up to the deck.
Pushing open the cabin’s door, he emerged topside. There was a dim glow on the horizon. When the sun rose, it would cast a glorious amber light over the inner harbor, creeping over the piers and moving up the sides of the buildings in town. The fishing boats, wet with dew and seawater, rocked gently in the breeze, creaking and straining against their moorings. Seabirds welcomed the pre-dawn morning, their shrill cries piercing the crisp spring air.
Bracing himself against the morning chill, Cole joined his brother, who was leaning against the side of the cabin and drinking a cup of coffee from a stainless-steel mug. Illuminated by a string of Christmas lights they hadn’t bothered to take down, Val gave him a nod. As he imitated the gesture, Cole bit back a smile.
There was no mistaking that they were brothers, from their clear blue eyes to their speech patterns, and most definitely to their mannerisms.
“Sleep well?”
Cole nodded. “Yeah.” Clearly, the time he’d spent with the shrink in Boston to help manage his post-traumatic stress disorder had paid off. But although both the Boston P.D. and the Star Harbor Sheriff’s Department had cleared him for active duty, he knew he’d always be living with it. And the more under control he could get it, the happier he—and everyone around him—would be.
Mary Ann Rivers Page 11