As he watched her, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and sweet sadness touched his heart. She looked like a sea nymph, a mermaid. The wind teased her. It played with her tangled blond hair; it lifted the hem of her skirt, allowing him tantalizing glimpses of long, slim legs.
When they were together at the cottage, he liked to watch the graceful way she moved around the house. And even if they weren’t in the same room, he liked knowing she was nearby. He would find himself waiting for her soft footstep, listening, hoping to hear her humming softly to herself the way she sometimes did.
It felt so right.
Having grown up with weak roots, with people wandering in one door of his life and out the other, it hardly occurred to him that their life together could possibly be permanent.
Yes, it was going to be hard to leave here. Maybe the hardest thing he’d ever done.
“Sonny! Sonny!”
Babbie.
Her voice pulled his thoughts back to the beach, the sand, the sun, to the child hurrying toward him as fast as her short legs could go.
“Look what I found!” she said in breathless excitement, her Irish eyes shining as only Babbie’s Irish eyes could shine.
Sonny crouched down in front of her.
“It’s a house,” she announced, shoving a shell under his nose.
He drew his head back enough to see the pointed conch shell held in her small, chubby hand. “A house?” he asked, baffled. He’d been around Babbie enough times to know that her mind didn’t function like his. It was best to wait and let her explain.
“A house for Herman Crab.”
She pointed one finger at the shell’s opening. “He’s scared of us, so he’s hiding in there.”
Her voice dropped, as if she’d just reminded herself of the creature’s fear. “Emily said if I’m quiet, maybe he’ll come out.” She plopped herself down on the sand to wait, shell cradled in the palm of both hands.
Tilly and Claire dashed breathlessly toward them, scattering dry sand as they fell to their knees. They dumped the treasures they’d collected near their pile of shoes.
“Did you show Sonny your hermit crab?” Tilly asked.
’‘Herman,” Babbie insisted. “His name is Herman. Herman Crab.”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother.” She leaned toward Sonny, pointing a thumb at her younger sister. “She’s always getting words mixed up. She says the weirdest stuff.”
Claire daintily shook sand from her skirt. “You shouldn’t be talking, Tilly. What about you.”
“I don’t say weird stuff.”
“Oh, yes you do. What about the time Emily asked you to take those kites to the church bazaar and leave them on the miscellaneous table?”
Tilly’s eyes snapped. “Shut up,” she warned.
Claire started laughing uncontrollably. Her face turned red and her eyes filled with tears as she struggled to relate the story to Sonny. “Hours later, she came back with the kites and said…and said…” She doubled over and clutched her stomach, gasping for air. “She said she couldn’t find anybody named Miss Alaneous!” The sentence was spewed out in one long burst, then Claire collapsed in a hysterical heap.
“Quit laughing!” Tilly shrieked, her face red with rage. She dove for her sister. Sonny lunged, grabbing Tilly around the waist, holding her so her arms flailed at nothing but air.
“Stop!” Babbie wailed. “You’re scaring Herman! Now he’ll never come out!”
Sonny was at a complete loss. He’d never been in the middle of such a squabble, such noise. He’d never had to deal with a bunch of fighting girls.
“Emily!” he shouted, frantic. He scanned the beach and was relieved to see her hurrying in their direction.
“What’s wrong?” Her gaze flitted from one to the other, inspecting them all for injuries. “Is somebody hurt?”
“I wish!” Tilly said through gritted teeth, taking another swing in the direction of the now smirking Claire.
“She’s making fun of me!” Tilly shouted.
“I only told Sonny about the time Tilly spent all afternoon looking for someone named Miss Alaneous!”
Emily’s hand went to her mouth in an attempt to hide her own smile. But Sonny could see the sparkle in her blue eyes. Then her shoulders began to shake.
“Now everybody’s laughing at me!” Tilly squirmed out of Sonny’s grip, glared at them all, one at a time, then stomped off—as well as she could in the loose sand.
Sonny started to go after her.
“Let her go.” Emily placed a hand on his arm. “Tilly always has to have the upper hand. When she doesn’t, she gets mad. She heats up fast, but she cools down fast, too. In five minutes, she’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“I’m going to feed the birds.” Claire grabbed up the plastic bag of bread she’d brought and flounced off.
“Claire, on the other hand,” Emily said as she watched her sister make her way down the beach, “keeps things inside. She can stay mad at somebody for a month.”
They watched as Claire tossed bits of bread to the hovering gulls.
Two minutes later, Tilly joined her. Claire held out the open bread sack. Tilly reached inside. Soon they were both laughing and tossing crumbs, friends again.
Sonny shook his head. “Amazing.”
“I don’t know if there’s any truth to it,” Emily said, “But child psychologists claim that sibling rivalry teaches children to deal with people in later life. It would be easier to tolerate their fighting if I knew they were gaining something from it.”
“If it is true, then Claire and Tilly should grow up to be a couple of well-adjusted adults,” Sonny observed dryly.
Emily turned to look directly at him, surprise on her face. And it occurred to him that he’d never teased her before.
Then she smiled. The sun reflected in her eyes, shimmering in the flaxen curls of her windblown hair. He decided right then and there that he would have to make her smile more often.
Sonny knew that the press portrayed him as a hot sexual dynamo who was always on the prowl. He’d read interviews by women he’d never met who claimed he’d made mad, passionate love to them all night and all day.
He couldn’t deny that he had normal urges. But he was nothing like the press made him out to be. Sexual encounters usually left him feeling unsatisfied, even used. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that they wanted the personified Sonny Maxwell, and once they’d found him he was simply a trophy, a notch on their bedpost.
During an interview he was once asked what it was about him that made women go wild. Sonny answered, saying it was everything he wasn’t that attracted them. The interviewer hadn’t understood.
His encounters with women had left a bitter mark. It had been years since he had wanted to touch someone for the sake of touching them.
Until now. Until Emily.
At times like these, when Emily was so close, he could feel himself tumbling headlong into the blueness of her eyes. He felt as if she could see into his mind and heart, and was coaxing him to take that step.
She stood there watching him in that quiet, unsettling way of hers. Then, as she watched, her smile faded, became a little unsure. Her pink lips trembled slightly. Lips he knew would be soft, would open sweetly under his.
He struggled to shut down his thoughts, shut down his feelings, pull away—something that used to be so easy. But with Emily…things were different. They no longer followed the same time-tested patterns. He couldn’t understand.
He wasn’t a toucher.
And yet a hundred times a day he had to stop himself from touching her.
Right now he wanted to touch her face, her hair, her hands. He wanted to pull her into his arms and touch his lips to hers. He wanted to feel the softness of her hair slide through his fingers. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin against his.
But he wasn’t a toucher.
So why did he want to touch Emily?
You love her, a voice in his hea
d taunted.
Love?
No.
Denial roared through him.
It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true.
You didn’t marry her out of a sense of chivalry. You married her because you need her.
Over the past weeks, he’d been distantly aware of a change going on inside him, a change he had up until now tried to ignore. A softening, a crumbling of his defenses. But emotions long suppressed were fighting their way to the surface, coming closer and closer.
No.
He didn’t need anybody.
Sweat broke out on his forehead. Fear scuttled through him, running rampant, pounding like a madman to get out.
He’d always been so careful. There had been so many women who had desired him, but he’d had no trouble brushing them aside.
But Emily… Oh God. Sweet, sweet Emily. With her magic.
Her name was a sigh in his mind. Sweet, sweet Emily, with eyes the color of the ocean, eyes the color of the sky, eyes that seemed to look right into his heart.
Then it hit him, and the shock was like a blow: He was no longer on the outside looking in.
He denied it vehemently.
No.
Through a fog, he felt her small fingers brush the back of his hand, felt them curl against his palm, gently squeezing his fingers, just as he had the day of their wedding when he’d seen her fear and had felt the need to reassure her.
His throat tightened. The wind burned his eyes.
Lord, what have I done?
Behind them, Babbie’s little girl voice whispered, “Hello, Herman.”
Chapter 9
Emily watched the tortured expressions flit across Sonny’s face. She sensed his withdrawal.
He’s leaving me, she realized with shock. She could see it in his eyes.
She was still holding his hand, and now he pulled away, slipping free of her light grasp.
Her heart hammered. Her mind raced, frantically seeking an answer. What could she possibly say or do to make him stay? What had she done to make him decide to go?
He couldn’t leave. She loved him.
She’d have told herself she could wait for him forever—if that’s what it took. But she couldn’t wait for someone who wasn’t there.
More than anything, she wanted to open her heart, she wanted to tell him that she loved him—in so many ways. She wanted to tell him she loved him for all the pain he kept locked deep inside. That she loved him for walking with her on misty mornings; she loved him for his patience with Babbie; for taking sad, soulful pictures that made her want to cry.
For planting flowers.
But she knew he wasn’t ready to hear those words from her. With something too much like grief, she realized he might never be ready.
Sonny.
He had so many colors in him. She’d wanted to be the one to touch his heart and set those colors free.
She’d taken his hand, offered her friendship and comfort, and he’d rejected her. In her whole sheltered existence, she’d never felt the sting of rejection.
It hurt.
She thought about Sonny, the child, growing up a commodity, left in the hands of uncaring strangers. How had he stood it? He’d stood it by building a wall, a fortress that was now possibly too big and too solid for anyone to tear down.
She turned away so he couldn’t see the pain in her eyes—pain for him, pain for her. She called to the girls, telling them it was time to go, telling them she would walk them home.
They put on their shoes, then gathered their treasures. Babbie returned Herman to the spot she’d found him. They started to walk away but stopped when Sonny gave no indication that he was coming with them. Emily paused and waited.
“Go on without me,” he said, standing with his hands in his pockets, the salt wind lifting his hair. The remote look was still in his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”
She thought about the sweater she was knitting. The sleeves were almost done. She’d planned to start on the back soon. The yarn matched his eyes perfectly, having been dyed with the gray-blue flowers that grew wild on St. Genevieve. Who would wear the sweater now? She knew of no one else with eyes the color of a stormy sea.
“I’ll see you later,” she said.
He nodded.
She felt it in her heart, saw it in his face. It was over. This game they’d played, the pretending. But all the while they had been pretending, she’d cherished a hope that it would grow to be more, that it would eventually grow to become real.
With her sisters beside her, she turned and headed up the sand dune to the path that led to her father’s house.
After seeing the girls settled, Emily started home. The solitude of her walk was in stark contrast to the trip to church that morning. Earlier, her heart had felt light. Earlier, Sonny had been by her side.
She kept replaying the afternoon in her mind, trying to make sense of what had happened, what she had said or done that had caused him to retreat the way he had.
There could be no mistaking the trapped look she’d seen in his eyes. Sonny, who was so good at hiding his emotions, had come close to falling apart in front of her.
When she reached the cottage, Sonny wasn’t there, but she hadn’t really expected him to be. She changed into her soft corduroy pants and a pullover sweater. Then she went through the motions of fixing supper. She set the table, then sat down and waited.
He didn’t come.
She put the food away untouched and returned the plates to the cupboard.
She pushed aside the kitchen curtain. Darkness had fallen. A single glimmer of light could be seen coming from the small lighthouse window.
So, that’s where he was.
It was a fitting place for him. He spent a lot of time there; he seemed drawn to it. And in a way, they were alike, the lighthouse and Sonny. Strong and alone, wrapped in their solitude.
Hadn’t she done all she could do? But for every step closer she’d taken, he’d taken two away. Sonny was like a prisoner who’d spent most of his life behind bars and was afraid to be set free.
She longed to go to him, to talk with him, but he was making it quite clear that he wanted to be alone. She must respect that.
She curled up at one end of the couch, tucking her feet under her. They hadn’t gotten a television, both agreeing that it was unnecessary. But now Emily thought she would have welcomed the distraction.
Perhaps what bothered her most about all of this was the sudden realization that she was no closer to him now than she’d been that day he’d pulled her from the water. It seemed as if she’d breached one wall, only to find there were hundreds more on the other side.
She wished he would trust her, share himself with her. He thought she didn’t know him, but she did. He didn’t have to tell her his deepest thoughts in order for her to know who he was. His inner self came through in a thousand different ways.
Time passed. She must have drifted off to sleep. She awoke all of a sudden, her head lying against her arm at an uncomfortable angle, a cramp in her neck. She sat there awhile, disoriented from falling asleep in a place other than her bed.
A flash of lightning lit the room, and she realized just why she’d awakened so suddenly. Thunder rolled in across the ocean, echoing off the rocky shore, rattling the glass in the windowpanes. The wind howled. Somewhere in the house, a shutter banged.
The first thing she did was hurry to Sonny’s room and flick on the light. His bed was still empty.
Rain poured in the open window. She crossed the room, closed the window and secured the shutter, her thoughts on Sonny.
Was he all right? What if he was hurt? What if he’d slipped on a wet step? What if he’d fallen and hit his head?
Coming to a decision, she hurried through the sitting room and out the front door.
Wind tugged at her hair. Rain slashed her face as she stepped from the porch, the unexpected chill of it driving the breath from her lungs.
Aided by the occasional flash of lightn
ing, she ran up the slippery wooden walkway to the lighthouse. Fingers wet and stiff with cold, she felt for the latch, found it and pushed open the door to stumble into the small, circular room.
There was no electricity in the lighthouse. Hanging from a metal hook embedded in the stone wall was a hurricane lamp, its flame casting shadows across the small, tidy room.
Sonny hadn’t heard her come in, the sound of her entrance drowned out by the storm. He was standing at the casement window, his back to her, watching the lightshow nature was performing over the crashing waves.
He’d changed clothes. Instead of the gray dress slacks, he was wearing a ragged sweatshirt and jeans.
“Sonny.”
She barely spoke above a whisper, but he turned toward her, one hand resting on the wide stone sill of the window.
“Emily.”
His low, deep voice seemed a part of the rumbling thunder, blending with the storm. His eyes still held the remoteness she’d seen on the beach, their barren depths chilling her more than the rain could ever do.
Don’t do this to me. Don’t pull away like this. She’d been so careful not to intrude on his space, been so careful to give him the distance he needed.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. It seemed as if he struggled to pull his thoughts together—as if her presence in the lighthouse confused him. Maybe because in his mind he’d already left her.
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have come out in the storm. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
Can you, Sonny? Can you take care of yourself?
Not waiting for an invitation that might never come, she crossed the room to join him at the window, the wet soles of her tennis shoes making tiny squeaking sounds on the flagstone.
She peered through the rain and sea-spattered glass. The electronic beacon was doing its job, cutting a bright path through the rain, its light reflecting off the water, the clouds.
“When they first put the buoy out there,” she said in a desperate attempt to make conversation, to draw him back to her, “my grandfather said a part of him died.” With one finger, she drew in the condensation on the window. A droplet formed, then trickled down the glass like a tear. “At first, he didn’t trust it. At night, he couldn’t sleep for fear the light might go out.”
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