She laughed, and it sounded sexy and happy. He was contemplating covering her bare breast with his hand when something drew his gaze to the bedside table. A younger, black-and-white version of Summer smiled back at him from beneath the glass in the picture frame. In the photograph she stood arm-in-arm with two women. One was obviously her sister and the other, their mother.
“What about you?” he said, leaving his hand where it was beneath the covers, in safe territory between them. “Do you take after your mother in temperament, too?”
She followed the course of his gaze to the photograph. “In looks, I do, but my sister was most like her.”
“Was?” he asked.
“That picture was taken just before my mother’s diagnosis. Stage four leukemia, not even a particularly rare form. She lived three months. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but she was wise and beautiful, and she used the time she had left to reminisce and tell us goodbye. My sister died without warning of a brain aneurysm a year later.”
When she fell silent, he said, “And your father? Where is he?”
She answered without looking at him, her gaze still on the black-and-white photo. “He’s not in the picture.”
By the time Summer turned around again, Kyle was getting out of bed. They didn’t talk any more. Oh, they exchanged a few polite pleasantries and a quick kiss after he dressed, but the atmosphere had changed.
Alone in her room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had been a prelude to goodbye.
“Do you want to talk about it, dear?”
Summer hadn’t realized her disquietude was so obvious.
Stirring a cube of sugar into her cup of tea at Summer’s kitchen table on Tuesday morning, Harriet Ferris said, “God knows you’ve listened to me kvetch about Walter often enough. What good does it do anyway? He’s never going to pry himself away from that newspaper long enough to accompany me on my dream vacation to Ireland. It’s like I told him. Taking me out for a green beer at the Irish pub in Hubbardston on St. Patrick’s Day doesn’t qualify as a trip to Ireland.”
Summer couldn’t help smiling at the inside joke about the nearby town whose inhabitants were mostly of Irish decent. The older woman’s hand quivered slightly as she poured more steaming tea into their china cups. Although Summer didn’t mention it, she knew that that little quiver annoyed Harriet to no end. With her dyed hair and painted fingernails and shoes with heels she loved so much, she’d kept herself up admirably all these years. Summer could picture her kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland one day.
“There’s a smile,” Harriet said, looking at Summer over the rim of her teacup. “The first I’ve seen on your face since I arrived. You’re ruminating on something. Believe me, I recognize the signs. If I were to harbor a guess, I’d say it has to do with that green-eyed Adonis who wandered through this kitchen on his way out a few minutes ago. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”
“He couldn’t?” Summer set her teacup in its saucer and covered her reddening cheeks with her hands. She hadn’t blushed since she was in the eighth grade.
“Walter’s eyes are getting rheumy, but I still see fine,” Harriet said. “What’s wrong? Why are you so quiet today? Did you and that hottie have a lover’s spat? Don’t worry about singeing my ears. I could use a little sex, even if it’s only vicarious.”
Summer couldn’t keep her eyebrows from lifting slightly.
“Come on, lay it on me,” Harriett prodded.
Slowly, Summer began to talk. She told her dear old friend about the first time she and Kyle had kissed in this very kitchen and about other kisses, too, and how those kisses had led to a passion that neither of them seemed to be able to curb.
“So you’ve seen him naked. I knew it.”
Summer stopped in the middle of her confessions and simply stared at Harriet.
“I know you’re too classy to divulge the really good details, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. Tell me this. How was it?”
Summer crossed her hands over her heart and sighed.
“So what’s the problem?” Harriet asked.
“Well.” Summer ran the tip of her finger around the rim of the delicate bone china cup in front of her. Time was spinning so fast. It was Tuesday already. Yesterday she’d accompanied Madeline to her final dress fitting. Afterward, Chelsea and Madeline had come back to the inn with Summer, where the three of them had put the finishing touches on the layout and wording for the wedding programs that would be handed to each guest at the candlelight ceremony Friday night. Kyle had taken the original program to the newspaper office for final printing. Between the time he spent with Riley and helping Walter at the office, and the time Summer spent seeing to her guests and helping Madeline with wedding plans, Summer and Kyle had seen little of one another. Except at night. Which brought her back to Harriett’s question. So what was the problem?
“The first night he woke me up all night long, and the second night was pretty amazing, too. But then last night and the night before…”
Harriet set her teacup down, too. “Did he peter out on ya? Is that it?”
Summer sat up and then she sat back. “No. It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s just…it was…he was different.”
“No offense, dear, but has it ever occurred to you that he might have been tired? If you know what I mean.”
Summer eyed the wise old woman.
“Men have their limits,” Harriet said, twisting the purple beads at her neck. “In their defense, they have to do more of the heavy lifting in the bedroom than we do.”
When she winked, Summer smiled in spite of herself.
“Sure,” Harriet continued after she tottered to the counter and brought back a plate of cookies. “They like to boast that all they need is sex and supper, but, in the bedroom, we’re Wonder Woman, and sometimes they’re Batman, and sometimes they’re Robin.” She bit into a cookie. “Mmm. Macadamia-nut-chocolate-chip. My favorite. Could I get the recipe?”
Evidently the advice-giving session was over.
Summer took a cookie, too, and thought about Harriet’s superhero analogy. For the rest of the morning and throughout the afternoon, she spent far too much time thinking about it and even more time wondering what had happened to change the passionate cyclone between her and Kyle into a freefall without a parachute.
Was it her imagination, or was the ground getting closer all the time?
As he had the previous two nights, Kyle knocked on her door just before midnight on Tuesday. Summer hadn’t been pretending to read, and he didn’t pretend he hadn’t known he would end up in her room.
Whatever was happening between them, she let him in. And he definitely wasn’t the Boy Wonder. Kyle Merrick was all man, all the way.
They talked, about the station she was listening to on the radio and about what he’d done that day and about the final wedding preparations and how Summer was of the opinion that she, Abby and Chelsea looked liked triplets in their matching pink bridesmaids’ dresses. Every now and then, their breathing hitched, for they both had something else on their mind. It was desire, and it was there in the way his eyes closed halfway when she twirled her hair just so, and it was there in her sigh when he smiled.
What followed was another record-breaking, mind-boggling, body-tingling experience, further heightened because now each knew the other’s pleasure points. He touched her all over, first through her gown and then without it. She was just as bold. They wound up on the bed, her bedspread beneath her back, his body pressed on top of hers. Coherent thought was replaced with feelings and textures.
He remembered protection this time, and she remembered the pleasure, the pure rush of joy that being with him this way brought her. When their bodies became one, it was powerful. Her heart throbbed against his and his mouth covered hers again and again. Small tremors gave way to the greatest bursting of sensations. She cried out his name and closed her eyes to the pounding certainty that every t
ime was better than the last.
While she was in Kyle’s arms, Summer believed she’d been imagining that anything was wrong. Afterwards, things fell apart a little, and conversation seemed slightly stilted, and she couldn’t put her finger on the reason.
They fell asleep together sometime in the wee hours Wednesday morning, his arm around her and her leg over his. Before dawn she woke up alone.
She lay in her big bed in the dark, listening to the wind and the river and the creaking of her century-old inn. Riley and Madeline’s wedding was only two days away. Kyle was staying in Orchard Hill until then. And she wondered when she’d started wishing that time didn’t have to run out.
Chapter Ten
Strains of Big Band Music reached Kyle’s ears as he was leaving his room on Wednesday morning. With no clear destination in mind, he slid his new phone into his pocket and followed a Benny Goodman medley down two flights of stairs.
He found Summer in the kitchen with her back to him. She glanced casually at him over her shoulder be fore the door had stopped swishing. He didn’t know how she’d known he was there, for the music blaring from the portable stereo on the counter covered any sound he might have made.
After turning down the volume, she finished rinsing a plate before turning her attention to him. She was wearing a dress again. This one was powder blue and would have looked as fitting in the Big Band Era as it did today. The woman had class; there was no doubt about that.
“I hope the music didn’t wake you,” she said over “Serenade In Blue.”
“It didn’t.”
His new phone rang, startling him. His nerves were shot to hell. He took the phone out, looked at the number, then turned the stupid thing off.
“You’ve spoken with your mentor?” she asked.
He considered not answering. On principal alone, he would have been justified. She was good at asking questions but not answering them and sharing bits and pieces of her past. “The one and only,” he said.
He supposed the fact that she knew him well enough to surmise that he’d spoken with Grant could have been construed as encouraging. Kyle was in no mood for encouragement. He walked around the table, looked out the window, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d shaved.
It was Summer’s first impression when Kyle had walked into the room. Drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she studied him further. He’d showered, too, but that observation came moments later, after she’d wisely chosen to keep her distance. The bottoms of his designer jeans were frayed, as if he’d had them for a long time and wore them often. His shirt was unwrinkled, the cuffs rolled up to reveal the veins in his forearms.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I could eat.” There was something about him this morning, something barely leashed.
She quickly gathered up a place mat and cutlery. Using the towel in her other hand as a pot holder, she reached into the oven and brought out the plate she’d filled for him an hour ago. “Do I dare come close enough to set this in front of you?”
There was reluctance in the easing of his scowl, but at least it lessened. “I won’t bite the hand that feeds me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She laid the place setting, set down the plate and arranged the cutlery around it. By the time she filled a glass with orange juice and carried it to him, he’d taken his first bite of spinach-and-sausage quiche.
She poured them both a cup of coffee but took a sip of hers from her position back near the sink. After taking another bite of the quiche, he tried the baked apples. She watched his gaze stray to her mouth. From there it was a natural progression down her body.
Something in his eyes held her still. It was a raw emotion that produced an almost tangible current. Feeling emboldened by the male appreciation she saw, she decided to broach a topic she’d never considered until she’d met him.
“What would you call…this?” she said, motioning between them.
He swallowed audibly, and said, “What would you call it?”
She swallowed, too, and she wasn’t even eating. “I’d call it complicated.”
He cut into the baked French toast with enough force to cut through the plate.
“Kyle, what’s wrong? I mean, I know this is a horrible time for you, career-wise. I in no way wish to minimize the upheaval you’re experiencing and the disappointment you surely feel.”
“I’m dealing with that.”
“Good. Then this isn’t the worst time to bring up our—” She brought her hand up to cover the little vein pulsing at the base of her throat. “Relationship?”
He put his fork down and shoved his chair back. He was on his feet, but he didn’t come closer. “I’d hardly call this a relationship.”
She’d angered him. She wasn’t expecting that. She’d been thinking about this for hours, and while she hadn’t been able to predict his reaction to her question, she’d assumed it would prompt something closer to denial or goodbye. She’d tried to prepare herself for either of those. This felt a little like driving in fog, and she had no idea what she would find around the next curve.
“What’s wrong?” she repeated.
“What could possibly be wrong? We have the perfect arrangement. Great sex, and I mean great. Great food. You’re a hell of a cook. Communication leaves a little to be desired, but that’s a small price to pay, right?”
She looked at him looking at her. She was bewildered.
“What’s the matter, Summer? Cat got your tongue? There’s a surprise, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean? What are you getting at?” Okay, now she was getting angry, too. “I’ve been thinking about this, Kyle. About…us. I know you’re going through a rough time. And you probably have no idea what you’ll be doing next week, let alone in the distant future, but I was wondering if you saw this, maybe, lasting a little while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Honestly?” she asked. “I care about you.”
Kyle turned his back on Summer, on the evidence of what her simple declaration was doing to him. He wanted her again. And it was starting to tick him off. Keeping his back to her, he said, “Honestly, Summer?”
Something in his tone must have caused her to pause. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Have you been honest with me? Really?” he asked.
“I haven’t told you anything that isn’t true.”
“You haven’t told me much of anything, period, have you?” He spun around, and the anger seeped out of him. In its place was a renewed sense of enlightenment. He felt calm, suddenly, because he knew exactly what he needed to do.
“You’ve shared the most intimate secrets of your body,” he said. “We’ve practically burned up the sheets sharing those. I know you like pasta and wine and music. I know your friends call you the keeper of secrets. Isn’t that what everybody says? Who do you confide in? Not Harriet. Not Chelsea or Abby. I bet even Madeline doesn’t know your biggest secret.”
“My secret?” she asked, obviously uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken.
Glenn Miller’s “Roll ’Em” whirred from the speakers across the kitchen. How fitting.
“Yes,” he said, taking first one and then another step toward her. “You know, those intricate, little, inconsequential details of your life, like your mother’s name and your sister’s, and where you went to college and what you did before you came to Orchard Hill. Don’t you find it interesting that you told me the entire history of this inn? Ebenezer Stone was the original owner, wasn’t he? After him there was Josiah and Mead Johnson and Jacob and his wife, Marguerite. You’ve imparted their names, but you haven’t told me yours.”
He let that sink in.
“I’ve entrusted you with my secrets, Summer.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And I want you. You might as well know I’m in love with you. There, another secret revealed. I’ve been easy, but I’m not free. Come see me when you’re ready to share more than t
hat luscious body with me. Tell me a secret, Summer.”
She stared back at him in utter silence. Her hazel eyes were round, her features frozen. Even that adorable, little vein in her neck was perfectly still. He wasn’t surprised she didn’t say anything. A sledgehammer wouldn’t have stunned her any more.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d told a woman he loved her. And he’d never told one quite like this. He’d never felt like this, had never been in love like this. That was because he’d never known a woman as infuriating and intriguing as Summer, or as illusory, either.
He couldn’t have known this was going to happen when he’d left his room a little while ago. Now that it had, he was relieved to have gotten it out in the open. He’d given her an ultimatum, and, by doing so, he’d effectively drawn a line in the sand. Her response remained as big an enigma as she was.
He’d thrown a lot at her. Now the proverbial ball was in her court. It was her move.
There was nothing else for him to do but wait.
He walked jauntily out of the kitchen, leaving his uneaten breakfast on the table and leaving Summer standing in the middle of the room, her mouth gaping.
Kyle moved his beer an inch to the right of the ring it left on the table at Bower’s Bar and Grill. Riley sat across from him, Walter Ferris to his left. All three were pensive.
Evidently Riley’s beer was just a prop, because he hadn’t even taken a sip of it. Pushing his glass out of his way, the middle Merrick brother said, “Why is it that we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t?”
“Because we’re m-e-n,” Walter said, wiping the suds from his upper lip. “And proud of it,” he stated with added vehemence.
Even Riley, who drank only rarely since his heart transplant nearly two years earlier, lifted his beer to that. He and Kyle had been quietly killing time when Walter had wandered into the bar and grill on the third block of Division Street. Evidently he and Harriet had had a spat. Kyle wasn’t sure why Riley was so morose. He didn’t need to know. The fact that they were willing to watch water stains form on the table in a hole-in-the-wall bar in a town of mostly strangers made a strong statement by itself.
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