With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island)

by Vanessa Grant

  She opened her lips to protest, then pressed them closed. David would always disapprove of her decisions, always had. She said quietly, "It's dusty, but the walls and windows are intact. I know it's been a long time. I've—I was going to move in and clean it up."

  "Move in?"

  "For the rest of the summer." She shifted uneasily, staring at a dark smear on the front of her white skirt. The cleaners would never be able to get it out.

  "Where do you live now?"

  "Vancouver. One of those condos at False Creek."

  She watched the hard thrust of his thigh muscles as he urged the truck gently through the drainage ditch beside the road. "A False Creek condo? And free for the summer? I thought you said you worked for a living?"

  "I'm a teacher. Summer vacation." Her voice sounded defensive, even to her own ears. Why should she feel like that? Why explain to him? Even her holiday was a working vacation. She had contracted to write two new courses for Unlimited Potential's grade twelve curriculum during summer break. She closed her lips. Years too late to try to persuade David that she was not an irresponsible fool.

  He said quietly, "One of those condominiums on a teacher's salary? I guess I don't have to worry that you got a fair settlement out of Tom, do I?"

  She snapped, "If you must know, the condo's on a sub-lease. But you don't have to worry about me at all. Control your big brother urges, David. I already have a brother."

  His eyes flashed with real amusement. "Who's going to stop you smashing into the other side of my truck? My memory of Wally doesn't cover it." He shifted gears again. The truck lurched through the ditch as he maneuvered around her car. "You can stay at the farm tonight. You'll want cleaning supplies and bug spray before you move into the cottage. Wouldn't hurt to put a cat over there for a couple of days, too. Get rid of the mice. As I recall, you're not very fond of being woken in the night by mice."

  Her face flushed as the back wheels bounced at the bottom of the ditch. She had been eleven. Patrick must have been fifteen and Sarah around thirteen. There had been others, four or five of them, local children and summer kids like Julie, all enthused at the idea of sleeping out in the McNaughton's hay loft. As Julie remembered the incident, the parents had been opposed to the idea until twenty-year-old David volunteered to sleep out with them to watch over the bunch.

  She had woken in the middle of the night, had lain shivering under her sleeping bag as she listened to the persistent rustling somewhere nearby. Rustling. Scurrying. Something chewing? She had tried to wipe out the sound, but when the mouse scurried near, touching her hair, she had flown trembling and crying to the sleeping David. He had woken abruptly, listening quietly to her whispered panic. She remembered how strong his arms had been. He had held her, comforted her, told her the names of the stars they could see through the open door in the hayloft. By the time he suggested that she go back to her sleeping bag, the mouse seemed a distant fantasy.

  She stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Long fingered, square, strong. Like his arms around her. Even after all these years, she could close her eyes and remember the feel of his arms, strong and sure and safe. She had been terrified of the teasing that would come the next day, but David had never told anyone about her cowardly reaction in the middle of the night. If he had, Patrick would surely have teased her mercilessly.

  She said unevenly. "I was going to get cleaning things. And some jeans. I know there are mice, but I could go to Sarah's, couldn't I? If your sister and her husband are still running a bed and breakfast, I could stay there tonight. You don't need to—"

  "It's August." He slowed the truck and turned right. Towards the farm, not towards Sarah and Edward's. "They're booked up to the end of September."

  "Well, there must be somewhere on the island, somewhere else."

  "Not this time of year. Not without reservations." He geared up again, roaring along the road beside his own pasture. She could see the cows clumped around what looked like a pond over to the left.

  "I could go to Nanaimo. You could take me to the ferry." She felt unreasonably panicked at the prospect of a night at David's farm. "Or—there's a taxi service, isn't there?"

  "Don't be silly."

  She hadn't stayed at the farm since...before Sandy came. She turned to stare out her window. It was probably true that you should not try to go back to old places, old memories. Back to that perpetual antagonism between her and David, war hovering, just waiting the opportunity to snap out and surge over her...over them. She did have a hot temper, but there couldn't be a man in the world who roused it more easily than David McNaughton.

  Stubbornness. That's what it was. David's stubbornness always rubbed her the wrong way. And now—If he had decided she should stay at the farm, she would have a hell of a fight changing his mind.

  She grimaced and asked, "How are your parents?"

  "Fine."

  Maybe it would be all right. She could talk to Mrs. McNaughton, ask about the garden and the tomato crop. And the roses. There had always been a rose garden in the hollow below the farmhouse.

  "Is your dad still working on the farm?"

  "Not since his heart attack." David slowed and turned into the gate. "I'll settle you first, then I'll go dump this load of gravel at Pat's."

  She swept one hurried glance over the homestead. The beautiful old farmhouse. Lush garden. Corrals down the hill. The chicken house. A barn. She was uncertain what the other buildings were. No sign of Mr. McNaughton, but there was a small pickup truck near the house. "I didn't know your Dad had a heart attack. How—"

  "It was mild, just enough to get him to quit smoking and watch his diet. And lay off the heavy work."

  "It'll be nice to see him. And your mom." She felt stilted.

  "They're not here. They're following the circuit with the show string."

  "The what?"

  "The circuit. Taking a couple of heifers and a cow-calf pair around for showing."

  "Why?"

  He stopped the truck in front of the farm house. It was just as she remembered, a sprawling west-coast-style home with a big, covered veranda. David turned and stretched his arm along the back of the seat behind her. She could feel the warmth from his body. His lips were turned slightly down, amusement in his eyes.

  "We raise Limousin cattle to sell as breeding stock. Didn't you know that?"

  "Sort of. I just never—You take the cows to shows? To sell them?"

  "More or less—PR stuff, to get the strain we breed better known. If nobody knows we've got good breeding stock, we won't sell many bulls, won't get cows brought here to service."

  "To service?" She flushed, suddenly understanding. "I—so they—do you take the cows to shows every year?"

  "Yes, we do. At least, I don't do it if I can avoid it. I'd rather be here than on the circuit. Dad likes it, though. Are you going to get out?"

  "Am I—What?"

  "I can't get out of the truck until you do." His lips curved up slightly. "My door's jammed."

  She pushed open the heavy door and scrambled down. Why did she feel so self conscious? The antagonism between them was normal, but this uncomfortable feeling of awareness...

  "I—David, I need my suitcase."

  "Where is it?"

  She turned and found herself staring up at his eyes, golden flickers of light in their deep brown. Her hair blew across her face. She pushed her hands through her hair, holding it against the light wind. "In my trunk."

  "Forget it, then." His eyes tangled in her hair, dropped to the fabric of her sweater where it was pulled tight by her uplifted arms. She flushed and dropped her arms, but his voice was neutral, empty of emotion. "You'd need a cutting torch to get that trunk open. You'll have to wait for the insurance appraisal before you can get the case out."

  Her poor car. "Do you think they'll be able to fix it?"

  "Anybody's guess. They might write it off and pay you out. You probably won't know for a couple of days after it gets to the appraisal center."

/>   "You seem quite knowledgeable about the process." Her lips twitched. "Do you get in a lot of accidents, David? Tourists running into your truck?"

  "Stanley wiped out my car on the Island Highway last summer. I got some practice."

  She wished her heart would stop beating like that. Erratic. Wild. Just because he was smiling down at her as if ..."Stanley—university, you said? He'll be on summer vacation, won't he? What's he taking?"

  "Agriculture, but he's playing with a band this summer." David's lips twitched. "It's a toss-up whether he'll turn into a farmer or an itinerant musician."

  She followed him up the stairs to the farmhouse. He bent to unlace his boots in the mud room. He was hard and muscular, no softness anywhere, but if his son decided to be a musician, he would accept it. She looked away, staring through the doorway into the kitchen.

  "In Nanaimo?" she asked. "He's working in Nanaimo?"

  He put his boots neatly against the wall, gestured for her to precede him into the kitchen. He strode over to the sink and began filling the reservoir of an electric coffee maker.

  She looked around, trying to match this kitchen to her memories. New cupboards, she decided. Warm varnished oak in place of the old, painted yellow. "What happened to the old percolator? There always used to be a coffee pot on the wood stove. Your mom—What happened to the stove?"

  "Progress." He slid the reservoir into its holder. "No one but mom could make decent coffee in that thing. As for the stove...electric's more convenient."

  "You're destroying my illusions." She smiled and his eyes answered her. "There I sit in the city, thinking you're pure and natural out here, and all the while you're contaminated with modern conveniences."

  She watched him scoop coffee grounds into the filter. With his parents on the show circuit and Stanley at university, he must be living alone here. Making his own meals, coming home to an empty house after a hard day's work. She bit her lip and concentrated on his words.

  "...go on burning wood forever. It takes a long time to grow a tree. We'll run out of them. Besides, Sandy always hated that old wood stove."

  He said his wife's name naturally, as if she were still alive. Julie stared at his back as he turned the coffee maker on. Was three years long enough to erase pain? To blur Sandy's image on his heart?

  She remembered David's voice, years ago, telling her about Sandy...The perfect woman for me. Quiet and womanly and loving. Crazy that the memory was so sharp and clear. She bit her lip, asked hurriedly, "Where is Stanley's band? What's he doing in it? Singing? Playing something?"

  "Both." David was watching her, frowning now. "My son seems to be a musical virtuoso. Lord knows where he gets it from—although one of Sandy's cousins is pretty handy with a guitar."

  "Is the band in Nanaimo? Will Stanley be home tonight?"

  "Victoria. I haven't seen much of him this summer." He saw the unease in her eyes and said, "Come on, Julie, you're surely not afraid I'll attack you in the night? You'll be quite safe with me."

  Of course she was safe with him. The heat flooded her face. This must be some insanity that hit when a woman turned thirty. Looking at David and feeling as if—She rubbed her hands down along her skirt. "I'll call the wreckers myself, shall I?" Her voice was brittle. "I hate the word wrecker. I hope it's not a wreck. It's such a—what will you do about your truck? About fixing the door? I'll pay for it if the insurance won't, David. I—"

  "Cut it out, Julie." He moved impatiently. "You can have Sarah's old room for the night. You know where it is. Go up and see what you can find there while I call the tow truck. There might be a pair of her old jeans in the dresser. You'll want to change, won't you?"

  "Yes," she agreed. Trust David to remind her that she was a mess.

  Sarah's room had changed. Of course, Julie had not been in this bedroom since her teens. The last time...Sarah had been getting ready to go to college, her room in chaos and clothes everywhere. David and Sandy must have been away somewhere, or Julie would not have been there. She had avoided the farm from the day David told her about Sandy. Even back then, she had known how irrational it was. David, the first massive crush of her teenaged life.

  That summer Sarah was getting ready for college... it must have been the year before Julie met Tom. She had been dreaming of going back to high school in Vancouver, meeting a boy who would love her. Sarah had been talking about leaving home, going to college, getting a degree and never marrying until she was fifty. But Julie had wanted marriage and children. And soon. Young impatience, not knowing that love did not come from running after dreams.

  And the room...the curtains had been changed since then. Once there had been lambs and trees on white broadcloth. Now the drapery was muted, light browns and reds against a warm beige. Earth tones, echoed in the thick carpet. Sandy must have redecorated. Earth tones would be right for the woman who was David's perfect match.

  Sandy had not been able to change the view out the window. That beautiful old dogwood tree down the hill. Julie remembered climbing its massive branches when she was eight or nine, David shouting at her to get down before she killed herself. Laughing down at David, telling him that when she grew up she would build a house for herself right under the white blossoms. David shouting back that if she wanted to grow up, she'd better get out of the tree before she fell out.

  Julie moved to the dresser, slid open a drawer. Leftovers from an assortment of guests over the years. A pair of brief shorts. A bikini. A fluffy beach towel. A green sweat shirt with Keep Canada Green! emblazoned on it. A pair of scarred jeans that must have been washed a hundred times.

  The jeans were probably Sarah's. They were too long in the leg for Julie, a bit tight across the hips. She discarded her finely knit sweater and the light silk blouse she'd worn underneath, then pulled the big sweatshirt on and studied herself in the mirror of Sarah's childhood dresser. The green made her hair look even more fiery than usual. She had started the day feeling smart and efficient in her white suit and Italian pumps, but dressed like this she looked young and vulnerable. Luckily, the sweatshirt was big enough to conceal the way the jeans hugged her hips. She felt more comfortable with her female curves swallowed by the baggy shirt. David, all alone. She wouldn't want him to think that she was trying to...

  It was his fault, putting that idea in her mind. He was the one who had made that comment about not attacking her. She would never have thought of it, knew that he would never want her. And she—well, she was certainly not crazy enough to go scrambling after old childhood dreams. She wished him luck, but he would not need it. He had always been good at getting what he wanted. If she came back in a few years, she would find the farm glowing with love and warmth and...Well, that was what he should have. Another Sandy.

  She pulled a small brush out of her purse and attacked the wild confusion of her naturally curling coppery curls.

  "Julie?" David's voice called up the stairs. "Do you want to come along to Pat's? Or would you rather rest here?"

  She put the brush down and hurried out onto the landing, as if afraid he would take off without her. He was half-way up the stairs. Standing there, looking down on him, she was abruptly aware of her socking feet. "I'd like to come, but if it's rough going, my shoes aren't too good. I ..."

  Her voice faded. She tried to pull her eyes away from him. He must have found his way into more of her dreams than she had realized. It was insane, like a crush on a movie star, but somehow David was there in her heart. Her fantasy man, although she had never before let herself realize it.

  He was staring at her. She moved her hands uneasily down the front of her denim-clad legs. His eyes seemed to be glued to her hands. When she spread them in confusion, his gaze moved slowly up over the tight denim to the sloppy sweatshirt. She hugged herself, afraid that the unwelcome physical reactions she was feeling might actually be visible. The sweatshirt was big and loose. Surely that swelling feeling in her breasts wouldn't be visible?

  "I—David, my shoes are a bit...impractica
l." She shifted, trying to break the spell. Down one step. Two. He didn't move. Suddenly, she was too close to him. "Is this shirt okay? I think the jeans are Sarah's. They're a bit tight. She was always skinnier than—"

  His eyes seemed to settle on the curves of her breasts and she stammered, "I didn't—I don't know who the shirt belongs to." She tried to get breath into her lungs quietly, but she felt strange, unsettled, breathless. "Is it okay for me to wear it?"

  "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "You look—" Abruptly, he stepped back, down one step. "No need for you to come along. I'm just dumping this load of gravel, then I'll get us something for dinner."

  "Oh." Of course he didn't really want her along with him. "Why don't I look through the cupboards and start dinner?"

  "I'll do it when I get back." He turned and walked the rest of the way down the stairs. Half-way through the door, he tossed back, "Check in the mud room at the back of the house. There's a collection of shoes there. Anything that fits you—help yourself."

  She nodded, but he was already outside, heading for the truck. She hesitated, then ran down the stairs after him. He was half-way into the truck by the time she got to the front door.

  "David?"

  He stopped and turned, his dark eyebrows raised in a question. She licked her lower lip, too aware of his masculine body balanced on the running board of the truck. Thick, strong thigh muscles. Firm buttocks in tight denim jeans. That old sweatshirt, clinging softly to his muscles as he turned towards her.

  "Do you mind if I come? I'm not much for standing around doing nothing." She shifted uneasily on the veranda. "And if you don't want me to start supper—Well, I could at least say hello to Pat, couldn't I? I promise not to cause any accidents."

  He laughed then. It was so many years since she had heard his laughter that she had forgotten the warm, strong sound of it. "Come on then, kiddo. But don't promise what you can't deliver. And find a pair of sneakers in that mud room. I'll wait."

  Kiddo? The man never had taken her seriously. Just as well, she supposed. After all, what man could be expected to listen seriously to a proposal of marriage from a thirteen year old girl? And of course she hadn't meant it either, not once she got older and realized how right he was, how crazily opposite and impossible David McNaughton and Julie Charters were.