by Cara Colter
Cynthia's eyes went very wide at that. No one ordered her mother around. She braced herself, waiting for the sounds of breakage—lamps shattering, phones hitting the wall—whatever was within reach would be in danger.
Instead, she was shocked to hear complete silence, and then the far-off sound of a shower turning on.
Good grief! Her mother had listened to someone? Surely if Jerome had followed through on his threat to put her mother in the shower himself there would have been enough shrieking to bring down even the well-constructed roof of their suites.
Another thought hit Cynthia, when all she could hear was the shower. Was her mother in it alone? She didn't want to know. She got up, tiptoed over to the connecting door, and pulled it shut.
Jerome had said she, Cynthia Forsythe, had a wildly adventurous spirit? That he saw an artist's soul? That seemed so unlikely! But on the other hand, when had she become so passive? Waiting for life to happen to her? Waiting for others to take control?
What had happened to that girl who had thought her life would be spent creating beauty? Either creating art herself, or having a small gallery where she displayed the work of others? What had become of those dreams? When had she become a sleepwalker in her own life, going where the curled her, instead of making her own waves?
For some reason the legend Merry Montrose had shared with her entered her mind again. It was as if her life was intertwined now with that story, whether she wanted it to be or not.
What had the young wife's role been? Why had she been so passive while her mother and her husband played such major roles? If you couldn't have the starring role in your very own life, who could?
"It's my turn," Cynthia decided, out loud, and liked the firmness in her voice, the absolute conviction of it. It was her turn and her time to live. And M&M had better watch out.
Cynthia got up and got dressed, aware of how unhappy she was with her limited choices. Knee-length pleated shorts. Cotton blouses in pastel colors. She looked through her wardrobe with a critical eye. Not a single thing in it would do. Not one thing was something she had picked because she'd liked it. It had all met her mother's approval. Cynthia's wardrobe was expensive, tasteful, classical and dull, dull, dull.
Did anything in her closet speak of an artist's soul or an adventurous heart? She wanted color instead of neutrals. She wanted boldness instead of conservatism. She wanted flow rather than rigidity. And she could start with her wardrobe!
An hour later, she tucked her credit card into the pocket of knee-length, knife-creased shorts that she was wearing for the very last time and headed out the door to the wonderful little mall at La Torchere. She hoped Parris would be there!
Merry Montrose stared at her cell phone, aghast. It was at her feet and it was in tiny pieces.
She really shouldn't have lost her temper and jumped up and down on top of it. Magic cell phones were hard to procure and difficult to replace.
"My girl," she said to herself, "your temper has always been a teeny problem in your life."
Still, a little temper was understandable. After she had set up that lovely romantic evening for Cynthia and Rick— that little beach hardly anyone knew about, candles in the sand, a blanket, a basket filled with champagne and choc—she hadn't even been able to check in and see how they were progressing.
It made her so mad she gave the destroyed phone one more little kick.
Well, there was nothing else to do about it except what ordinary people did when they wanted to see how their meddling had worked out. She'd have to ask. Cynthia or Rick? Cynthia was the more approachable of the two. She could probably milk all kinds of information out of her without the poor dear even knowing she was being milked.
But when she picked up her regular phone and dialed Cynthia's room, there was no answer. When she dialed Rick's, there was.
A harsh voice growled, "I'm not home," and the receiver was slammed down in her ear.
Which meant he was home. But his mood! Did that bode well for romance? It did not! Merry now felt frantic for the details of Rick and Cynthia's liaison last night.
Of course, she couldn't just waltz over there without an excuse. She'd have to pretend she had business about the new chapel. What, though? The resort owner was pressing her for a location? A price? She had to be careful. Rick had been a hair away from deserting the project last night. How about, she thought, if a signature was missing from the contract?
That would do nicely! She retrieved the contract. With her legal background it would be simple to insert a line. But it was even simpler just to wiggle her finger. She inserted a line on it that hadn't been there before.
"That's how magic is supposed to work," she told the cell phone as she stepped over it and headed across the resort to Rick's complex.
She found his place easily, and it was obvious he wasn't receiving guests. Possibly he was not even out of bed, which might explain the cantankerous tone of voice he had used on the phone. The complimentary morning paper was still on his step. All the curtains were drawn. The Do Not Disturb sign glared from his door handle.
"A shame," she said, "on a bright sunny day like this to be holed up inside a cave."
Then she giggled, because of course that is what bears did. They holed up inside caves on nice, sunny days.
It probably meant, she decided with a little shiver of de, that his evening had gone exceptionally well. He had probably wooed that lucky Cynthia deep into the night. He was tired. He had slept in. Perfectly understandable.
She just couldn't wait to hear about it. She knocked on the door, dismissing the Do Not Disturb sign. It was obviously intended for housekeeping, not for her.
Then she heard a deep growl from within and felt a little quiver of doubt. It was probably not a good idea to disturb the bear within his den, but then Rick wasn't really a bear. What was he going to do, tear her head off?
She knocked again, though a little more timidly than was her nature.
He yanked open the door and she took a step back, wondering if her head was indeed in danger of being torn off.
Rick looked magnificent, in drawstring sweats and nothing else. The man was magnificently made, all rippling muscle and bronzed skin. But his expression was brooding, the scars on his face standing out harshly in the bright sun. His eye patch made him look exceedingly dangerous and his good eye flashed with irritation.
"What?" he snarled, not even a pretense of civilized politeness.
"I—I was just in the area and thought I'd drop off this contract. I noticed yesterday that you forgot to sign it in one place."
He took the contract from her with enough force to rip it in two. He didn't even glance at it. He stepped back from the door, and it was obvious he planned to shut it in her face!
"Er-hmm! Mr. Barnett?" She was pleased that she could still muster a royal tone when need be.
The door reopened marginally. "What?" he growled.
"I just wondered about last night. Um, you know, how it went."
He glared at her ferociously, then shut the door. A moment later, the door swung open. Out of the darkness the picnic basket she had packed so lovingly the night before was hurled at her. It landed with a thud at her feet.
"It didn't," he said, and slammed the door.
Merry looked down at the basket, back to the door, and back to the basket. "Oh, dear," she said. "This is very, very bad."
She scooped up the basket and walked away, somewhat dazed. She saw a bench beside one of the walkways and collapsed on it. Disconsolately, she sorted through the cons. The champagne was untouched; not a strawberry or chocolate was missing.
She felt as though she was going to weep. Not just for Cynthia and Rick, but for herself. What if she was doomed to live like this forever? What if they didn't fall in love? Didn't even come close? What then?
She looked down at the wrinkles on her hands, the skin stretched paper-thin over bones and tendons, the knobbiness of her wrists.
"Everything all right, Ms. Mont
rose?"
It was that darned handyman. Every time she saw him, her heart did a little tumble. Or at least the heart of the younger woman who resided inside her tumbled.
He was gorgeous. All burnished muscle and astounding good looks. She had always liked blondes, especially in tropical climates. Their skin turned to brushed gold. His eyes were so intensely blue, riveting. If she were her normal self, he was just the kind of man she might have flirted with.
Or maybe not. She was a princess, after all. And he was a lowly laborer.
Although something about being old and ugly, and living the life of an ordinary working person, was making the kinds of judgments she had always made seem hopelessly outdated, not to mention horribly snobby.
It occurred to her, and not happily, either, that even if she was returned to her normal self, she was never going to be the same person she had been before.
With a little cry of dismay she leapt up from the bench and hurried away from the quizzical look of a gorgeous man who saw her only as a homely and probably very pathetic old woman.
Her head down, hurrying, she nearly smashed into the young woman coming down the path swinging a shopping bag.
All the things she might never be again. Lovely, radiant, young.
"Cynthia?" She stopped in her tracks and regarded the woman, astounded by what she saw.
Cynthia was dressed in a peek-a-boo sundress of Egyptian cotton dyed a deep rich aqua. The simple lines of the dress showed off the litheness and loveliness of her young body, the length of her slender, flawless legs. Her hair was loose and the sun brought out natural highlights of copper and gold. Her face was sun-kissed, and it showed off the line of her cheekbone and the sweep of her mouth. Her eyes were really quite astonishing, part green and part gold.
Cynthia Forsythe looked gorgeous, not at all like the little bookworm Merry had sat beside at the beach yesterday.
"You look stunning, my dear," Merry said.
"Thank you! I feel wonderful."
"You do?"
"Yes, I do. I've been thinking about your story."
"You have?"
"Yes. You know what bothers me about it?"
"No. What?"
"The daughter! She was so passive. She was hardly even a participant in the story. Everyone else controlled her."
"You don't say," Merry said, but she could feel hope beginning to beat a small tattoo in her chest.
"I've been like her, before, but no more."
"Good for you, my dear," Merry said spiritedly, so much so that she dropped her basket.
"What's that you have there?" Cynthia asked, stooping to pick it up for her. "What a lovely basket. There's champagne in it, but the bottle didn't break."
Lightbulbs were going off like firecrackers in Merry's head. "Isn't that lucky? The basket contains a romantic evening for two, all packaged up."
"Really?" Cynthia breathed.
"Candles, wine, strawberries, chocolates."
"Oh," Cynthia said, her eyes riveted on the contents of the basket.
"Would you like it?" Merry asked softly.
"You'd give it to me?"
"Only if you have someone to share it with."
"I do! I mean, I hope I do. How silly. I mean I do, but I don't even know how to contact him, so…" She tried to hand the basket back, but Merry refused it with a gesture.
"Do you believe in magic?" she asked quietly.
"Well, not really."
"Do you want to?"
"Oh, yes, I do!"
"There's a beach that hardly anyone knows about. Let me tell you where it is. Go there tonight and believe. Wish as hard as you can. You might be amazed by what happens."
"And I might be crushed, too," Cynthia said, but when she left her step was light. She clutched her basket like a girl who wanted desperately to believe in magic.
Merry did something she had not done since she was a little girl. She crossed her fingers as she watched Cynthia go.
She didn't have a cell phone so she had to rush back to her office to call Rick Barnett.
For a long time it seemed as if he wouldn't answer his phone.
But finally he did.
"You should go to that beach again tonight," Merry told him quickly before he had a chance to hang up on her.
"I have other plans," he snarled and hung up on her anyway.
She stared at the phone, and then became aware that the handyman, Alex, was standing in her office door, looking at her, a package of lightbulbs in his hand.
"What?" she snapped. "I don't need any lights fixed."
"Sorry, ma'am. They were just an excuse. I wanted to make sure you were okay," he said. "You seemed distressed earlier."
"Really?" she said, slamming down the phone. He was being nice, but she couldn't even begin to be nice back. "Distressed is correct and that would be because fifty percent of the world's population is male!"
He lifted an eyebrow at her. Oh, he was so good-looking, and so sure of the fact, if she still had a cell phone she'd throw it at him.
"Am I supposed to apologize for that, Ms. Montrose?" he asked. "For the fact that fifty percent of the world's population is male?"
"Oh, get out of my sight you handsome insolent young pup, before I fire you."
He actually had the audacity to wink at her.
And that stupid wink made her feel as if everything in the world might work out after all.
And it made her yearn to be young again. She was willing to bet she'd overlook his low station in life. He still stood in the doorway, regarding her thoughtfully, as if she was a mystery he wanted to solve.
"Go away," she said crabbily. "Please go away. You make my head hurt."
And my heart. And a lot of other places, too.
He left the lightbulbs, backed out the door, and closed it quietly behind him.
It was the first time since he'd arrived in Florida that he'd been cold. But then Rick had been standing in the shrubs outside Cynthia's unit for over two hours. The stupid automatic sprinkler had come on and given him a dousing.
What was he doing here? It was obvious she was out. Probably dancing the night away with the Baron Gruntmunster.
He could go look, hang like a shadow around some of the resort's nightclubs, see where she was. It would not be hard to find someone on an island this size.
He reached into his pocket, before he gave up, and crept onto her balcony to leave another carving there.
It was of a dove. He wasn't even sure what it meant. Hope, he supposed, and soaring joyous flight.
He was stupid to be putting such sentiments into his carvings when real life had already shown him a much harsher reality. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he gave up his vigil and wandered down the walkway.
And then stopped.
What had Merry said to him when she had called him earlier? She'd woken him from a deep and troubled sleep. He'd been annoyed, only half awake.
Go to the beach, she had said.
But he'd had other plans. He'd been planning on waylaying Cynthia at her room, maybe picking up where they had left off last night.
He cursed his own stupidity. Merry knew! She knew who his heart yearned for. It was embarrassing and made him feel vulnerable as hell, but still she knew.
And suddenly he knew why she had told him to go to the beach.
Why that meddlesome old gal!
He moved into a sprint and arrived at the beach just in time to see Cynthia kicking sand over the candles, packing things carefully back in the basket. She was beautiful. The gunnysack beach cover was gone. She was wearing a bikini top and a long tie-on skirt. Both were the color of the sun, brilliant against the inkiness of the night.
"Hello," he said from the shadows.
She started, squinted into the darkness.
"Hello," she said softly.
"Were you expecting someone?"
"No. Yes. You."
"Me?" he breathed.
"Ridiculous, I know. I don't know anything
about you, really. Not even your name. Just that you hold people hostage for kisses. And you botch kidnappings."
He moved close to her, thankful the candles were out, thankful for the darkness of the night. The moon was new anyway, and it was overcast.
Darker than pitch out here.
He touched her face, and she closed her eyes. He touched her whole face, slowly, a blind man learning to see. And she never moved beneath the quest of his fingertips, except once to touch his thumb with her lips, to kiss it gently.
"Come swim with me," he said, and his voice was even more hoarse than normal.
"Yes," she said.
And he felt she was saying yes to way more than a swim.
Something in her had opened. As surely as that woman in his carving had been surging out of the sea, as surely as that dove had been soaring up to dance with the sky, Cynthia Forsythe was saying yes to life.
And he was the lucky son of a gun who got to be there as she did it.
She touched the knot that held the skirt at her hip, and it fell away. His mouth went dry. She was feminine perfection, all soft swells and long lines. The wind lifted the honey of her hair.
She was trying to see him, but he knew the moon was still slender enough that he was protected. Or she was. From the worst of it.
His hand found hers, closed around it. There was a feeling of homecoming as they raced hand in hand down to the ocean's edge, out into the waves and plunged into the water.
He heard her laughter and heard his joining it.
He could not remember when he'd last laughed like this. Of course, cloaked in darkness, he could be who he once had been.
He remembered it now—how he had been playful and mischievous. He remembered his energy and his love for life. Rick celebrated who he had once been as he ducked and splashed and swam and hid from her.
And then somehow they were wrapped together, wet skin against wet skin, her hair trailing along his shoulders.
He could feel the luscious curves of her, the sweetness of her breath, the song of her spirit.