Nighttime Sweethearts

by Cara Colter

  Merry looked askance.

  "I mean I haven't given him the gift of myself or anything."

  "Oh, I see! Still," Merry said, and her vague expression was gone. She was smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  "I don't even know if it's a man leaving those things," Cynthia sputtered defensively.

  "Of course it's a man," Merry said.

  "Well, if it is, I would like to know who."

  "Would you?"

  "Yes!"

  "Well, then wait for him. Do you think these little items are appearing by magic? Poof, a carving appears?"

  "You're the one who encouraged me to believe in magic!"

  "I know, but with some limits. It's not Bewitched, you know. People can't just move items with a twitch of their nose. At least not usually."

  "What are you saying?"

  "You college-educated girls can be so dim, really."

  It was said with such kindly exasperation that somehow Cynthia could not be offended.

  "If you want to see who is delivering these wonderful treasures, lie in wait. Set a trap."

  "Of course," Cynthia breathed. There was that hope again, fluttering in her breast like a bird that wanted out. She tried to quell it. "But that would assume he's coming back, that there are more gifts for me."

  Merry picked up the carving of the woman and then the one of the dove. She held it for a long time.

  Cynthia felt as if the elderly woman could feel the artist's spirit rising up through the wood as surely as Cynthia herself had been able to.

  "Of course he's coming back," Merry said with soft certainty. "Of course there will be more gifts."

  "So, what do I do if I catch him?"

  "Child, are you completely hopeless in the romance department?"

  Cynthia nodded solemnly.

  "You've never wooed a man before?"

  Cynthia shook her head.

  "Invite him to attend Parris's celebration with you. It would be perfect."

  Cynthia took a deep breath. She caught a glimpse of the woman she had been last night, coming out of the water. "All right, if I catch him, I will."

  "Not if," Merry corrected her, "when." She waltzed out the door, whistling.

  Whistling!

  It wasn't until the door was closed that Cynthia realized whatever remnants of a hangover she'd had were completely gone.

  Hours later, dressed in black and crouched in the bushes beside her terrace, Cynthia found that her confidence that her mystery man would appear had dissolved as completely as her hangover. This was not nearly as fun or as exciting as they made it look in the movies. She was cramped, she was cold and she was tired. She had to go to the bathroom. She had neglected to put on a watch, but she was sure it was well past midnight.

  He had come at dawn the time he had left the figurine of the woman, and she was almost positive she could not wait that long.

  Not even for love.

  She was ready to abandon her post when she heard a sound. Was she making it up? No, there was definitely someone else in the shrubs, moving stealthily toward her terrace.

  She had an awful thought. What if it wasn't him? A cat burglar! What good pickings there would be at a resort like this, where people of great wealth let their guards down so completely. She shrank back.

  And then she saw a dark form so close to her she could nearly touch him. Relief filled her.

  She knew it was him. She was not sure how, but she knew. Perhaps it was his scent, playing on the breeze, warm and masculine. Or the power in his stance, or his ease with the darkness.

  Amused now, she watched as he made his way out of the shrubs, hesitated on her terrace, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the gift. She waited until he had placed it, watching as he stood there.

  She could not see his face. She could only vaguely see his body, the silhouette of it dark and powerful. But she saw his hesitation and wanting. Wanting that matched her own.

  She waited until he had come off the patio and was moving stealthily away. She crept up behind him, and he froze, sensing her seconds before she spoke.

  "Don't turn around," she ordered him. The tension eased from the set of his shoulders.

  "All right. Can you tell me why?"

  "Certainly," she said. "This is a kidnapping." And she reached into the back pocket of her brand-new hip-hugging black jeans and removed the silk scrap from it.

  She reached up, and she had to stand on tiptoe to fasten it around his head and cover his eyes. As she placed it her fingers skimmed the patch that covered his left eye.

  As well as being scarred, he was partially blind, then. Was that why he didn't want her to see him? But it was romantic! Didn't he know that? That eye patch made him like a swashbuckler of old.

  Still, some sixth sense told her to honor his sensitivity to his handicap. Staying behind him, she whispered into him, how to move, what small hazards to avoid.

  She loved being behind him, allowed to study the sweep of his shoulders, the pantherlike grace of his walk, allowed to touch his elbow and be so close to him she could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

  Finally, they arrived at the beach where he had abandoned her the night before. She pressed her hands on his shoulders until he sat in the sand. She stayed behind, removed the silk cloth, then settled beside him. She tried to read his profile but the night seemed darker than ever. She could not tell if he was young or old, handsome or homely.

  And oddly, she didn't care about any of those things. "So," she said, "tell me about you."

  "Aren't you going to lecture me about leaving you last night? It was dastardly."

  She laughed. "How can you lecture a man who uses a word like dastardly?" She took a chance. "And wears an eye patch. Are you a pirate?"

  "No."

  "Convince me. You have stolen kisses. Tell me who you are."

  "What do you want to know first?"

  Everything seemed too small. Besides, she didn't want to know what he did for a living and she didn't want to know if he was a college graduate. She didn't want to know if he owned a house, or had a membership at a privileged golf club.

  Those were the things her mother would want to know.

  She wanted to know his heart.

  How did you know a man's heart?

  "What's your favorite constellation?" she asked on an impulse.

  He laughed, startled. "You can't even see the stars tonight. It's too overcast. But if you could, I would look for Orion, the hunter. When I look at the sky and see him, I feel the antiquity of the universe and the timelessness of beauty. I feel humbled by how all the best things are unchanging. The stars, the mountains, the sea. And you? Your favorite constellation?"

  "Orion, too," she said, feeling the thrill of his answer. It was as if she knew him, knew his soul and his heart, and his words had just confirmed her knowing. "Orion is the only one I know, really. I mean the Milky Way and the Big and Little Dipper, but Orion—when I was a little girl, my father would spin wonderful tales around him, tell me what he was hunting and why. He made up whole exciting lives for Orion."

  "And what is your favorite flower?" he asked her.

  She heard the hunger in his voice to know her in the very same way she wanted to know him.

  Not in the what-do-you-do-for-a-living way. Not in the small-talk-in-the-bar way.

  He wanted to know her heart and she thrilled to the realization.

  "Tulips," she said without hesitation.

  He laughed.

  "What's funny?" she demanded.

  "I don't know. I expected you to say orchids. I kind of picture you as a white rose—beauty and innocence combined."

  "What makes you say innocent?" she demanded, faintly peeved. Their kisses had been scorching in her mind.

  "I don't know. Do I sense a certain lack of, um, experience?"

  "No," she lied, and his easy laughter let her know she had not pulled it off.

  "So, why tulips?" he asked.

  "Because of how ear
ly they grow, practically popping up through the snow, so hardy and so resilient. I feel like they bring hope."

  "Funny you should mention that word," he said, almost to himself, but then retreated quickly from that place. His tone became light again. "Do you want to know my favorite flower? You can't laugh."

  "I won't."

  "I love dandelions."

  "No!" She did laugh.

  "Yeah. I haven't always. But I do now, because of a story I heard. You know those ones people send you on the Internet?"

  "Tell me." She loved the soft rasp of his voice. She felt as if she could listen to it forever.

  "A man from Barbados was visiting his son-in-law and daughter in the U.S. for the first time. He had arrived in the darkness, and in the morning the son-in-law was dismayed to see his new father-in-law at the window staring at his lawn. He was so embarrassed. He hadn't had time to mow. The dandelions had taken over. And then before he could apologize for the mess, his father-in-law turned to him and said, 'So beautiful, a lawn of pure sunshine. It must take you forever to plant all those flowers'."

  She laughed with delight.

  "So, I've decided I like them, too. They remind me that everything is perspective. Everything. So little is really true, it's only as we think it."

  And so the night went. They talked about flowers and philosophy and art and books. She told him once she had dreamed of being an artist, and even now she sometimes thought heaven would be running a small gallery. She told him about her work for her mother, and her creeping dissatisfaction, sentiments she had never expressed to anyone. They talked until she felt her voice was growing hoarse from it.

  Then, the night sky lightened, barely discernable, but she felt him stiffen beside her. She realized her voice was hoarse because she had done most of the talking. He had revealed little of himself.

  She could see the patch over his eye, and she could see the scars, though barely, because the night was still so thick around them. But while her eyes saw, her heart felt—felt his great aloneness, his enormous strength, his vulnerability.

  "Stay and watch the sun come up with me." She wanted to see all of him, in the full light. She wanted her acceptance to wash over him like a balm.

  "I can't."

  "Why?"

  "I fear I am like those dandelions, sweet lady. Most people would find me ugly."

  "Perhaps their perceptions are wrong," she said.

  "Perhaps," he agreed, but she heard the sadness in his voice.

  "Trust me?" she asked, pleading.

  "Not just yet, sweet lady," he said. "Close your eyes."

  She did, and he kissed her with such tenderness it could break her heart.

  "Tell me your name," she said.

  "Bear will do. And yours?"

  "Cynthia." But she felt disappointed he was trusting her with nothing, not even his name.

  "Are you married?" she asked suddenly.

  "No," he said, the insult of the question ringing in his voice.

  "Then why all the secretiveness?"

  He was silent for a long time. "Do you know what the hardest thing is for a man?" he asked, finally.

  "No."

  "Admitting fear."

  Fear she could understand. Had she not spent most of her life afraid? Afraid of the unknown? Afraid of disappointing those she loved? Afraid of striking out on her own instead of staying with her mother where everything was safe and predictable?

  "Good night, sweet lady." His lips touched hers again, and then he was gone.

  "Bear! Wait!"

  For a moment she thought he would not answer. But he did.

  "Cynthia?"

  "There's a wedding celebration. Two nights from now. Will you come with me?"

  "I can't."

  "It's outdoors. I'm sure we could find a place where the light was low. Please?"

  "How can I refuse you?" he asked, tormented. "How?"

  "Then don't."

  "I have to think about it. Two nights from now?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you meet me right here tomorrow, at this same time and I will give you my answer?"

  Her heart leapt, for she might not have a future, or a date for Parris and Brad's reception, but at least she had tomorrow.

  She walked home alone, but when she got there, she found the carving of the dolphin waiting for her on her outdoor table. As she traced its dancing joyous lines with her fingertips, it felt as if she wasn't alone at all.

  She looked at it and knew exactly what it represented. That night they had swum together, the freedom and joy the water and the night had given them. She clutched it to her breast and fiddled with the lock on her door.

  She came into her suite to find her mother just opening the adjoining door.

  "Oh, sorry, Cynthia. I was worried about you. Where have you been?"

  Falling in love. "Here and there," she told her mother vaguely.

  "My God, look at the time. It's nearly three in the morning. And you look like a cat burglar, all dressed in black like that. Have I seen those slacks before? Jeans, aren't they?"

  Jeans was said in a tone she usually reserved for cockroaches.

  "Mother, I'm exhausted. Could we talk later?"

  "Jerome told me I must stop prying into your life. Cynthia, he said I was the mother from hell! That isn't true, is it?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then can I pry?"

  "No."

  Her mother sighed. "Cynthia, it's very hard for me to mind my own business!"

  "Why don't you tell me what you've been doing these last few days," Cynthia said to distract her, sinking onto the sofa and patting the spot beside her.

  Her mother told her eagerly. Cynthia was not even sure if Emma was aware that every sentence contained the word Jerome at least once.

  "Tonight we met the loveliest young couple. They're getting married on Thursday, and they were gracious enough to invite us to the reception."

  "Really?" Cynthia said, hoping the lateness of the hour would help her mother overlook the woodenness of her tone.

  "Why, Parris said she knew you! And that you were going, too."

  "Maybe."

  "I hope this means I finally get to meet this mystery man of yours. There is a man, isn't there? I mean I'm not prying! Just reading all the signs."

  But Cynthia's spirit felt as though it was sinking like a stone.

  She had told Bear he could trust her.

  But now she wondered how true that was. Because she did not want him to be subjected to her mother's judgments.

  And why was that?

  Because her mother would never in a million years tell her to choose a man with palms that were rough. Oh, no. The exact opposite might be true. She would look down on a man with rough working hands. And a patch over his eye. And a voice as rough as ridged concrete.

  Everything was so new. Was it strong enough to withstand the winds of disapproval? Was she?

  Chapter Seven

  The transition from the otherworldly peace and tranquility of La Torchere to the harsh lights and relentless activity of the emergency ward made Cynthia's head throb.

  Though given the size of the lump on her head, it would very likely have been throbbing, anyway.

  "Just a little while longer," the white-clad nurse told Cynthia with a cheery smile. "Sorry for the wait, but we've just had a car accident. The whole family is in, poor things."

  It wasn't that Cynthia didn't have sympathy for the family who had been in the car accident. It was just that she had some place to be.

  She pressed the cloth to her aching forehead, snuck another look at the clock, and moaned. She cursed her stupidity and bad luck. She had stumbled over a table in her room and cracked her head open.

  "Are you all right?" her mother asked solicitously, then glared at the busy nurse.

  "Oh, never better," Cynthia said, heard the snap and sarcasm in her own voice and felt too trapped and out of sorts to be ashamed of it.

  At this very
moment, she was supposed to be with her Bear. He was going to give her his answer tonight about the wedding, though she knew his answer would reflect more than whether or not they were going to a wedding celebration together.

  It would reflect whether they were moving forward, as a couple, chancing commitment in small ways. It would reflect whether or not the little thrill of possessiveness she felt when using the phrase her Bear, had any basis at all in reality.

  No, the event itself—Parris and Brad's wedding—really wasn't the important part. Though the thought of attending an event that affirmed the power of love and the existence of romance would be wonderful, it was Bear's answer that was important.

  Which was why Cynthia had been thinking about changing plans. Once he said yes to the wedding, she'd tell him it wasn't that important. Men hated weddings, anyway, didn't they? Cynthia didn't want to be any place with Bear if her mother was going to be there. How fun would that be, trying to duck her mother all night? She didn't have to dread the mommy test if there wasn't going to be one.

  Still, regardless of his answer about the wedding, they could have had tonight. They should have had tonight. Her heart warmed at the thought of one more night with him— talking, swimming, laughing. Kissing.

  The remembrance of his kisses made her shiver.

  "Are you going to faint?" her mother asked. "Jerome, do you think Cynthia is going to faint?"

  "I don't think so," he said calmly.

  "I'm not going to faint, Mother, honestly. I have a scratch on my head. We shouldn't wait here a moment longer. These people are busy with real emergencies."

  They shouldn't wait because at this very moment Bear would be sliding from the treeline onto the beach, all dark grace and powerful masculine mystique.

  Cynthia was so drawn by the picture, by her need to be with him, that she rose to her feet.

  It was Jerome, not her mother, who put a hand on her forearm, and pushed her gently back down.

  "You really need to have a doctor look at that," he said firmly.

  She glanced again at the clock, feeling almost frantic. He would be looking around now, wondering where she was, scanning the walkways for her. Maybe he would be settling in the sand, looking out over the water.

  And Cynthia was on the mainland! In the emergency room of a Fort Myers hospital, her forehead laid open wide, with not one single way of getting word to the man who waited for her.