Summer on the Cape

by J. M. Bronston

  Abruptly, as though she’d been slapped, Allie recognized the real source of her anxiety. A wash of terrible memory clutched deep inside her body.

  Of course. The recognition came with heart-wrenching clarity. Of course.

  The bad weather, the rough waters below her. How could she not feel fearful? Inevitably, like cold hands over her face, it all came back.

  It was down there, in one of those little seaside towns where rich people had their summer homes and where they kept their pretty sailboats in the town marinas, that she’d had to go to claim her father’s body. The Coast Guard had been holding him in a horrible little local morgue, and a union representative had been sent to her home in the Bronx to tell her of her father’s death. She was a few months short of her eighteenth birthday, barely old enough, they thought, to handle the details, so the Coast Guard officer told her only that the winds of a sudden winter storm had swept her father from the deck of the barge as it fought its way through the fierce waves. What they didn’t tell her, she already knew. Probably he’d been drinking. They thought a girl who was still in her teens should be shielded from such harsh realities. But it was too late for that. Allie Randall already had a firm grip on reality, in all its harshness.

  Those men at the morgue had no way to know, but Allie had been handling “the details” ever since her mother’s death, six years earlier. While Mike Randall, bereft, sank into ever-lengthening periods of bitter self-pity, raging piteously against his fate, his daughter took on the care of their shabby little house on Etheridge Street, a sad little fringe of a decaying old neighborhood in the Bronx, only steps from the river, under a dirty network of railroad bridges and factory smokestacks. Young as she was, she quickly learned to manage the real demands of everyday life. She learned to manage the meager wages Mike earned working the barges along the Sound, and on the infrequent nights that he came home, she had a hot meal ready for him—and stayed clear of his helpless rages as he grew increasingly hard on himself and on everyone else. He drank too much and, though he never struck her, she learned to be wary around him.

  In time, the little girl became glad that her father was rarely home. Mike needed comfort far more than he could give it, and so the little girl mourned the loss of her mother alone.

  Who can say why it was that Allie found her own comfort in the little sketches that began to fill her notebooks? What moved her to capture the radiant beauty of the color-filled sky and the shifting tints and hues of the trees and houses around her? In the evenings, when her schoolwork and her housework were done, the lonely little girl painted pictures of everything she had seen that day: the sky and the bridges and the people on the streets. It was almost enough to make up for the loss of a normal home and family. Almost. But she could never put aside her fantasies about the others, the girls at school who, she was sure, went home to ideal families, to warm kitchens and happy laughter and loving parents. Too proud to allow anyone to know the sad circumstances of her life, she learned to move unobtrusively among her classmates, drawing little attention to herself, making no close friends, and becoming an observer rather than observed. Like so many lonely and neglected children, she watched from outside the circle of other girls’ popularity. But for Allie, this was not the sad place of isolation and resentment that it might have been. With the clear eye and the exquisite sensitivity of the skilled artist she was becoming, it brought her profound pleasure to pay close attention to the ways emotion and character were revealed in faces and body language, to feel her talent and her art as they gathered strength inside her and built a force against the demons of envy and self-doubt that are so often the result of poverty and isolation. Gradually, the pages of her sketchbooks filled with drawings of people from the world around her, faces seen in the school’s lunchroom, in homeroom, on the streets of her neighborhood, and in the shops where she bought her groceries—brilliant portraits, quickly captured.

  Fortunately, her teachers recognized her talent and with their help, before her junior year, Allie was granted a full scholarship at an exclusive prep school where her talent would be properly developed. It was a prize plum, rarely awarded.

  But there are no pure pleasures and the price Allie paid for her scholarship was the ostracism by some of her new classmates, rich kids who, with their privilege and a meanness of spirit, tried their best to make her miserable. Their message was clear. She should understand that despite her scholarship and her presence in their midst, she was an intruder; there were doors that would never open for her, there were worlds that would never welcome her, there were places where she would never belong. Though they couldn’t break her spirit and they couldn’t take away her talent—for that became still more powerful as her sword and her shield—they did make wounds that her later maturity and experience could only veil but never fully heal. The damage had been done.

  The cool window of the plane felt good against Allie’s forehead. She lifted her gaze from the waters below, and stared straight out into the sky, empty except for misty clouds, empty except for the memories, memories of that cold night, the cold morgue, her father’s body cold on a gurney. Memories of her life after Mike Randall’s death.

  Her years of managing home and finances and her obvious independence and competence made it easy for the union’s staff to provide for her legal guardianship for the few months remaining until her eighteenth birthday, so she was able to stay at home and continue at her school. There’d been a small insurance policy, enough to get her through a year or two, and, as she stood by her father’s drowned body, Allie made a truce with her many losses. She would not let self-pity hold her back. She was determined to use the grace period the insurance money provided to begin to build her own life on the twin pillars of her talent and her stubborn independence.

  She rarely thought now about those hard times. Success was becoming a reality, and she was beginning to enjoy the fruits of her hard work. Adam had encouraged her to concentrate on portrait work, and she was already being recognized as one of New York’s most gifted young portrait painters. There were many blessings to count and she was grateful for each of them.

  She sighed deeply once or twice, and closed the door again on the bad memories. With both hands, she brushed her ragged bangs back from her forehead and looked around her—and realized, as the plane continued on to Cape Cod, that her anxiety had disappeared.

  * * *

  The plane swung out over the ocean to make its approach into the windswept landing strip outside Provincetown. Allie watched, fascinated, as they flew low over the blue ocean, over white waves at the shore’s edge and then over pale yellow beach fringed by green-tipped dunes. The gray runway lay straight ahead of them, flat and bare in the bright sunlight and a strong crosswind bounced the little Cessna up and down as it made its wobbling descent onto the field. To her amazement, the pilot looked totally unconcerned, making a perfectly smooth landing and taxiing the plane up to the terminal building as gently as a grandma wheeling a baby’s stroller through the park. After the door opened, Allie let the other passengers leave ahead of her, and took a minute to catch her breath, glad to be on solid ground.

  She had to scrunch down to step through the low doorway onto the steps that were suspended by a thick wire from the plane’s door opening, and she grasped the wire to steady herself as she stepped onto the tarmac. Then she stood up straight, shifting her bag by its shoulder strap to be more comfortable. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight broke through the cloud cover, and a light breeze sent a strand of her hair across her brow. She lifted her hand to brush it back. She paused and looked around her.

  * * *

  Zach heard the plane’s engine as it taxied down the runway, coming to a stop not far from the terminal building. He opened his eyes and watched as Sonny Boardman, the mechanic, ran out to the plane and opened its little door, letting down the attached steps. A couple of passengers got out but neither of them could be Adam’s “guest.” He recognized the first person out of the plane, Jim Sargent
’s girl, Molly, back from school for the summer. The second was a businessman, carrying a briefcase and two tennis rackets, probably coming up to the Cape for a long weekend.

  A few moments passed and through the plane’s windows, Zach could see that only one passenger remained. At last she came through the door and down the steps. As he watched her from across the field, she stopped and shifted her bag on her shoulder. There was a sudden break in the cloud cover, and a shaft of light fell on her as she lifted her arm and brushed her hair back from her eyes.

  Zach Eliot stopped dead in his tracks.

  He had the extraordinary sensation that the sunshine had come with her, breaking across the field just as she’d stepped from the plane, bathing the tarmac and the trees and the terminal building, and yes, Zach himself, with its warmth. As though it were for his benefit alone, the wind lifted her hair, and she brought up a hand to hold the strands away from her face, displaying, with that simple gesture, a lithe femininity that sent a tightening quiver through Zach’s body. She was looking away from him, toward the trees that surrounded the field, and she seemed to be savoring the light and the sweet summer scents that filled the air.

  The late afternoon sun, glowing behind her, lit the thick waves of her honey-gold hair, and the light breeze moved it gently away from her shoulders. In her slim figure, clad in white pants and jacket, poised against the breeze, with one arm raised, Zach saw gentle grace and quick energy combined in one lovely form.

  He was totally stunned. It wrenched his gut to admit it, but damn it, Adam Talmadge had found himself an absolute knockout! With an effort, Zach forced himself into motion. He straightened up and walked across the field to meet her.

  * * *

  Allie looked around the airfield, made a quick study of her new surroundings, and understood immediately why artists liked to work here. The light across the field was flat and clear, as if it came up from the ground instead of down from the sky. She liked the way it lit up the undersides of the low trees that surrounded the field. She liked the way the wind blew in from the ocean and lifted the hair away from her face.

  And she had seen something else she liked right away. He was tall and slim and had a comfortable way of leaning against the wall of the terminal building. Allie had sketched hundreds of gorgeous male bodies in her art classes and her professional eye saw immediately that the body inside those tight jeans and that blue denim work shirt was as lean and hard and healthy as any of them. He had strong, hard-working muscles and a kind of easy, masculine grace that, even at a distance, had a surprisingly stirring effect on her.

  He was walking across the field now, and she had a chance to get a good look at him in the bright sunlight. Now that, she said to herself, is an astoundingly good-looking man! She let her eyes run over his body as he walked toward her, liking the look of his legs in the smooth jeans, the easy strength of his well-formed forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. With the experienced eye of a first-rate portrait artist, Allie did a quick inventory of his face. He had blue eyes set deep under strong black eyebrows, and black hair, cut short, trimmed close at the temples, where the gray was beginning to show. His mouth was wide and full, humorous, between deep furrows in a face so darkly tanned she knew he must spend most of his time outdoors.

  She was especially attracted to that mouth. It was a mouth that would be quick to smile, quick to laugh. She recognized strength and poise reflected there. But there was something else, something she could not clearly identify. It was Allie’s business to be especially sensitive to the emotions that were revealed—or concealed—by faces, and in this one there was evidence of a deep sorrow. But she saw also the self-control in this handsome, mature face, and she knew he’d be slow to reveal to anyone what lay behind that sorrow.

  Her examination of him was brought to a sudden halt. To her surprise, he stopped in front of her and spoke her name: “Ms. Randall?”

  “Yes. I’m Allie Randall.” How did he know her name? Then, abruptly, she realized that this very good looking, sexy man must be the one Adam had said would meet her. She’d been expecting a much older man. Certainly no one who looked like this! “You must be Mr. Eliot. Mr. Talmadge told me you’d be meeting my plane. I do appreciate your picking me up.”

  His response puzzled her. Some men had a way of undressing a woman with their eyes. Allie knew what that felt like and she knew how to handle it. This was different. This man was almost caressing her with his gaze, and yet at the same time there was something angry in his expression. And his words, though polite, were just barely so, his tone unnecessarily brusque.

  “No problem, Ms. Randall,” he said curtly. He took Allie’s carry-on bag out of her hand and, with a quick gesture, slung it over his shoulder. “As soon as your things are off the plane, I’ll get them out to the truck. I’ll be able to drive you to the house but I can’t take any more time to show you around.” The irritation in his voice was unmistakable. “The harbor master’s waiting for me down at the dock.”

  What’s the matter with the man? she wondered. And what’s the matter with me? If I’d known he was going to be so rude, I wouldn’t have given that handsome face a second look, much less such a thoughtful analysis. A “deep sorrow” indeed! Allie could feel her own defensiveness spring up protectively around her. She’d barely arrived on Cape Cod, and already the natives were hostile.

  “I realize you must have a very busy schedule, Mr. Eliot,” she said, as coolly as she could.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, ma’am, at this time of the year, what with setting the moorings in the harbor and getting the boats in the water and all, we do get a little pressed for time.” His tone matched hers for coolness. They both waited silently while her luggage was unloaded from the plane’s wing lockers and set down next to where they were standing at the terminal door.

  “It’s all mine,” Allie said, pointing to the suitcase of clothes and the several boxes of art supplies and easels. “I’m going to be working while I’m here.”

  “Working for Mr. Talmadge?” He bent to pick up her suitcase and Allie tried to keep her gaze away from the strong muscles of his back and arms, apparent even through the soft denim shirt.

  “In a way. I’ll be doing some work in connection with a project he’s interested in.” The words were barely out of her mouth when she remembered that Adam had said not to talk about it.

  She was startled by the intense look Zach gave her, peering darkly at her from under those black brows, as though something she’d said had angered him. “Adam’s project, hm?” He paused momentarily, and then said curtly, “I’ll show you where the truck is out in front, and then I’ll come back and get the rest of your things.”

  She followed him through the little terminal building, aware that, although she’d been infuriated by this irritating man, she felt a powerful impulse as she walked behind him to reach out and touch his back, to stroke that shoulder, to run her fingers down that strong arm and along the tanned skin that was exposed by the rolled-up sleeve.

  If I were a sculptor, what a great model he’d be!

  Embarrassed by her sudden, confused feelings, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

  Zach opened the door of the terminal and walked over to a heavy-duty green Ford pickup that was parked at the curb. He dropped her suitcase into the bed of the truck and then opened the door for her. Allie’s breath caught momentarily as she took his hand, needing his help to step up to the passenger seat. His grip was firm and the touch of his rough skin, warm against the palm of her hand, sent a hot current running through her. She could feel the flush rising in her cheeks and, as she sat back on the seat, she turned her face away from him, afraid that he’d see her reaction. But he had already left, gone back to the field to get her boxes.

  Allie needed a minute to regain her composure. She took a couple of deep breaths, letting the breeze that was blowing in from the ocean cool her off, bringing back her usual self-control. And while she waited for
Zach to return with the rest of her things, she studied the interior of his truck, comparing it with the elegant, dark gray leather interior of Adam Talmadge’s sleek town car. On the seat next to her, there was a large flashlight and a short coil of rope. A couple of screwdrivers and a long wrench had been tossed on top of the dashboard, along with a yellow paperback volume that had Eldridge’s Tide and Pilot Book printed on its cover. She riffled through the book, but its contents, full of tables and charts, were a mystery to her, and she returned it to the dashboard.

  She ran her hand lightly over the screwdriver, the wrench, the tide book.

  So that’s Zachariah Eliot. Not at all what I expected. Much younger, of course, and extraordinarily handsome. Ruggedly handsome. With that amazing, craggy face, like something out of an old Marlboro ad.

  But something’s making him mad, and it seems to be me.

  Chapter Two

  Allie was still poking around in Zach’s things when she heard her boxes being dropped into the truck bed behind her. A moment later, Zach opened the door on the driver’s side and hoisted his long frame onto the seat beside her. With a quick, efficient gesture, he started the motor and swung the truck away from the curb.

  He drove silently, his eyes on the road ahead of him, his lips tightened against the anger that he was barely controlling. Allie tried to ignore him, willing to let him be silent and just get this drive over with as quickly as possible. The sooner he got her to Adam’s house, the better.

  But her artist’s eyes kept sliding over to examine those hard-working hands that rested lightly on the steering wheel, the long, muscular legs stretched forward to the pedals, and the arms, extended comfortably to the wheel, powerful under the rolled-up sleeves of his soft shirt. She made a note of the lift of his head as he watched the road ahead of him, the strong profile—held firmly away from her—against a moving background of trees and shrubbery, green and silver in the afternoon sunlight. He had his window open, and the wind was ruffling his hair back from his forehead, and she struggled against the unaccustomed, intimate stimulation of her senses. It had been astonishing; the merest touch of Zach Eliot’s hand, and she had experienced arousal as though for the first time.