She gazed down at her uneaten breakfast, acknowledging the truth of his observation by her silence yet knowing that Tucker knew far more about her than he realized, far more than any other man had ever discovered.
His sigh was a soft resignation. “And today you’re leaving.”
She looked up at that, feeling somehow defensive. “I told you in the beginning I couldn’t stay longer. I thought you understood.” Suddenly the words she had been about to say echoed in her memory with eerie dejà vu. He had said the same thing to her once ... on paper. She still could remember how heavy the letter had felt in her hands, how much its message had hurt. And now, with the remembering, came a feeling of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Tucker, but I have to leave.”
He frowned his frustration. “I’m not going to throw myself in front of your car to stop you. I’m only asking for some information: Your phone number and your address. You can’t expect me to let you go without at least knowing how to find you again.”
She pushed back from the table and carried her plate to the sink. “I don’t want you to find me again.”
His chair scraped against the tiled floor, and then his hands were on her shoulders, roughly turning her to face him. “You don’t mean that,” he said, his eyes intensely blue and compelling.
“Tucker, I....” Her self-control wavered beneath his regard, but she gathered her resolve. “You’ve made this a wonderful vacation, one I’ll never forget. But your life, your career, are here. There isn’t even a hospital in…where I live. It’s better if we say goodbye now.”
“Tell me where you live, Kristina.” It was a quiet but convincing display of his determination. The grip on her shoulders tightened, tugging at a strand of her hair and at her veneer of calm. “I’ll find you one way or another, so why don’t you just tell me?”
She was cornered. If she refused again, it would only make him more determined. She tried to lift her shoulders in a conceding shrug. “Maple Ridge. It’s about sixty miles from Russellville.”
His expression softened. “Thank you.”
“I meant what I said, Tucker. Today is goodbye.”
“And tomorrow’s another day. Don’t think I’m going to let you just walk out of my life.”
“You did it once before.” The accusation was out before she could stop it, and she was unprepared for his reaction.
He became instantly still, as if absorbing not only the words but the myriad of emotions behind them. Kris stared up at him, wishing with all her being that she had kept silent.
“My God,” he whispered. “I knew someone must have hurt you at some time in your life, but I—” His hands slid the length of her arms and wrapped themselves around her cold fingers. “Am I responsible for hurting you, Kris?”
He was responsible for more than he would ever know, but the hurt? No, she had created that for herself. “I didn’t mean that, Tucker. I shouldn’t have said it. It was unfair to bring up the past. I’m sorry.” With a wry frown she disengaged her fingers and stepped back. “I seem to be forever apologizing this morning. Maybe it’s time I got ready to go.”
She turned and walked toward the door, but she had to stop when she heard him call her name. Her heart pounded with futile wishes; her memory held fast to the timbre of his voice. Closing her eyes, she braced herself to face him before turning again.
“Kristina,” he repeated in a voice both tender and determined. “I don’t want to spoil what’s left of our time together with an argument, but I want you to know that this isn’t good-bye. I have commitments here in Denver, but as soon as I can arrange it, I’m coming to see you. There hasn’t been enough time to discover what kind of relationship might develop between us, given the opportunity. I’m going to give us the chance to find out.” He paused as if waiting for her protest, but none would come. “I just wanted you to know.”
She nodded, and as he watched her leave the room, he admitted that the curious knot in his stomach had an element of uncertainty. Why was he being so persistent about seeing her again? And why was she so against the idea?
He didn’t understand, couldn’t follow her reasoning. His career was here; hers was in a small town with no hospital. What in hell did that have to do with anything? He hadn’t asked her to move to Denver, hadn’t considered doing so. Even if their feelings developed into commitment, as he thought they might, surely job location would be a point on which they could compromise.
He wasn’t sure he had a career worthy of compromise—if the question should arise—and at the moment a town without a hospital sounded good to him. A town in which Kristina lived sounded even more appealing.
Shoving a hand into his pocket, Tucker turned to look out the window at the May sunshine. A robin poked relentlessly at the ground, and he absently watched its persistence.
How had she become so important to him in such a short time? Two days — and two nights — had captured him, and he didn’t want her to go. There was so much he hadn’t discovered about her, so much more he wanted to know.
She was elusive, allowing him no more than a quicksilver glimpse of the emotion and life experiences that had created both her coolly deliberate composure and her warmly impulsive laughter. He never before had met anyone like her; he’d never before shared so much of himself with another person. And until this morning he hadn’t realized that she had shared so little with him.
How had that happened? In their exchange of ideas, in the give-and-take of their companionable silences, in the communion of their lovemaking, he’d felt closer to her than he had ever felt to another person. And he’d thought she felt the same.
He frowned as the robin suddenly took flight and winged away. Why had Kris made that unexpected reference to the past? Was it possible he’d been the one who hurt her?
That was hard to believe. It had been so long ago, and their time together so brief. One weekend, however perfect, was only a heartbeat in the framework of passing years.
But he hadn’t imagined that peculiar edge in her voice. You did it once before. What had she meant? He’d been honest from the beginning of that idyllic weekend to its conclusion. He’d told her there was no place in his life for a continuing relationship, no matter how much he might wish to see her again.
The letter he’d received a few weeks later had surprised him, but he’d answered it as honestly as he knew how. And when the second letter arrived —a pale lavender envelope with a hint of fragrance; funny, he should remember that—he’d returned it unopened, deciding it was better not to allow a correspondence to develop between them. He wasn’t particularly proud of his behavior now, but he couldn’t believe it had created the scars that Kristina tried so hard to conceal.
He’d been a first-class fool to let her walk out of his life then. And no matter what she said, he wasn’t going to repeat that mistake. The tables were turned. This time she’d told him — from the beginning —that she didn’t want to get involved. But her voice, the nervous movements she sometimes made, even the shadowed look in her eyes, gave a different impression. The time they’d spent together had been as special for her as it had for him. He was experienced enough to recognize that.
But special or not, she had some reason for maintaining that elusive distance, and he was persistent enough to find out what that reason might be. He’d give her some time to gain a bit of perspective and, maybe, to miss him a little. That he was going to miss her, more than a little, was already evident. The afternoon stretched before him with all the appeal of a week-old newspaper and an empty refrigerator.
But he’d keep busy until he could go to her, see her again, and then....
Tucker turned back to the kitchen clutter and felt warmed by the memories of their morning together. For the first time in almost a year he felt good about life and about himself. Kristina was an inseparable part of that emotion, and he wasn’t going to let her slip away without a protest.
When she walked into the kitchen again a few minutes before noon, Tucker had sorted through his thoughts and
decided to treat this good-bye as the temporary parting he intended it to be. But seeing her hesitate in the doorway, as if she, too, was dreading the coming farewell, tested his resolve to keep things casual.
Her hair no longer covered her shoulders in fine-spun gold. It was confined now. It was no less beautiful, simply different. Just as the expression in her eyes was different. Solitude was almost a tangible part of her again, and he knew she had her emotions under strict control. She looked calm and reserved, ready to leave Denver — and Tucker McCain — behind.
He waited there by the window, wanting to go to her and hold her close for a while. But he waited instead, hoping she would make the gesture and come to him. She took a step. He breathed again, and when she placed her hand in his larger one, Tucker thought he had never known a feeling quite so special.
“I’m going to miss you, Kris.” He spoke lightly, knowing she would shy away from anything more. “You haven’t left yet, and I’m already lonely.”
Her smile was fleeting and noncommittal, but he saw the wistful reflection in her eyes. “I wouldn’t like to think you could forget me too soon, Tucker.”
He squeezed her hand and then bent to brush her lips in denial. Her mouth was cool and moist to the touch, but he didn’t press for a response. Not yet. “I won’t forget you. I’m planning to write your name on my arm in case I have trouble remembering.”
Her gaze flew to his in startled surprise, and then her smile made a slow, laughing reappearance. “I’m going to miss you, too.”
“Well, keep your mind on the map this afternoon. I don’t want you to get lost between here and Arkansas. You can miss me when you stop for the night. You can lie in bed and think of me lying in bed thinking about you. And, Kris…?” He moved his hands to rest on her shoulders. “Call when you get home. I need to know that you’re safe.”
A quiet pleasure swirled inside her at his concern. “I’ll call.”
He drew her into the circle of his arms, and she linked her hands at the back of his neck, holding him close, savoring the last minutes of his nearness. Their eyes met and held, sharing the knowledge of what had been and an awareness that it was ending. Kris lifted her lips in invitation, wanting to forget in the sweet enchantment of his kiss.
Tucker met her halfway, and his touch brought a rush of warm emotions. The sense of belonging made a slow spiral through her thoughts as it did every time he held her. Lips, hands, body, soul, she was his for this one eternal moment. All that she had to give she gave to him, and she knew it was only a fragment of what she wanted to give. But she wouldn’t think of that now.
With gentle insistence she aligned her thighs to seductive closeness with his. Her breasts ached with wanting his touch, and she curved her fingertips into the dark, soft thickness of his hair. She wished for more time, for another hour to spend in his arms, in his bed. She wished for a future unblemished by the past, and she wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to say good-bye.
But it was over. She drew back, her mouth clinging to his in reluctant parting. There was a tender yearning in the blue gaze that caressed her face; there was a muted promise in the way he traced the outline of her mouth with his fingertip. She closed her heart against that promise, not willing to acknowledge or deny its existence. “I have to go now,” she murmured, her voice thick with the words she would not release.
He took her hand, and they walked through the silent house, stopping only long enough for Tucker to pick up her suitcase. That seemed final somehow, and Kris lifted her chin in acceptance.
Outside, the sunshine was cheery bright. The air held a nip of mountain freshness and the evanescent aura of spring. Kris always took her vacation in spring, or at least she always had. She thought perhaps she might choose a different season of the year next time.
Her shoes made a scuffy whisper against the sidewalk; Tucker’s made no sound at all. Her Ford gleamed bronze and almost new in the driveway, holding its own against the glistening black Mercedes beside it. She was glad now that she’d checked out of the hotel yesterday. She had kept her car in the hotel parking lot all week, but yesterday she had brought it here when they had gone to get all her things. At least she wouldn’t have to fight the downtown traffic again.
Kris stopped beside her car and waited as Tucker took the key and went to place her luggage in the trunk. A robin hopped across the lawn and paused, alert to the presence of intruders in its domain. The slam of the trunk lid sent the bird winging to the nearest tree in startled flight, and Kristina smiled, directing Tucker’s attention upward when he came to stand beside her.
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
“Just a nodding acquaintance. I don’t believe he realizes he’s intruding.”
“He’s probably thinking the same thing about us.”
Tucker slipped his arm around her shoulders and turned his smile to her. It faded slowly into sobriety. “Stay with me, Kristina.”
The husky plea stabbed deeply into her control, and her heart pounded with sudden regret. “You know I can’t.”
“Why?”
She dropped her gaze to shield her own weakness. “Don’t ask. Please. I can’t.... Really, I have to leave. It’s been — ”
“Wonderful, I know.” He moved to open the door for her. “Spare me the ‘thanks for a memorable vacation’ line, all right?” He held the door as she got inside. “Just don’t forget me, Kris. Don’t even try.”
She winced as he slammed the door, but then, impulsively, she was rolling down the window and reaching for his hand. It felt large and comforting to the touch. “Tucker?” He leaned closer to hear her. “I really hate goodbyes.”
His palm cupped her cheek, his lips claimed hers, and then, all too soon, he stepped back. He withdrew his hand from hers, slowly, deliberately prolonging the touch of fingertip to fingertip for another minute ... and another. “Be happy, Kristina DuMont.”
And then it was over. She started the car, put it in gear, and glanced over her shoulder before backing out of the drive. She lifted her hand to wave, but Tucker wasn’t watching. He was looking up at something in the tree. She supposed he was watching the robin, and she felt a ripple of disappointment that his attention was already focused elsewhere. She didn’t look back again. Instead, as she drove away, she glanced at her watch. It was five after twelve, and she was on her way home.
At the first stop sign she groped for the map and the piece of paper Tucker had given her and found them beside her on the seat. Good. She shouldn’t have any trouble. A sudden sadness misted her eyes, and she blinked quickly to clear her vision. How silly to cry now. She’d had a wonderful vacation. She had some wonderful memories. She was going home. Be happy, Kristina DuMont.
She stared hard at Tucker’s bold handwriting and then concentrated on following his written directions. A right turn. A left. Two stoplights. There. The highway signs indicated the road leading away from Denver. Away from Tucker.
She had taken this road before, she thought as she turned the car onto the highway and increased the speed. Then it had stretched in endless miles between Columbia, Missouri, and St. Louis, but still it had led away from Tucker. And she’d had no idea where that road would ultimately take her.
Kris fidgeted with the tight coil of hair at her nape, trying to adjust it to comfort. She should have told him goodbye, though. She should have made herself end, once and for all, what she had recklessly begun eleven years before. In a few days, a few weeks at most, the time she’d spent with Tucker would assume a dreamlike unreality, and he would be a part of her past, as he had always been.
Still, she should have said that final goodbye.
What if he followed through on his stated intention of finding her? Had he meant what he’d said about giving their relationship the time and opportunity to develop into something more? No, she didn’t believe he had. In the span of a relatively short time she would be nothing but a memory to him ... again. He would be caught up in the demands of his career within
another month. She would bet on it. The “time and opportunity” simply weren’t going to come.
Be happy, Kristina DuMont, His parting words returned, and she tugged at the pins in her hair. She had known little real happiness in her life, but she knew contentment and was grateful for its steady pattern. Maybe that in itself could be considered a measure of happiness.
The pins came free, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders, delighting in the wind that whipped through the car window. Immediately Kris wondered why she’d released it and then, just as quickly, understood. It was an admission that she was not the same person she’d been a few days ago. She’d known from the moment she saw his name in the newspaper that he could change her. Hadn’t he done it once before? So many years ago. So many roads crossed since then. But in the final analysis hadn’t everything in her life changed because of him? And hadn’t his life taken the exact road he’d carefully planned ... because of her?
Determinedly Kris closed the window and turned her whole attention to the highway. She had miles to go before the feel of his mouth, the touch of his hand, the curve of his smile faded to memory. There were miles and miles of highway ahead of her, but home drew nearer with every one. And she wanted to be home.
But she did wish she had told him goodbye.
Chapter Five
“What do you mean, you just decided to drive straight through?” Ruth Barnett lowered her bifocals to the end of her nose and directed a reprimanding gaze over her wire rims. “My God, Kris, that’s a fourteen-hour drive.”
“Eighteen, actually.”
“You generally have better sense. What possessed you to...?” Ruth paused, slowly taking off the glasses as she perched on the corner of Kris’s desk. “You met someone, didn’t you? By God, you finally met someone. What’s his name?”
Kris leaned back and tapped a pencil on the tattered arm of her chair, as if her thoughts were a million miles away. They weren’t, but it never paid to respond to Ruth’s questions too quickly. Kris had discovered that if she waited long enough, sometimes Ruth even spared her the trouble of answering at all. Not so, today, apparently.
A Distant Summer Page 6