Tucker tries to touch Liv again and is rewarded with a growl.
“Hey, buddy,” I say to him, raising my hands in a placating gesture as I step between them. “She said to give her some space, okay? Give her time. She’ll come around.”
“Get your hands off me.”
I haven’t touched him, but he’s red-faced and sweating—so overwrought I’m not sure he knows that. He tries to dodge around me to get to Liv.
I’m trying to be the bigger guy here. He’s suffering, and not ten minutes ago I promised to treat him with filial consideration, pretty much forever. But he isn’t making it easy. “Why don’t we go back to the hut and get a cold drink.”
“I don’t want anything from you, you condescending prick. Get out of my way.”
I stand my ground.
His eyes blaze. “Get out of my way or I’m going to knock you into infinity.”
I’m suddenly out of patience. “Yeah? Try it and I’ll hit you back.”
“Do it, Finn. Do it!” Liv says from behind me.
I’m so startled I whip my head around to see if she means it, which is why I don’t see the giant fist coming until it’s too late. It lands on my ear—the one recently pierced by the fishhook—and pain blossoms abruptly, to the point I wonder if Tucker managed to split something open. I don’t dare check though, because of—hello—blood.
Liv is yelling something behind me but I tune her out. All I can feel are the dozens of hammers setting up a throbbing rhythm in my ear. All I can see is Tucker’s sneering face as he concludes I pose no threat. His lip curls and his hands drop. And as if my fist has turned into an autonomously powered vehicle now encountering a clear path, it launches itself forward.
I feel a satisfying crunch under my knuckles. When I pull my arm back, Tucker’s nose is askew. It has to hurt like hell, but his face is frozen in comical surprise, his mouth gaping enough to count the fillings in his lower teeth.
Tucker blinks and touches his fingers to his nose. The teeth reform into a scheming smile as he examines his hand, then twists his wrist to show me a few drops of scarlet.
Not my blood, I think. Not my blood.
A trickle of red emerges from his nostril.
Not my blood, not my blood.
“What the hell?” he says, as I remain on my feet.
I grin and lift my shoulders, taking care to remain in boxing stance. “I got a little therapy over the years. You should try it sometime.”
“Good,” Tucker says. “We can finally do this right.”
Then everything goes to pot.
Liv is screaming something while we go at each other. Our fists fly and connect. Occasionally we manage to block one another’s blows, but for the most part they land. He gets my ribs. I get his jaw. I get in a kidney punch, he gets my spleen. Then suddenly we’re grappling. Then down on the ground, rolling.
We work our way across the sand, closer to the rocks. I can see bad things ahead if we get there, even if we only end up sprawled in the guano. Easy to break a limb there. Or a head.
And then suddenly we’re springing apart and recoiling from an assault neither saw coming.
It takes me a moment to discover the source of the interruption. I am dripping. My hair and the left side of my body are cold. Ice cubes litter the ground around us, rapidly disappearing into the heated sand. In front of me stands a Liv who is both livid and firmly back in control of herself.
“Enough,” she says, tossing the empty cooler to the ground. “The first round was fun but it went rapidly downhill from there. Now I’m just bored.”
Tucker is the first to catch his breath. He reaches an imploring hand to her. “Liv—”
“No.” She shakes her head at him. “It’s time for you to go now. There’s nothing here for you anymore. Just go.”
“Go?” I say, scanning a horizon empty of all vessels. “Go where?”
But they’re caught in another moment of silent communion—she with her hands on her hips, her posture erect and resolute, he bowed and panting, with his once-proud nose gone awry.
After a time, Tucker nods. He straightens and limps in the direction of the beach, toward the discarded life jackets and parasail.
“Liv,” I say, “what’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Liv says, turning to face me.
“But I do worry,” I say. “I do. He’s not going to try to swim somewhere, is he? Because that would be a disaster.”
She shrugs her unconcern. “There aren’t many shark attacks in Jamaica. Maybe one a decade.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s one of the reasons we do our retreats here. But I’d still feel better if—”
“That was a pretty violent ending there,” she says, catching my face between her hands as Tucker picks up a life jacket. “Hey, are you all right?” She’s peering at me with such a look of loving concern, I let myself be distracted.
One kiss, I promise myself as I look into her hazel eyes. One kiss for our future, and to know the taste of victory, and then I’ll check on Tucker and make sure the bastard isn’t about to do something stupid.
Her lips are pink and moist. They part for me as I pull her forward. “Finn?” she says, as I nestle her lush, round breasts against my chest, where they belong. As I pull her hips snug against mine and wrap my arms around her back. “Are you okay?”
“That depends,” I say. “Are you going to marry me?”
“Of course,” she says. “After you rehire me.”
“Of course,” I say. “Now kiss me, Liv.”
And she does. And I pour everything I’ve got into it—my gratitude, my love, my promise to refrain from future kidnappings unless they are absolutely necessary. After a long moment, when I pull back, her arms are wound firmly around my neck and she looks gratifyingly dazed.
“The marine world is stirring,” she finally manages, and follows it with a crooked grin. “But seriously, are you okay?”
I sigh and release her, because it looks like we’re not going to have any fun until I do a quick inventory and answer her question. Plus, I need to check on that damn Tucker.
You’d think with all the pounding I’ve taken I’d be a mess, but I’m surprisingly fine. “It’s just my knuckles,” I say, shaking out my right hand. “His face is a lot harder than it looks. I think I might have broken my f—”
“Don’t!” Liv says. I register her widening eyes at the same time I realize what I’m about to do. What I’m doing.
What I’ve done.
Once more my autonomous arm has asserted itself, levitating muscle and flesh to shoulder height, bringing knuckles into view, along with their abraded skin.
Then the swooping bats join the circling seabirds, and I’m headed for a sand nap.
CHAPTER 27
LIV
In the limo from the Columbus International Airport, at the very moment I’m considering hyperventilating, Finn squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to be nervous. I’ll love you no matter what.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing back, because objectively he’s right. In the three weeks since our afternoon at the cay we’ve conquered so much together that I shouldn’t have doubts. But there’s something about bringing him to my apartment that makes everything real, especially since I left my place in a mess from last-minute packing.
If only I hadn’t left it in a mess.
In years past, in a situation like this, I could have called Tucker and bribed him into tidying up for me. But even if I were talking to him, I have no idea where he is right now. Nobody does.
What we do know is that while I was attending to Finn after he passed out, Tucker grabbed Finn’s hidden cache and managed to hang onto it as he swam to the nearest cay. There, he walked barefoot to the northern shore and flagged down some passing fishermen, who were happy to drop him in Port-au-Prince for the price of Finn’s watch. With a little creative use of Finn’s ID and credit cards, he made it as far as Aruba, where he purchased clothing, a pricey com
puter, and a phone before simply vanishing.
I would be worried, but his family has already heard from him. He is “traveling indefinitely” but will continue to send them money on a regular basis. So whatever he’s up to, it sounds like he’s landed on his feet.
I hope so. I’m still coming to terms with what Tucker did and what his deceit cost me over the years. I’m not sure I’ll ever find it in me to forgive him, though Finn is convinced I will soften eventually. For now, though, it’s enough to know Tucker is out there somewhere in the world, continuing to breathe oxygen.
As for Finn and me, we’ve been in Jamaica the past weeks. At first our departure was delayed because of Finn’s ID issues, then because I wanted my honeymoon to be in the villa where we reconnected.
We were married on the resort beach under a flower-laden arch with Mr. Lee acting as officiant. Everything came together so quickly I thought we’d have a limited number of guests: the crabs, Reginald, Yolanda and DeShawn. I would have been fine with that. But it turned out that Mr. Lee was at the resort with a number of friends, so our wedding ceremony and reception were enlivened by a bunch of feisty seniors.
My one regret is that my mama wasn’t able to join us, so in the coming weeks, we’ll be having a second ceremony with her in Stonybrook.
In the meantime, provided Finn can tolerate my place, he’s moving in with me. We aren’t willing to be parted again and I’m going to be busy at my old office, helping create the plan to set things right with my former clients.
As for Finn, he will fly out for business when absolutely required, but Yolanda has agreed to take on much of his workload until the fall. That’s when we’ll both move back to his Jacksonville house where, if all goes well, I’ll start university—ethics, as it turns out. Because while I’ve grown to appreciate Yolanda, let’s face it, the woman could use a little oversight.
But now, now we’re rounding the last corner before my apartment and pulling up to the curb.
My stomach lifts into my throat as Finn helps me out. I make him keep the luggage in the limo in case he doesn’t want to stay and direct him to take the stairs, rather than the elevator. His smile says he knows I’m delaying, that I shouldn’t worry. Soon enough my key is in the latch and he’s swinging me up into his arms to cross the threshold.
On the other side, we kiss until I’m breathless.
“This is it,” I say when he sets me down, “be it ever so humble.” But I hope he doesn’t find it too humble.
He tosses his overcoat on the sofa and goes on the prowl while I extract my keys from the door, and set my purse on the kitchen counter.
He says nothing as he walks around my all-white living room, which after the vibrancy of the villa seems both tiny and decorated on the cooler side.
But this is the big mess I was worried about? On the micro-suede sofa a few bras and a pile of items purged from my purse? Big deal. Piece of cake. We’ve got this.
I am similarly heartened as I trail Finn through the three-piece bathroom, and then into my bedroom, where he ignores the piled clothing on the bedside chair. He is immediately drawn to the print over the headboard—a black and white photo of the fire pit in the Stonybrook backyard. He speaks of that fire pit with great fondness.
“Liv…” Finn runs his hands through his hair until it is rumpled. “I’m sorry to say this, but we might have a problem.”
At first I think he’s teasing me, then he turns and I see his face. In the past three weeks it has been rare to catch him without a smile, but presently his mouth is a flat line.
There is a moment when my breath wants to leave my chest and my mouth floods with an acidic taste. Then I rein myself in. Challenge your assumptions, Liv, I remind myself. This is Finn, the man who cleaned septic tanks to be with you. You can fix this.
I clear my throat. “You wanted a king-sized bed?”
“Nope, though I wouldn’t object.”
“It’s the decor, isn’t it?” Because while I find it soothing, I know some people find it sterile. “You don’t like white.”
“I like it fine.” He takes a deep breath. “But…it’s not going to suit Bonnie and Clyde, and I was hoping to have them here with me. Plus, the rooms are on the small side.”
He’s truly lost me now. We’ve talked about everything under the sun when it’s been relevant, including past lovers. There’s no way he told me he had two children and it accidentally slipped my mind. Plus, why is his expression…sheepish?
“Finnegan,” I say, folding my arms under my breasts. “Who are Bonnie and Clyde?”
He winces. He pulls his phone from his pocket and after a few seconds of scrolling, hesitates before passing it to me. “Please tell me this isn’t a deal-breaker.”
I look at the screen. I catch my breath. “Wait, what?” I search his face and he nods miserably while running a finger under his collar.
In a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, their bellies on an expensive porcelain tile floor, lie two Bernese Mountain Dogs. They are in a down-stay position, tongues lolling, while their eyes are raised lovingly and attentively to gaze upon the camera’s owner.
“These are yours,” I say stupidly.
He nods.
“You have dogs.”
He shrugs.
“You have not one, but two, giant, long-haired, famous-for-shedding dogs.”
He’s actually blushing. “After that summer with you and your mom, the house never felt like a home without one.”
There’s more though, I can tell. “What else?”
He winces and closes his eyes briefly. “I’m actually…kind of a breeder.”
I blink. I press my lips together, not sure if I’m suppressing a smile or a scream.
My whole adult life has been about escaping anything to do with dogs, and now Finn wants to reintroduce them to me, with a vengeance. Am I really going down that road again? Down the route of dog kibble and dog brushes and dog breath? Dog collars, vet visits and—oh, god—the imperative to never leave the house without having those tiny plastic bags on your person. With the size of Finn’s dogs, those plastic bags could easily double for groceries. Or a corpse.
“Liv?” Finn says anxiously.
A snort escapes my mouth, followed by another. Then a gurgle of laughter that forces me to hold my belly, followed by a torrent. I collapse on the bed and flop to my back, consumed with the supreme irony of it all. Every time I think I am done, I get another look at Finn’s face and it begins anew. By the time I am finished, my face is wet with tears and I feel as limp and weightless as if I just had three sequential orgasms.
Finn looms over me on his elbows, a smile lurking in his beautiful dark eyes. “It’s good that you’re laughing, right? Does this mean you’re not going to divorce me?”
“Oh, god,” I say, as I dash my tears away. “I should. I really should. But I won’t.”
Finn brushes back my hair. “You’re the best, Liv. The absolute best.” He kisses me softly. “I’m so glad that’s over with, you have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I do,” I say dryly, as something prods my hip. “Your eel is coming out to play.” Which only sets me off again, because honestly, since when is it not?
He snort-laughs. “How is your clam?”
“Maybe you should check.” I was kidding—sort of—but Finn takes me at my word. And I’m still laughing as he peels off my jeans and underwear. As he rolls over me and into me. As our lips meet and we surge together on my apparently doomed, snow-white bedspread.
Now that we’re back in the States, in a landlocked city, we definitely need a new sexual metaphor. Preferably one with a touch of poetry or class. Or both. But we will find one, I have faith. After a decade of being apart, we have found our way back to one another. We have made our past flow into the present. We share the same last name.
What are silly metaphors when I am married to a smart, generous man who makes me laugh every day?
Best of all, I deserve him. I’m halfway to bril
liant myself.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Although she knew she wanted to write fiction in grade school, Jan O’Hara left her dreams behind for a time to become a family physician. She provided birth-to-death healthcare to her patients and served as an assistant professor at the University of Alberta, teaching medical students and residents about patient-centered care and human sexuality.
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Jan lives in Alberta, Canada with her two children and husband (aka the ToolMaster). She writes a regular column for the popular blog Writer Unboxed. Once obsessed with helping people professionally, she has retired from medicine and now spends her days torturing them on paper. See? Win-win scenarios really do exist.
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If you enjoyed this novel, please consider posting a review where you purchased it. And if you’d like to stay in touch, check out the links below.
Website: www.janohara.net
Sign up for her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/cfOQFX
Facebook: http://facebook.com/janoharabooks
Twitter: http://twitter.com/jan_ohara
Email: [email protected]
PRAISE FOR JAN O’HARA
“If O’Hara’s next books are anything like this one [Opposite of Frozen], she’s got a long career ahead of her. A sweet, heartfelt series love story.” —Kirkus Reviews
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“Smart, funny, and with a cast of quirky characters you’re bound to fall in love with, Jan O’Hara’s debut novel [Opposite of Frozen] is a lively read reminiscent of a classic screwball comedy. You’ll pick it up for the reluctant romance… You’ll keep reading for the intergenerational shenanigans…” —Liz Michalski, author of Evenfall
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“What an entertaining, funny, sad, adorable romp Opposite of Frozen turned out to be. Since this is Jan O'Hara's debut book, just sign me up for whatever comes next from her talented mind." —RomanceIsAgeless.com
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