In place of an answer, Chris transferred her fingers from her lips to his. To Jill, she said a soft, “Thanks, honey. Maybe you’ll tell him that when you get home.”
“I sure will,” Jill said, sounding better.
“Are you okay, now?”
“I think so.”
“If you want to call again, just call.”
“I will.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“Bye-bye, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom. Bye.”
Chris hung up the phone, all the while looking at Gideon with eyes still moist with tears. “She’s special.”
“Damn it, I know that,” Gideon said crossly. He was feeling shut out. “What’s wrong out there?”
“She’s lonesome. They’re not what she’s used to. She wished I’d gone with her.”
Gideon stared at her for another minute before snatching up the phone. By the time he was done with his call, he was feeling defiant. “That’s what I should have done in the first place,” he told Chris.
Her mouth was agape and had been since the start of his call. “You made reservations to fly to Phoenix?”
“For two.” His finger wagged between them. “You and me. I can’t take this sitting around, worrying about her. We’re leaving at dawn tomorrow, we’ll be there by noon, so we’ll have the rest of the day to pack her up and take her off and decide what we want to do for the rest of the week. I vote for the Grand Canyon. I’ve never been there. Jill will love it. And there are some great places to see along the way. Then we can fly home on Sunday.”
Chris couldn’t believe what he’d done. More than that, she couldn’t believe the feeling she saw in his eyes. “But—but you have work,” was all she could manage to say.
“I have Johnny, and even if I didn’t, work’ll wait. We’re right on schedule, even a little ahead at the Rise, which is the one project I’ve been worried about. I could use a vacation.”
“You took one in February.”
“So did most of my men, so it didn’t matter then, and we’re only talking two days here. I deserve it.” Scowling, he stuck his hands on his hips. “I should have suggested this when the plans were first made. It would have made things a whole lot more enjoyable for all of us. But I was afraid to say anything, because Jill’s not my daughter, she’s yours, and I’m not even your husband. But damn it, if we’re gonna be a family, we’re gonna be a family. That means good times and bad. It means we stick together. It means we share things.” He held up a hand and arched a brow in warning. “Now, if that’s not what you want, I think you’d better tell me right away, because if it isn’t, I’m not the guy for you. If it is, let’s get married—now. I have no intention of sitting at home by myself for the next three years until Jill goes off to college and you decide you’re lonesome. Either you want me or you don’t. Either you love me, or you don’t. I’ve waited almost forty years for a woman as warm and giving and bright and sweet and sexy as you, and I can’t wait any longer. I just can’t.” He took a deep breath. “So, what’ll it be, Chris? Do we get married, or do we call the whole thing off?”
Chris eyed him askance. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“That’s right,” he said, returning his hand to his hip. “Not only that, but I want an answer now. And don’t tell me that I’m rushing you or pressuring you, because you either feel it here—” he knocked a fist to his heart “—or you don’t. If you love me, and you know I love you, we’ll be able to handle anything that comes up with Jill.” His face went beseeching. “Don’t you see, it’s the love that counts?”
At that moment, Chris would have had to be blind not to see, ignorant not to know, heartless not to feel. Gideon Lowe, master-builder, macho flirt, notorious bachelor, rabid Celtics fan, was also a man of sensitivity and insight. If she’d ever wanted a stepfather for Jill, she couldn’t have asked for a better one. But Gideon was more, even than that. Far more. He was kind and caring and generous. Yes, he’d upset the applecart of her life, but in such a way that the apples would never taste as sweet without him. When she was with him, she felt the kind of wholeness she’d seen in her parents. If she’d ever wanted a lover, she couldn’t have asked for a better one. And if she’d ever wanted a husband …
“Yes,” she said softly, and went to him. “I see. I do see.” She slipped her arms around his neck, leaning into him in such a way that their physical fit was as perfect as everything else. “The love’s there. Let’s do it.”
Gideon’s eyes lit up in the endearingly naughty way that she loved. “Do it?”
She grinned, feeling, with the commitment, suddenly happier and more light-headed than she ever had before. “Get married.” She paused. Her grin tilted. “And the other, too.”
He didn’t need to hear any more. Scooping her up in his arms, he made for the stairs.
“Put me down, Gideon Lowe,” she cried, laughing. “Put me down. I can walk. This is embarrassing.”
He didn’t miss a step. “Embarrassing? It’s supposed to be romantic.”
“It’s totally tough and macho.”
He did stop then, just shy of the top step, and met her gaze. “The irony of that is really too much.”
“What irony?”
“Crosslyn Rise. I went into the project to shake the image.”
“What image?”
“Brawn versus brain. And here I am, carting you off to bed like the best of my big-rig buddies.” His grin grew wicked. “Know something?” When she shook her head, he said, “This is the smartest damn thing I’ve ever done in my life.” Still grinning, he took the last step.
Read on for an excerpt from the latest novel by Barbara Delinsky
SWEET SALT AIR
Available in trade paperback Summer 2014 from St. Martin’s Griffin
Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.
But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.
When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.
She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.
There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.
The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.
The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.
Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you
feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.
But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.
Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.
Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.
Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.
Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.
Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.
Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.
But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.
“You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.
“What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.
His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look like?”
“Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”
He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.
He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.
Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.
Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.
Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.
Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.
Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.
“Want some help?” she called up.
He snorted.
“Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.
“Two hands’ll do.”
Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.
“I’ve done this before,” she said now.
“Uh-huh.”
“I have. I’ve built houses.”
“That so.” He didn’t believe her.
“Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”
He continued to stare.
“All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”
“Really. I didn’t know that.”
“Okay,” she granted. “So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.
“I’m a man.”
She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with it?”
“Men run hot.”
“Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”
Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, “Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.
“I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.
“No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”
“Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.
So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.
But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.
She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.
Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a tool box. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte said.
He shot her a flat look.
“I’m Charlotte Evans.”
“I know.”
Also by
Barbara Delinsky
THE FOREVER INSTINCT
FIRST THINGS FIRST
STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART
THE SCENT OF JASMINE
WHAT THE WAVES BRING
HOME FIRES
PICTURES OF YOU
DON’T TEMPT ME
SILKEN SANDS
HOLD MY HEART
CALL MY NAME
AMBER’S EMBRACE
WARM HEARTS
LOVE SONGS
Barbara Delinsky is a New York Times bestselling author with more than thirty million copies of her books in print. She has been published in twenty-five languages worldwide. A lifelong New Englander, Barbara earned a B.A. in Psychology at Tufts University and an M.A. in Sociology at Boston College. Barbara enjoys knitting, photography, and cats. She also loves to interact with her readers through her website at www.barbaradelinsky.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bdelinsky, and on Twitter as @BarbaraDelinsky.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
“The Dream Unfolds” copyright © 1990 by Barbara Delinsky.
Excerpt from Sweet Salt Air copyright © 2013 by Barbara Delinsky.
All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover art for “The Dream Unfolds”:
Background © Jo Ann Snover/shutterstock.com; chair © senkaya/shutterstock.com; house © ideeone/getty images
Cover art for Sweet Salt Air: Lavender © Visions Of Our Land/Getty Images; house © Shaun Lowe/Getty Images; sky and beach © Elena/Getty Images
Author photo © Jerry Bauer
eISBN 9781466849761
First eBook Edition: February 2014
The Dream Unfolds Page 19